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diff --git a/75131-0.txt b/75131-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d689877 --- /dev/null +++ b/75131-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11555 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75131 *** + + + + + + +FROM THE WEST TO THE WEST + + + + +[Illustration: _Jean beheld a tall, sunburned young man._—_Page 185_] + + + + + FROM THE WEST + TO THE WEST + + Across the Plains to + Oregon + + BY + ABIGAIL SCOTT DUNIWAY + + With Frontispiece in Color + + [Illustration] + + CHICAGO + A. C. McCLURG & CO. + 1905 + + COPYRIGHT + A. C. MCCLURG & CO. + 1905 + + Published April 7, 1905 + + THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. + + + + + TO + + THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF OREGON + + AND HER RISEN AND REMAINING PIONEERS + + I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE + + THIS BOOK + + ABIGAIL SCOTT DUNIWAY + + + + +PREFACE + + +Not from any desire for augmented fame, or for further notoriety than has +long been mine (at least within the chosen bailiwick of my farthest and +best beloved West), have I consented to indite these pages. + +The events of pioneer life, which form the groundwork of this story, are +woven into a composite whole by memory and imagination. But they are not +personal, nor do they present the reader, except in a fragmentary and +romantic sense, with the actual, individual lives of borderers I have +known. The story, nevertheless, is true to life and border history; and, +no matter what may be the fate of the book, the facts it delineates will +never die. + +Fifty years ago, as an illiterate, inexperienced settler, a busy, +overworked child-mother and housewife, an impulse to write was born +within me, inherited from my Scottish ancestry, which no lack of +education or opportunity could allay. So I wrote a little book which I +called “Captain Gray’s Company, or Crossing the Plains and Living in +Oregon.” + +Measured by time and distance as now computed, that was ages ago. The +iron horse and the telegraph had not crossed the Mississippi; the +telephone and the electric light were not; and there were no cables under +the sea. + +Life’s twilight’s shadows are around me now. The good husband who shaped +my destiny in childhood has passed to the skies; my beloved, beautiful, +and only daughter has also risen; my faithful sons have founded homes +and families of their own. Sitting alone in my deserted but not lonely +home, I have yielded to a demand that for several years has been reaching +me by person, post, and telephone, requesting the republication of my +first little story, which passed rapidly through two editions, and for +forty years has been out of print. In its stead I have written this +historical novel. + +Among the relics of the border times that abound in the rooms of the +Oregon Historical Society may be seen an immigrant wagon, a battered +ox-yoke, a clumsy, home-made hand-loom, an old-fashioned spinning-wheel, +and a rusty Dutch oven. Such articles are valuable as relics, but they +would not sell in paying quantities in this utilitarian age if duplicated +and placed upon the market. Just so with “Captain Gray’s Company.” It +accomplished its mission in its day and way. By its aid its struggling +author stumbled forward to higher aims. Let it rest, and let the world go +marching on. + + A. S. D. + +PORTLAND, OREGON, January 15, 1905. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + I. A REMOVAL IS PLANNED 15 + + II. EARLY LIFE IN THE MIDDLE WEST 22 + + III. MARRYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE 28 + + IV. OLD BLOOD AND NEW 35 + + V. SALLY O’DOWD 43 + + VI. THE BEGINNING OF A JOURNEY 50 + + VII. SCOTTY’S FIRST ROMANCE 55 + + VIII. A BORDER INCIDENT 62 + + IX. THE CAPTAIN DEFENDS THE LAW 68 + + X. THE CAPTAIN MAKES A DISTINCTION 76 + + XI. MRS. MCALPIN SEEKS ADVICE 84 + + XII. JEAN BECOMES A WITNESS 92 + + XIII. AN APPROACHING STORM 99 + + XIV. A CAMP IN CONSTERNATION 106 + + XV. CHOLERA RAGES 113 + + XVI. JEAN’S VISIT BEYOND THE VEIL 121 + + XVII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER 128 + + XVIII. THE LITTLE DOCTOR 134 + + XIX. A BRIEF MESSAGE FOR MRS. BENSON 142 + + XX. THE TEAMSTERS DESERT 148 + + XXI. AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER 156 + + XXII. THE SQUAW MAN 163 + + XXIII. THE SQUAW ASSERTS HER RIGHTS 170 + + XXIV. A MORMON WOMAN 177 + + XXV. JEAN LOSES HER WAY 184 + + XXVI. LE-LE, THE INDIAN GIRL 191 + + XXVII. JEAN TRANSFORMED 197 + + XXVIII. THE STAMPEDE 203 + + XXIX. IN THE LAND OF DROUTH 209 + + XXX. BOBBIE GOES TO HIS MOTHER 217 + + XXXI. THROUGH THE OREGON MOUNTAINS 223 + + XXXII. LETTERS FROM HOME 229 + + XXXIII. LOVE FINDS A WAY 238 + + XXXIV. HAPPY JACK INTRODUCES HIMSELF 246 + + XXXV. ASHLEIGH MAKES NEW PLANS 253 + + XXXVI. HAPPY JACK IS SURPRISED 258 + + XXXVII. NEWS FOR JEAN 264 + + XXXVIII. THE BROTHERS JOURNEY HOMEWARD TOGETHER 271 + + XXXIX. THE OLD HOMESTEAD 283 + + XL. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 290 + + XLI. “IN PRISON AND YE VISITED ME” 299 + + XLII. TOO BUSY TO BE MISERABLE 303 + + XLIII. JEAN IS HAPPY—AND ANOTHER PERSON 307 + + + + +FROM THE WEST TO THE WEST + + + + +I + +_A REMOVAL IS PLANNED_ + + +On the front veranda of a rectangular farmhouse, somewhat pretentious for +its time and place, stood a woman in expectant attitude. The bleak wind +of a spent March day played rudely with the straying ends of her bright, +abundant red-brown hair, which she brushed frequently from her careworn +face as she peered through the thickening shadows of approaching night. +The ice-laden branches of a leafless locust swept the latticed corner +behind which she had retreated for protection from the wind. A great +white-and-yellow watch-dog crouched expectantly at her feet, whining and +wagging his tail. + +Indoors, the big living-room echoed with the laughter and prattle of many +voices. At one end of a long table, littered with books and slates and +dimly lighted by flickering tallow dips, sat the older children of the +household, busy with their lessons for the morrow’s recitations. A big +fire of maple logs roared on the hearth in harmony with the roaring of +the wind outside. + +“Yes, Rover, he’s coming,” exclaimed the watcher on the veranda, as the +dog sprang to his feet with a noisy proclamation of welcome. + +A shaggy-bearded horseman, muffled to the ears in a tawny fur coat, +tossed his bridle to a stable-boy and, rushing up the icy steps, caught +the gentle woman in his arms. “It’s all settled, mother. I’ve made terms +with Lije. He’s to take my farm and pay me as he can. I’ve made a liberal +discount for the keep of the old folks; and we’ll sell off the stock, the +farming implements, the household stuff, and the sawmill, and be off in +less than a month for the Territory of Oregon.” + +Mrs. Ranger shrank and shivered. “Oregon is a long way off, John,” she +said, nestling closer to his side and half suppressing a sob. “There’s +the danger and the hardships of the journey to be considered, you know.” + +“I will always protect you and the children under all circumstances, +Annie. Can’t you trust me?” + +“Haven’t I always trusted you, John? But—” + +“What is it, Annie? Don’t be afraid to speak your mind.” + +“I was thinking, dear,—you know we’ve always lived on the frontier, and +civilization is just now beginning to catch up with us,—mightn’t it be +better for us to stay here and enjoy it? Illinois is still a new country, +you know. We’ve never had any advantages to speak of, and none of the +children, nor I, have ever seen a railroad.” + +“Don’t be foolish, Annie! We’ll take civilization with us wherever we go, +railroads or no railroads.” + +“But we’ll be compelled to leave our parents behind, John. They’re old +and infirm now, and we’ll be going so far away that we’ll never see them +again. At least, I sha’n’t.” + +The husband cleared his throat, but did not reply. The wife continued her +protest. + +“Just think of the sorrow we’ll bring upon ’em in their closing days, +dear! Then there’s that awful journey for us and the children through +more than two thousand miles of unsettled country, among wild beasts and +wilder Indians. Hadn’t we better let well-enough alone, and remain where +we are comfortable?” + +“A six months’ journey across the untracked continent, with ox teams +and dead-ax wagons, won’t be a summer picnic; I’ll admit that. But the +experience will come only one day at a time, and we can stand it. It will +be like a whipping,—it will feel good when it is over and quits hurting.” + +“You are well and strong, John, but you know I have never been like +myself since that awful time when your brother Joe got into that trouble. +It was at the time of Harry’s birth, you know. You didn’t mean to neglect +me, dear, but you had to do it.” + +“There, there, little wife!” placing his hand over her mouth. “Let the +dead past bury its dead. Never mention Joe to me again. And never fear +for a minute that you and the children won’t be taken care of.” + +“I beg your pardon, John!” and the wife shrank back against the lattice +and shivered. The protruding thorn of a naked locust bough scratched her +cheek, and the red blood trickled down. + +“I need your encouragement, in this time of all times, Annie. You mustn’t +fail me now,” he said, speaking in an injured tone. + +“Have I ever failed you yet, my husband?” + +“I can’t say that you have, Annie. But you worry too much; you bore a +fellow so. Just brace up; don’t anticipate trouble. It’ll come soon +enough without your meeting it halfway. You ought to consider the welfare +of the children.” + +“Have I ever lived for myself, John?” + +“No, no; but you fret too much. I suppose it’s a woman’s way, though, +and I must stand it. There’s the chance of a lifetime before us, Annie.” +He added after a pause, “The Oregon Donation Land Law that was passed +by Congress nearly two years ago won’t be a law always. United States +Senators in the farthest East are already urging its repeal. We’ve barely +time, even by going now, to get in on the ground-floor. Then we’ll get, +in our own right, to have and to hold, in fee simple, as the lawyers +say, a big square mile of the finest land that ever rolled out o’ doors.” + +“Will there be no mortgage to eat us up with interest, and no malaria to +shake us to pieces, John? And will you keep the woodpile away from the +front gate, and make an out-of-the-way lane for the cows, so they won’t +come home at night through the front avenue?” + +“There’ll be no mortgage and no malaria. One-half of the claim will +belong to you absolutely; and you can order the improvements to suit +yourself. Only think of it! A square mile o’ land is six hundred and +forty acres, and six hundred and forty acres is a whole square mile! We +wouldn’t be dealing justly by our children if we let the opportunity +slip. We’ll get plenty o’ land to make a good-sized farm for every child +on the plantation, and it won’t cost us a red cent to have and to hold +it!” + +“That was the plan our parents had in view when they came here from +Kentucky, John. They wanted land for their children, you know. They +wanted us all to settle close around ’em, and be the stay and comfort of +their old age.” And Mrs. Ranger laughed hysterically. + +“You shiver, Annie. You oughtn’t to be out in this bleak March wind. +Let’s go inside.” + +“I’m not minding the wind, dear. I was thinking of the way people’s +plans so often miscarry. Children do their own thinking and planning +nowadays, as they always did, regardless of what their parents wish. Look +at us! We’re planning to leave your parents and mine, for good and all, +after they’ve worn themselves out in our service; and we needn’t expect +different treatment from our children when we get old and decrepit.” + +“But I’ve already arranged for our parents’ keep with Lije and Mary,” +said the husband, petulantly. “Didn’t I tell you so?” + +“But suppose Lije fails in business; or suppose he gets the far Western +fever too; or suppose he tires of his bargain and quits?” + +A black cloud scudded away before the wind, uncovering the face of the +moon. The silver light burst suddenly upon the pair. + +“What’s the matter, Annie?” cried the husband, in alarm. “Are you sick?” +Her upturned face was like ashes. + +“No; it’s nothing. I was only thinking.” + +They entered the house together, their brains busy with unuttered +thoughts. The baby of less than a year extended her chubby hands to her +father, and the older babies clamored for recognition in roistering glee. + +“Take my coat and hat, Hal; and get my slippers, somebody. Don’t all jump +at once! Gals, put down your books, and go to the kitchen and help your +mother. Don’t sit around like so many cash boarders! You oughtn’t to let +your mother do a stroke of work at anything.” + +“You couldn’t help it unless you caged her, or bound her hand and foot,” +answered Jean, who strongly resembled her father in disposition, voice, +and speech. But the command was obeyed; and the pale-faced mother, +escorted from the kitchen amid much laughter by Mary, Marjorie, and Jean, +was soon seated before the roaring fire beside her husband, enjoying +with him the frolics of the babies, and banishing for the nonce the +subject which had so engrossed their thoughts outside. The delayed meal +was soon steaming on the long table in the low, lean-to kitchen, and +was despatched with avidity by the healthy and ravenous brood which +constituted the good old-fashioned household of John Ranger and Annie +Robinson, his wife. + +“Children,” said Mrs. Ranger, as an interval of silence gave her a chance +to be heard, “did you know your father had sold the farm?” + +A thunderbolt from a clear sky would hardly have created greater +astonishment. True, John Ranger had been talking “new country” ever since +the older children could remember anything; the theme was an old story, +invoking no comment. But now there was an ominous pause, followed with +exclamations of mingled dissent and approval, to which the parents gave +unrestricted liberty. + +“I’m not going a single step; so there!” exclaimed Mary, a gentle girl of +seventeen, who did not look her years, but who had a reason of her own +for this unexpected avowal. + +“My decision will depend on where we’re going,” cried Jean. + +“Maybe your mother and I can be consulted,—just a little bit,” said the +father, laughing. + +“We’re going to Oregon; that’s what,” exclaimed Harry, who was as +impulsive as he was noisy. + +“How did you come to know so much?” asked Marjorie, the youngest of John +Ranger’s “Three Graces,” as he was wont to style his trio of eldest +daughters, who had persisted in coming into his household—much to his +discomfort—before the advent of Harry, the fourth in his catalogue of +seven, of whom only two were boys. + +“I get my learning by studying o’ nights!” answered Hal, in playful +allusion to his success as a sound sleeper, especially during study hours. + +“Of course you don’t want to emigrate, Miss Mame,” cried Jean, “but you +can’t help yourself, unless you run away and get married; and then you’ll +have to help everybody else through the rest of your life and take what’s +left for yourself,-if there’s anything left to take! At least, that is +mother’s and Aunt Mary’s lot.” + +“Jean speaks from the depths of long experience,” laughed Mary, blushing +to the roots of her hair. + +“I’m sick to death of this cold kitchen,” cried Jean, snapping her +tea-towel in the frosty air of the unplastered lean-to. “Hurrah for +Oregon! Hurrah for a warmer climate, and a snug cabin home among the +evergreen trees!” + +“Good for Jean!” exclaimed her father. “The weather’ll be so mild in +Oregon we shall not need a tight kitchen.” + +“Is Oregon a tight house?” asked three-year-old Bobbie, whose brief +life had many a time been clouded by the complaints of his mother and +sisters,—complaints such as are often heard to this day from women in the +country homes of the frontier and middle West, where more than one-half +of their waking hours are spent in the unfinished and uncomfortable +kitchens peculiar to the slave era, in which—as almost any makeshift was +considered “good enough for niggers”—the unfinished kitchen came to stay. + +The vigorous barking of Rover announced the approach of visitors; and +the circle around the fireside was enlarged, amid the clatter of moving +chairs and tables, to make room for Elijah Robinson and his wife,—the +former a brother of Annie Ranger, and the latter a sister of John. +The meeting between the sisters-in-law was expectant, anxious, and +embarrassing. + +“How did you like the news?” asked Mrs. Robinson, after an awkward +silence. + +“How did you like it?” was the evasive reply, as the twain withdrew to a +distant corner, where they could exchange confidences undisturbed. + +“I haven’t had time to think it over yet,” said Mrs. Ranger. “My greatest +trouble is about leaving our parents. It seems as if I could not bear to +break the news to them.” + +“Don’t worry, Annie; they know already. When Lije told his mother that +John was going to Oregon, she fainted dead away. When she revived and sat +up, she wanted to come right over to see you, in spite of the storm.” + +“Just listen! How the wind does roar!” + +“I don’t see how your mother can live without you, Annie. I tried very +hard to persuade Lije to refuse to buy John’s farm; but he would have +his way, as he always does. Of course, we’ll do all we can for the +old folks, but Lije is heavily in debt again, with the ever-recurring +interest staring us all in the face. John will want his money, with +interest,—they all do,—and we know how rapidly it accumulates, from our +own dearly bought experience, the result of poor Joe’s troubles!” + +“I hope my dear father and mother won’t live very long,” sighed Mrs. +Ranger. “If John would only let me make them a deed to my little ten-acre +farm! But I can’t get him to talk about it.” + + + + +II + +_EARLY LIFE IN THE MIDDLE WEST_ + + +The surroundings of the budding daughters of the Ranger and Robinson +families had thus far been limited, outside of their respective homes, +to attendance at the district school on winter week-days when weather +permitted, and on Sundays at the primitive church services held by +itinerant clergymen in the same rude edifice. + +Oh, that never-to-be-forgotten schoolhouse of the borderland and the +olden time! Modelled everywhere after the same one-roomed, quadrangular +pattern,—and often the only seat of learning yet to be seen in school +districts of the far frontier,—the building in which the children of +these chronicles received the rudimentary education which led to the +future weal of most of them was built of logs unhewn, and roofed with +“shakes” unshaven. One rough horizontal log was omitted from the western +wall when the structure was raised by the men of the district, who +purposely left the space for the admission of a long line of little +window-panes above the rows of desks. A huge open fireplace occupied +the whole northern end of the room; rude benches rocked on the uneven +puncheon floor and creaked as the students turned upon them to face the +long desks beneath the little window-panes, or to confront the centre +of the room. The children’s feet generally swung to and fro in a sort +of rhythmic consonance with the audible whispers in which they studied +their lessons,—when not holding sly conversation, amid much suppressed +giggling, with their neighbors at elbow, if the teacher’s back was turned. + +The busy agricultural seasons of springtime and summer, and often +extending far into the autumn, prevented the regular attendance at school +of the older children of the district, who were usually employed early +and late, indoors and out, with the ever-exacting labors of the farm. + +Up to the time of the departure of the Ranger family for the Pacific +coast and for a brief time thereafter, the most of the summer and all +of the winter clothing worn in the country districts of the middle West +was the product of the individual housewife’s skill in the use of the +spinning-wheel, dye-kettle, and clumsy, home-made hand-loom. + +But, few and far between as were the schoolhouses and schooldays of the +border times, of which the present-day grandparent loves to boast, there +was a rigorous course of primitive study then in vogue which justifies +their boasting. Oh, that old-fashioned pedagogue! What resident of the +border can fail to remember—if his early lot was cast anywhere west of +the Alleghanies, at any time antedating the era of railroads—the austere +piety and stately dignity of that mighty master of the rod and the rule, +who never by any chance forgot to use the rod, lest by so doing he should +spoil the child! + +The terror of those days lingers now only as an amusing memory. The pain +of which the rod and the rule were the instruments has long since lost +its sting; but the sound morals inculcated by the teacher (whose example +never strayed from his precept) have proved the ballast needed to hold a +level head on many a pair of shoulders otherwise prone to push their way +into forbidden places. + +And the old-fashioned singing-school! How tenderly the memory of the +time-dulled ear recalls the doubtful harmony of many youthful voices, as +they ran the gamut in a jangling merry-go-round! Did any other musical +entertainment ever equal it? Then, when the exercises were over, and the +stars hung high and glittering above the frosty branches of the naked +treetops, and the crisp white snow crunched musically beneath the feet of +fancy-smitten swains, hurrying homeward with ruddy-visaged sweethearts +on their pulsing arms, did any other joy ever equal the stolen kisses of +the youthful lovers at the parting doorstep,—the one to return to the +parental home with an exultant throbbing at his heart, and the other to +creep noiselessly to her cold, dark bedroom to blush unseen over her +first little secret from her mother. + +And there is yet another memory. + +Can anybody who has enjoyed it ever forget the school of metrical +geography which sometimes alternated, on winter evenings, with the +singing-school? What could have been more enchanting, or more instructive +withal, than those exercises wherein the States and their capitals were +chanted over and over to a sort of rhymeless rhythm, so often repeated +that to this day the old-time student finds it only necessary to mention +the name of any State then in the Union to call to mind the name of its +capital. After the States and their capitals, the boundaries came next +in order, chanted in the same rhythmic way, until the youngest pupil had +conquered all the names by sound, and localities on the map by sight, of +all the continents, islands, capes, promontories, peninsulas, mountains, +kingdoms, republics, oceans, seas, rivers, lakes, harbors, and cities +then known upon the planet. + +In its season, beginning with the New Year, came the regular religious +revival. No chronicles like these would be complete without its +mention, since no rural life on the border exists without it. Much to +the regret of doting parents who failed to get all their dear ones +“saved”—especially the boys—before the sap began to run in the sugar +maples, the revival season was sometimes cut short by the advent of an +early spring. The meetings were then brought to a halt, notwithstanding +the fervent prayers of the righteous, who in vain besought the Lord of +the harvest to delay the necessary seed-time, so that the work of saving +souls might not be interrupted by the sports and labors of the sugar +camp, which called young people together for collecting fagots, rolling +logs, and gathering and boiling down the sap. + +Many were the matches made at these rural gatherings, as the lads and +lasses sat together on frosty nights and replenished the open fires under +the silent stars. + +To depict one revival season is to give a general outline of all. The +itinerant preacher was generally a young man and a bachelor. In his +annual returns to the scenes of his emotional endeavors to save the +unconverted, he would find that many had backslidden; and the first week +was usually spent in getting those who had not “held out faithful” up to +the mourners’ bench for re-conversion. + +Agnostics, of whom John Ranger was an example, were many, who took a +humorous or good-naturedly critical view of the situation. But the +preacher’s efforts to arouse the emotional nature, especially of the +women, began to bear fruit generally after the first week’s praying, +singing, and exhorting; and the excitement, once begun, went on without +interruption as long as temporal affairs permitted. The rankest infidel +in the district kept open house, in his turn, for the preacher and +exhorter; and once, when the schoolhouse was partly destroyed by fire, +John Ranger permitted the meetings to be held in his house till the +damage was repaired by the tax-payers of the district. + +The kindly preacher who most frequently visited the Ranger district as a +revivalist would not knowingly have given needless pain to a fly. But, +when wrought up to great tension by religious frenzy, he seemed to find +delight in holding the frightened penitent spellbound, while he led +him to the very brink of perdition, where he would hang him suspended, +mentally, as by a hair, over a liquid lake of fire and brimstone, with +the blue blazes shooting, like tongues of forked lightning, beneath his +writhing body; while overhead, looking on, sat his Heavenly Father, as a +benignant and affectionate Deity, pictured to the speaker’s imagination, +nevertheless, as waiting with scythe in hand to snip that hair. + +“I can’t see a bit of logic in any of it!” exclaimed Jean Ranger, as she +and Mary, accompanied by Hal, were returning home one night from such a +meeting. + +“God’s ways are not our ways,” sighed Mary, as she tripped over the +frozen path under the denuded maple-trees, where night owls hooted and +wild turkeys slept. + +Harry laughed immoderately. “Jean, you’re right,” he exclaimed. “I’m +going to get religion myself some day before I die, but I’ve got first to +find a Heavenly Father who’s better’n I am. There’s no preacher on top o’ +dirt can make me believe that the great Author of all Creation deserves +the awful character they’re giving Him at the schoolhouse!” + +“Don’t blaspheme, Hal. It’s wicked!” said Mary. + +“I’m not blaspheming; I’m defending God!” retorted Hal. + +“You used to be a sensible girl, Mame,” said Jean; “and you could then +see the ridiculous side of all this excitement just as Hal and I now see +it. But you’re in love with the preacher now, and that has turned your +head.” + +Jean was cold and sleepy and cross; but she did not mean to be unkind, +and on reflection added, “Forgive me, sister dear. I was only in fun. +I have no right to meddle with your love affairs or your religious +feelings, and neither has Hal. S’pose we talk about maple sugar.” + +Mary did not reply, but her thoughts went toward heaven in silent, +self-satisfying prayer. + +The Reverend Thomas Rogers—so he must be designated in these pages, +because he yet lives—was the avowed suitor for the hand and heart of +Mary Ranger; and the winsome girl, with whose prematurely aroused +affections her parents had no patience,—and with reason, for she was +but a child,—was the envy of all the older girls of the district, any +one of whom, while censuring her for her folly in encouraging the +poverty-stricken preacher’s suit, would gladly have found like favor in +his eyes, if the opportunity had been given her. + +But while romantic maidens were going into rhapsodies over their hero, +and many of the dowager mothers echoed their sentiments, most of the +unmarried men of the district remained aloof from his persuasions and +unmoved by his fiery eloquence. But they took him out “sniping” one +off-night in true schoolboy fashion; and while Mary Ranger dreamed of him +in the seclusion of her snug chamber, the poor fellow stood half frozen +at the end of a gulch, holding a bag to catch the snipes that never came. + +“If I were not too poor in worldly goods to pay my way in your father’s +train, I’d go to Oregon,” he said, a few nights after the “sniping” +episode, as he walked homeward with Mary after coaxing Jean and Hal to +keep the little episode a secret from their parents,—a promise they made +after due hesitation, but with much sly chuckling, as they munched the +red-and-white-striped sugar sticks with which they had been bribed. + + + + +III + +_MARRYING AND GIVING IN MARRIAGE_ + + +The destinies of the Ranger and Robinson families had been linked +together by the double ties of affinity and consanguinity in the first +third of the nineteenth century. Their broad and fertile lands, to +which they held the original title-deeds direct from the government, +bore the signature and seal of Andrew Jackson, seventh President of +the United States; and their children and children’s children, though +scattered now in the farthest West, from Alaska and the Hawaiian Islands +to the Philippine Archipelago, treasure to this day among their most +valued heirlooms the historic parchments. For these were signed by Old +Hickory when the original West was bounded on its outermost verge by the +Mississippi and Missouri rivers, and when the new West, though discovered +in the infancy of the century by Lewis and Clark (aided by Sacajawea, +their one woman ally and pathfinder), was to the average American citizen +an unknown country, quite as obscure to his understanding as was the Dark +Continent of Africa in the days antedating Sir Samuel Baker, Oom Paul, +and Cecil Rhodes. + +The elder Rangers, who claimed Knickerbocker blood, and the Robinsons, +who boasted of Scotch ancestry, though living in adjoining counties +in Kentucky in their earlier years, had never met until, as if by +accident,—if accident it might be called through which there seems to +have been an original, interwoven design,—the fates of the two families +became interlinked through their settlement upon adjoining lands, +situated some fifty miles south of old Fort Dearborn, in the days when +Chicago was a mosquito-beleaguered swamp, and Portland, Oregon, an +unbroken forest of pointed firs. + +There was a double wedding on the memorable day when John Ranger, Junior, +and pretty Annie Robinson, the belle of Pleasant Prairie, linked their +destinies together in marriage; and when, without previous notice to the +assembled multitude or any other parties but their parents, the preacher, +and the necessary legal authorities, Elijah Robinson and Mary Ranger took +their allotted places beside their brother and sister, as candidates for +matrimony, the festivities were doubled in interest and rejoicing. + +“It seems but yesterday since our bonnie bairns were babes in arms,” said +the elder Mrs. Robinson, as she advanced with Mrs. Ranger _mère_ to give +a tearful greeting to each newly wedded pair. And there was scarcely a +dry eye in the assembled multitude when the mother’s voice arose in a +shrill treble as she sang, in the ears of the startled listeners, from an +old Scottish ballad the words,— + + “An’ I can scarce believe it true, + So late thy life began, + The playful bairn I fondled then + Stands by me now, a man!” + +Her voice, which at first was as clear as the tones of a silver bell, +quavered at the close of the first stanza and then ceased altogether. +But by this time old Mrs. Ranger had caught the spirit of the ballad, +and though her voice was husky, she cleared her throat and added, in a +low contralto, the impressive lines, paraphrased somewhat to suit the +occasion,— + + “Oh, fondly cherish her, dearie; + She is sae young and fair! + She hasna known a single cloud, + Nor felt a single care. + And if a cauld world’s storms should come, + Thy way to overcast, + Oh, ever stan’—thou art a man— + Between her an’ the blast!” + +At the close of this stanza, Mrs. Ranger’s voice broke also; and the good +circuit rider, parson of many a scattered flock, who had pronounced the +double ceremony, caught the tune and, in a mellow barytone that rose upon +the air like an inspired benediction, added most impressively another +stanza: + + “An’ may the God who reigns above + An’ sees ye a’ the while, + Look down upon your plighted troth + An’ bless ye wi’ His smile.”[1] + +“It’s high time there was a little change o’ sentiment in all this!” +cried a bachelor uncle, whose eyes were suspiciously red notwithstanding +his affected gayety. “I move that we march in a solid phalanx on the +victuals!” + +The primitive cabin homes of the borderers of no Western settlement +were large enough to hold the crowds that were invariably bidden to a +neighborhood merrymaking. The ceremonies of this occasion, including +a most sumptuous feast, were held on the sloping green beneath an +overtopping elm, which, rising high above its fellows, made a noted +landmark for a circumference of many miles. + +People who live apart from markets, in fertile regions where the very +forests drop richness, subsist literally on the fat of the land. Having +no sale for their surplus products, they feast upon them in the most +prodigal way. Although through gormandizing they beget malaria, not +to say dyspepsia and rheumatic ails, they boast of “living well”; and +the sympathy they bestow upon the city denizen who in his wanderings +sometimes feasts at their hospitable boards, and praises without stint +their prodigal display of viands, is often more sincere than wise. + +The lands of the early settlers, with whom these chronicles have to +deal, had been surrounded, as soon as possible after occupancy, with +substantial rail fences, laid in zigzag fashion along dividing lines, +marking the boundaries between neighbors who lived at peace with each +other and with all the world. These fences, built to a sufficient height +to discourage all attempts at trespass by man or beast, were securely +staked at the corners, and weighted with heavy top rails, or “riders,” +so stanchly placed that many miles of such enclosures remain to this +day, long surviving the brawny hands that felled the trees and split the +rails. In their mute eloquence they reveal the lasting qualities of the +hardwood timber that abounded in the many and beautiful groves which +flourished in the prairie States in the early part of the nineteenth +century, when Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri comprised all that was +generally known as the West. + +Much of the primitive glory of these diversified landscapes departed long +ago with the trees. The “Hook-and-Eye Dutch,” as the thrifty followers +of ancient Ohm are called by their American neighbors (with whom they +do not assimilate), are rapidly replacing the old-time maple and black +walnut fences with the modern barbed-wire horror; they are selling off +the historical rails, stakes and riders and all, to the equally thrifty +and not a whit more sentimental timber-dealers of Chicago, Milwaukee, +and Grand Rapids, to be manufactured into high-grade lumber, which is +destined to find lodgment as costly furniture in the palatial homes, +gilded churches, great club-houses, and mammoth modern hostelries that +abound on the shores of Lake Michigan, Massachusetts Bay, Manhattan +Island, and Long Island Sound. But no vandalism yet invented by man can +wholly despoil the rolling lands of the middle West of their beauty, nor +rob Mother Nature of her power to rehabilitate them with the living green +of cultivated loveliness. + +Original settlers of the border-lands had little time and less +opportunity for the observation of the beautiful in art or nature. Their +lives were spent in toil, which blunted many of the finer sensibilities +of a more leisurely existence. The hardy huntsman who spent his only +hours of relaxation in chasing the wild game, and the weary mother +who scarcely ever left her wheel or loom and shuttle by the light of +day, except to bake her brain before a great open fire while preparing +food, or to nurse to sleep the future lawmakers of a coming world-round +republic, were alike too busy to ponder deeply the far-reaching +possibilities of the lives they led. + +Such men of renown as Lincoln, Douglas, Baker, Grant, Logan, and Oglesby +were evolved from environments similar to these, as were also the +numerous adventurous borderers not known to fame (many of whom are yet +living) who crossed the continent with ox teams, and whose patient and +enduring wives nursed the future statesmen of a coming West in fear and +trembling, as they protected their camps from the depredations of the +wily Indian or the frenzy of the desert’s storms. + +Rail-making in the middle West was long a diversion and an art. The +destruction of the hardwood timber, which if spared till to-day would be +almost priceless, could not have been prevented, even if this commercial +fact had been foreseen. The urgent need of fuel, shelter, bridges, public +buildings, and fences allowed no consideration for future values to +intervene and save the trees. + +In times of a temporary lull in a season’s activities, when, for a +wonder, there were days together that the stroke of the woodman’s ax was +not heard and the music of the cross-cut saw had ceased, the settler +would take advantage of the interim to draw a bead with unerring aim upon +the eye of a squirrel in a treetop, or bring down a wild turkey from its +covert in the lower branches; or, if favored by a fall of virgin snow, +it would be his delight to track the wild deer, and drag it home as a +trophy of his marksmanship,—an earnest of the feast in which all his +neighbors were invited to partake. + +Then, too, there were the merrymakings of the border. What modern banquet +can equal the festive board at which a genial hostess, in a homespun +cotton or linsey-woolsey gown, presided over her own stuffed turkey, huge +corn-pone, and wild paw-paw preserves? What array of glittering china, +gleaming cut-glass, or burnished silver, can give the jaded appetite of +the _blasé_ reveller of to-day the enjoyment of a home-set table, laden +with the best and sweetest “salt-rising” bread spread thick with golden +butter, fresh from the old-fashioned churn? The freshest of meats and +fish regularly graced the well-laden board, in localities where the +modern _chef_ was unknown, where ice-cream was unheard of, and terrapin +sauce and lobster salad found no place. House-raisings, log-rollings, +barn-raisings, quilting bees, weddings, christenings, and even funerals, +were times of feasting, though these last were divested of the gayety, +but not of the gossip, that at other times abounded; and the sympathetic +aid of an entire neighborhood was always voluntarily extended to any +house of mourning. There were few if any wage-earners, the accommodating +method of exchanging work among neighbors being generally in vogue. + +Such, in brief, were the daily customs of the early settlers of the +middle West, whose children wandered still farther westward in the +forties and fifties, carrying with them the habits in which they had +been reared to the distant Territory afterwards known as the “Whole of +Oregon,” which originally comprised the great Northwest Territory, where +now flourish massive blocks of mighty States. + + * * * * * + +Prior to the time of the departure of the subjects of these chronicles +for the goal of John Ranger’s ambition, but one unusual occurrence had +marred the lives and prosperity of the rising generation of Rangers and +Robinsons. To the progenitors of the two families the mutations of time +had brought problems serious and difficult, not the least of which was +the infirmity of advancing years. This they had made doubly annoying +through having assigned to their children, when they themselves needed it +most, everything of value which they had struggled to accumulate during +their years of vigorous effort to raise and educate their families. + +In the two households under review, all dependent upon the energies and +bounty of the second generation of Rangers and Robinsons, there were +besides the great-grandmother (a universal favorite) two sexagenarian +bachelor uncles and two elderly spinsters, the latter remote cousins +of uncertain age, uncertain health, and still more uncertain temper, +who had long outlived their usefulness, after having missed, in their +young and vigorous years, the duties and responsibilities that accompany +the founding of families and homes of their own. It was little wonder +that drones like these were out of place in the overcrowded households +of their more provident kinspeople, to whom the modern “Home of the +Friendless” was unknown. What plan to pursue in making necessary +provision for these outside incumbents, even John Ranger, the optimistic +leader of the related hosts, could not conjecture. + +“We’ve fixed it,—Mame and I,” said Jean, one evening, after an anxious +discussion of the question had been carried on with some warmth between +the two family heads, in which no conclusion had been reached except a +flat refusal on the part of Elijah Robinson to quadruple the quota of +dependants in his own household. + +“And how have you fixed it?” asked her father, who often called Jean his +“Heart’s Delight.” + +“Our bachelor uncles and cousins are just rusting out with +irresponsibility!” she cried with characteristic Ranger vehemence. “They +ought to have a home of their own and be compelled to take care of it. +There’s that house and garden where you board and lodge the mill-hands. +Why not give ’em that and let ’em keep boarders? The boarders, the four +acres of ground, and the cow and garden ought to keep them in modest +comfort. This would make them free and independent, as everybody ought to +be.” + +“But the boarding-house belongs with the farm. I’ve sold it to your +uncle.” + +“Then let Uncle Lije lease or sell it to them, share and share alike.” + +“What is it worth?” asked Mary. + +“Only about three hundred dollars, the way property sells now,” said her +uncle. + +“Then let ’em pay you rent. The place ought to support them and pay +interest and taxes.” + +“Yes,” cried Mary; “the old bachelor contingent, that worry you all so +much because you keep ’em dependent on your bounty, can take care of +themselves for twenty years to come, if you’ll only let ’em.” + +“The proposition is worth considering, certainly,” said their father, +smiling admiringly upon his daughters. + +“And we’ll consider it, too,” said the uncle. “That much is settled.” + + + + +IV + +_OLD BLOOD AND NEW_ + + +“I can’t see why old folks like us will persist in living after we’ve +outgrown our usefulness,” exclaimed Grandfather Ranger, one sloppy March +evening, as he entered the little kitchen and placed a pail of foaming +milk upon the clean white table. The severely cold weather had given way +to a springtime thaw; but a wet snow had begun falling at sundown, and +a soft, muddy liquid made dirty pools wherever his feet pressed the +polished floor. + +“You’re right, father; we’ve lived long enough,” sighed the feeble mother +of many children, following her husband’s footprints with mop and broom. + +“If you and John think you’ve lived long enough, what do you think of +me?” cried the great-grandmother, who had passed her fourscore years and +ten, but who still amply supported herself (if only she and the rest of +the family had thought so) as she sat from early morning till late at +night in her corner, knitting, always knitting. + +“Never mind, grannie,” said her son, swallowing a lump that rose unbidden +in his throat. “You’ve as good a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit +of happiness as any fellow that ever put his name to a Declaration of +Independence! There’ll be room for you in the cosiest corner of this +little house as long as there’s a corner for anybody. Don’t worry.” + +“But this state of things isn’t just or fair!” exclaimed the wife, +folding her last bit of mending and dropping back into her chair. “It +seems to me that we, as parents, deserve a better fate in our old days +than any set of bachelor hangers-on on earth, who’ve never had anybody +but themselves to provide for. If Joseph would only come back, or the +good Lord would let us know his fate, I could endure the rest.” + +“There, there, mother! Not another word. Haven’t I forbidden the mention +of his name?” + +“But he was our darling, father. I can’t dismiss him from my thoughts as +you say you can.” + +“We must keep the grandchildren in ignorance of his existence, wife. It’s +bad enough in all conscience for the stain of his misguided life to rest +on older heads. We must forget our unfortunate son.” + +“I can never forget my bonnie boy,—not even to obey you, father!” + +The back door, which had been unintentionally left ajar, flew open, and +Jean, who had for the first time in her life heard a word of complaint +from her grandparents, or a word from them concerning her mysterious +Uncle Joe, burst suddenly into the room and knelt at the feet of her +grandmother, her whole frame convulsed with sobs. + +“Forgive us, darlings, do!” she cried as soon as she could control her +voice to speak. “You’ve borne so much sorrow, and we never knew it! We +never meant to be thoughtless or unkind, but I see now how ungrateful we +have been. We must have hurt your feelings often.” + +“Don’t cry, Jean,” and the thin hand of the grandmother stroked the +girl’s bright hair. “We don’t often repine at our lot. I am sorry you +overheard a word.” + +“But I am not sorry a single bit, grandma. We children have been +thoughtless and impudent. I can see it all now. We didn’t ever mean to +complain, though, about you, or grandpa, or you either, grannie dear. +We only meant to draw the line at bachelor great-uncles and meddlesome +second and third cousins, who ought to have provided themselves in their +youth with homes of their own, as our parents did.” + +“Do you think they can help themselves hereafter, Jean?” + +“Why, of course! The feeling of self-dependence will make ’em young and +strong again,—though they don’t deserve good treatment, for they ought to +have had homes and families of their own in their youth, as you did.” + +“It’s too late to lodge a complaint of that kind against them now, Jean,” +said the grandmother, with a smile. + +“Did you overhear all we were talking about?” asked the grandfather, his +head bowed upon his cane. + +“I am afraid I did, grandpa. I was cleaning the slush from my shoes, and +I couldn’t help overhearing, though I hate eavesdroppers, on general +principles. They never hear any good of themselves. But, say, grandpa, +what about our Uncle Joe, whom I heard you denounce so bitterly? You +haven’t said _I_ mustn’t speak his name, you know.” + +“Don’t talk about him, child, to us or anybody else. He’s an outlaw. +Dismiss him from your thoughts, just as I have.” + +“Your uncle may not be living now, Jean; if he is alive, I hope he’ll +find a better friend than his father,” exclaimed the great-grandmother, +speaking in a tone of reproach that surprised none more than herself. + +“Tell me all about it, grand-daddie darling! Do! I know there’s a sad +secret somewhere in the family. Something unusual must have happened a +long time ago to bring us all under the ban of poverty. I have heard +hints of it now and then all my life; and now I must hear the whole +story. The schoolmaster will tell me if you don’t.” + +“No, no, Jean,” exclaimed her grandfather, anxiously. “Don’t speak of +family affairs outside. It is never seemly.” + +“Neither is it seemly or just to keep members of the family in ignorance +of family affairs when all the rest of the neighborhood knows all about +’em! We ought to know all, grandma darling. The reason children are so +often unreasonable is that they don’t understand.” + +“‘I have been young and now am old, yet have I not seen the righteous +forsaken nor his seed begging bread,’” said the grandfather, his head +still bowed low upon his staff and his white locks falling over his +stooping shoulders. “Let us not repine, mother.” + +“I am not repining, father, but I do feel so—so disappointed with the +outcome of all our hard struggles that I can’t always be cheerful.” + +“We’d just begun to get our heads above water when it happened, Jean,” +said the old man. “We’d been making a new farm. You see, we’d manumitted +our slaves before we left Kaintuck, and we had to begin with our bare +hands in this new country and work our way from the ground up. We’d only +got a part o’ the children raised when the older ones began to get it in +their heads to get married. But our second son took to book-learning, and +we sent him off to Tennessee to finish his schooling. That cost a pile o’ +money. Then we had to set out the married ones. We’d got things going in +tol’ble shape and was beginning to get on our feet again, when Joseph—” + +“Do stop, husband. Don’t tell any more; please don’t,” cried the +grandmother, nervously stroking the bright young head that nestled in her +lap. “I cannot bear to hear it, though I thought I could.” + +“Let him go on, grandmother dear! I don’t want to be driven to the +schoolmaster for the information that I am bound to get someway. When I +have grandchildren of my own, I’ll tell ’em everything they ought to know +about the family, and then they won’t be teased by the school-children, +as we are.” + +“We had to mortgage the farm,” continued the grandfather; “and then there +came a financial panic. The wild-cat banks of the country all went to +pieces, and the bottom kind o’ fell out o’ things.” + +“But why did you borrow money, grandpa? Why was it necessary to mortgage +the farms?” + +“We did it because we had to stand by Joe in his trouble.” + +“What did you hear at school, darling?” asked the grandmother. + +“Oh, nothing much. But one day Jim Danover got mad at me because I +went head in the class; and he said I needn’t be puttin’ on airs, for +everybody knew that my uncle had been hung.” + +“Good Lord! has it come to that?” cried the great-grandmother, dropping +her knitting to the floor and clasping her withered hands over her +knees. “I’ve always told you that you’d better tell the older children +about it yourself, John.” + +“No, Jean; your uncle wasn’t hung,” said the old man; “but he got into +trouble, and we all believe he is dead. He was the pride and joy of us +all. He was so promising that we gave him all the education that ought to +have been distributed evenly through the family.” + +“But John and Mollie took a notion to get married young, and you know +that ended their chances,” interposed the mother. + +“Your uncle’s trouble would never have come upon him and us if he had +stayed out o’ that college,” exclaimed the great-grandmother, who did not +approve of the course the family had taken with Joseph at the beginning +of his college days. + +“That’s true, grannie,” replied the father; “but he ought to have kept +out o’ the scrape, college or no college.” + +“Do go on,” cried Jean. + +“Your Uncle Joe got mixed up in a hazing frolic, or something o’ that +sort,” resumed the grandfather. “One or two of the students got hurt, +one of ’em so bad that he died,—or it was given out that he died,—and +the blame fell on Joe. He declared he wasn’t guilty, but the college +authorities had to fix the blame somewhere, though the case was +uncertain. They never proved that the boy was dead, but we raised the +money and bailed Joe out o’ jail. When the story was started that the +fellow had died, Joe skipped his bail and left us all in a hole. That was +what made and has kept us poor.” + +“Did you never hear of the other man, grandpa?” + +“Oh, yes; he turned up, but too late to do Joe or the rest of us any +good.” + +“Poor dear Uncle Joe!” + +“You’d better say poor dear all the rest of us,” cried the +great-grandmother, who had staked and lost her little all in the great +calamity. + +“But Uncle Joe was sinned against, grannie dear. How he must have +suffered!” + +“Them that’s sinned against are often greater sufferers than them that +sins,” was the sad reply. + +“When the bail was jumped, the hard times set in with all of us,” resumed +the grandfather. “The banks, as I was saying, went broke, the interest on +the mortgages piled up, and the notes fell due. The crops got the rust +and the weevil, and everything else went wrong. You see, Jean, when a man +starts down hill, everybody tries to give him a kick. The long and the +short of it is that mother, here, and grannie and I have been the same as +paupers for more than a dozen years.” + +“I must be going, though you must first tell me how you two and dear old +grannie are going to live when we are away in Oregon. Your way seems very +uncertain,” said Jean. + +“Your father has made some kind of a bargain for our support with your +Uncle Lije. But he’s sort o’ visionary, and he never has much luck. If he +loses the property, we can go to the poorhouse.” + +“Are you to be allowed no stated sum to live on? Will you have no means +of your own to gratify your individual wishes or tastes?” + +“No, child; not a picayune.” + +“What’s a picayune?” + +“A six-and-a-quarter-cent piece.” + +“I’m just as wise as I was before.” + +“They’re wellnigh out o’ circulation nowadays, though I used to come +across ’em frequently when I was sheriff,” said the old man. + +Jean covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. + +“Don’t worry about us, dearie,” said the old man. “There is One above us +who heareth even the young ravens when they cry. There is not a sparrow +that falleth to the ground without His knowledge. Your Uncle Lije will +move into the old homestead when you are all gone. Your father built this +cottage for us when he assumed the mortgage, as you know. We won’t be +entirely alone, but we’ll miss you all; and we’ll try to remember that we +are of more value than many sparrows.” + +“I’ve heard such talk as that all my life, grandpa. But I can’t help +thinking that it would have been better to keep the ravens from having +anything to cry about in the first place, and to save the sparrows from +falling.” + +“If none o’ God’s creatures ever had any hard experiences, they’d never +know enough to enjoy their blessings, Jean. A child has to stumble and +hurt itself many times before it learns to walk steady. We’ve all got +to be purified and saved, as by fire, before we are fit to stand in the +presence of the awful God.” + +“The God I love and worship isn’t an awful God,” cried Jean. “I couldn’t +love Him if He were awful. My earthly daddie whipped me once. No doubt +I deserved the punishment, but I couldn’t love him for a whole month +afterwards. And I’d have hated him for the rest of my life if I hadn’t +deserved the whipping.” + +“Didn’t it do you any good?” + +Jean confronted her grandfather, her eyes flashing. “No, sir!” she cried. +“I ought not to have been whipped, and I wasn’t a bit repentant after the +punishment. I was sorry beforehand, though, and said so.” + +“What was your offence, Jean?” + +“I dropped a pan full of dishes and broke more than half o’ the lot. They +fell to the floor with a crash, and scared me half to death.” + +“Didn’t the whipping make you more careful afterwards?”. + +“Not at all; it only made me mad and afraid and nervous, so I broke +more dishes. But the next time it happened, I hid the broken pieces in +the ash hopper, and when they were found, I saved myself a whipping by +telling my first lie.” + +“The Lord chasteneth whom He loveth, my child.” + +“I once saw a mill-hand strike his wife,” retorted Jean, “and he said, as +she rubbed her bruises, ‘I love you, Mollie. Take another kick!’ But I +must go now. Be of good cheer. And remember, when I get to Oregon and get +to making money, you shall have every cent that I can spare.” + + + + +V + +_SALLY O’DOWD_ + + +Great excitement prevailed in the rural neighborhood when it became +generally known that John Ranger, Junior, had sold the farm and was +preparing to dispose of his sawmill and all his personal belongings, with +the intention of departing to the new and far-away West in an ox-wagon +train with his family,—an undertaking that seemed to his friends as +foolhardy as would have been an attempt to reach the North Pole with his +wife and children in a balloon. + +Of more than ordinary ability, enterprise, and daring, John Ranger had +long been a man of note in his bailiwick. Twice he had represented his +county in the State Legislative Assembly; but when the Old Line Whigs of +his district offered to nominate him for Congress,—“No, gentlemen!” he +exclaimed. “I started out early in life to assist my good wife in rearing +and educating a big family of young Americans. I frankly admit that we’ve +got a bigger job on hand than either of us imagined it would be when we +made the bargain; but that doesn’t lessen our mutual responsibility. +There is always a regiment, more or less, of unencumbered men in waiting +in every locality, ready and willing to wear the toga of office; so, with +thanks for the proffered honor, I must beg to be excused.” + +But there was one office, that of justice of the peace, which he +never refused, and to which he had been so often re-elected that the +appellation of “Squire” had grown to belong to him as a matter of course. +One room of the great barnlike farmhouse had long been set apart as his +office; and many were the litigants who remained after office hours to be +entertained at his hospitable board. + +“It’s a lot of trouble, having so much extra company on account of your +office being in the house,” his wife said at times; “but it’s better than +having you away two-thirds of your time down town, so it is all right.” + +“There’s a woman going round the corner to the office,” exclaimed Mary, +one evening, just as her father had settled himself before the fire to +enjoy a frolic with the little ones. + +“It’s that grass widow, Sally O’Dowd,” said Mrs. Ranger. + +“She’s booked for a solid hour,” snapped Marjorie, “and we’ll have to +delay supper till nine o’clock.” + +The Squire had barely time to reach his office by an inner passage and +seat himself before the fire, when Mrs. O’Dowd—an oversized, plainly +dressed, intelligent-looking woman, who was remarkably handsome, +notwithstanding the expression of pain upon her face—entered the office +and stood silent before the open fire. + +“Well,” exclaimed the Squire, impatiently, motioning her to a chair, +“what can I do for you now?” + +“Oh, Squire!” she cried, ignoring the proffered chair and dropping on her +knees at his feet, her wealth of rippling hair falling about her face and +over her shapely shoulders like a deluge of gold, “I want you to take me +with you to Oregon.” + +“What! And leave your children to the care of others? I didn’t think that +of you, Mrs. O’Dowd.” + +“But what else can I do? You know the court has assigned the custody of +all three of my babies to Sam.” + +“Yes, Sally; but you can see them once in a while if you stay here.” + +“The court gave them to Samuel and his mother absolutely, you know.” + +“Yes, yes, child; and while in one way it is hard, if you look at it +in a practical light, you will see that it was best for the children. +You couldn’t keep them with you and go out as hired help in anybody’s +kitchen; and you have no other means of support any more.” + +“If I stay here, I cannot have even the poor privilege of caring for +them, except when they’re sick. I must get entirely away from their +vicinity, or lose my senses altogether.” + +“I thought that was what was the matter when you married the fellow, +Sally. You certainly had lost your senses then.” + +“But love is blind, Squire—till it gets its eyes open; and then it is +generally too late to see to any advantage. Little did my dear father +think, when he made a will leaving his homestead, his bank account, and +all his belongings to me, that he was reducing my dear mother and me to +beggary.” + +“But that wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t married that worthless +fellow, Sally.” + +“But the _if_ exists, Squire. I married the fellow. It was an awful +blunder,—I’ll admit that. But it wasn’t a crime. It should have been no +reason for robbing me. And yet this marriage was made the legal pretext +for permitting the robbery. Oh, I was so glad when my dear mother died! +I couldn’t have shed a tear at her grave if I’d been hung for my seeming +heartlessness. Poor mother! I was made an unwilling party to a robbery +that beggared her and myself. Then, when I could no longer endure the +presence of the robber and his accomplice, and live, I was doubly, yes, +trebly robbed, by being deprived of my children.” + +The Squire cleared his throat and spoke huskily. + +“That will was a sad mistake of your father’s, Sally. He should have left +his property to your mother. It was wrong to put her means of livelihood +in jeopardy by leaving all to you. He ought to have known you’d marry, +and that the property would accrue to your husband.” + +“But mother insisted that all should be left to me. She even waived her +right of dower, in my interest—as she thought.” + +“Well, Sally, you can’t say that I didn’t warn you.” + +The woman laughed hysterically. “Much good that warning can do me now!” +she cried, rising to her feet and unconsciously assuming a dramatic pose. +“We hadn’t been married a week when he ordered my mother out of my house. +And then he installed his own mother in my home, and expected me to be +silent. Oh, I am so glad my dear mother is dead! I would rejoice if my +poor, defrauded children were all dead also.” + +The Squire cleared his throat again and leaned forward on his hands. “The +law recognizes the husband and wife as one, and the husband as that one, +Mrs. O’Dowd.” + +“Yes, yes, I know that, to my bitter sorrow,” she said with a meaning +smile, her white teeth shining through her parted lips and her eyes +flashing. The woman sank upon the hearth, looking strangely white and +calm. + +John Ranger sighed helplessly. “I worked the underground railroad last +night for all it was worth, in the interest of some runaway niggers,” +he said under his breath; then audibly, “The laws of the land must be +obeyed, my child.” + +“The law is a fiend,” cried Jean, who had entered the room unobserved +and had stood listening in the shadow of the chimney jamb. “I’ll never +rest till this awful one-sided power is broken. You know yourself that +it’s a monster, daddie. I know you know it, or you’d never help a run—” + +He put his finger on his lips, and the girl changed the subject. The +underground railroad was a forbidden topic in the Ranger household. + +“Because Sally Danover knew no better than to become the wife of an +unworthy man,—who knew what he was about, though she didn’t,—the law +declares that all the benefits resulting from the fraudulent transaction +must accrue to the villain in the case, and all the penalties must be +borne by his victim. What would you do to such a fellow, daddie, if I +should marry him?” + +John Ranger did not answer, but gazed steadily into the fire, his brow +contracted and his thoughts gloomy. + +“Sally, cheer up!” cried Jean, shaking the woman by the shoulder. +“Daddie’s a whole lot better man than he thinks he is. I’ve seen him +tested. You’re as good as a nigger, if you _are_ white, and he’ll help +you.” + +“You don’t know what you’re talking about, my daughter. It’s a crime to +break the law, and crime must be followed by fitting punishment.” + +“If you get caught, you get punished,” cried Jean, laughing in her +father’s face. “To break such a law would be an act of heroism for which +I should be glad to be arrested and sent to jail! It would be an act +of heroism beside which the defence of the Stars and Stripes would be +cowardice!” she cried in a transport of fury. + +“Come, Jean,” said her father, rising, “we must go to supper. Won’t you +join us, Mrs. O’Dowd?” + +“Food would choke me,” said the visitor, bowing herself out. + +“Hang the luck!” said the Squire, as the door slammed behind her. + +“What are you going to do to help the poor woman, John?” asked Mrs. +Ranger, as the family sat at the belated meal. + +“Ask Jean.” + +“What do you know about the case, daughter?” + +“She thinks she knows a lot,” interrupted her father. “She’d ’a’ made a +plaguy good lawyer if she’d only been born a boy.” + +“Who knew best what I ought to be,—you or God?” asked Jean, her eyes +glowing like stars. + +“I give it up,” replied her father, smiling. + +“I was reading to-day,” said Mrs. Ranger, “of a man down East who lured +his runaway wife back home by stealing the babies and then warning +everybody through the papers, and by posters, not to trust or harbor her, +under penalty of the law. The woman held out quite a spell, but cold and +hunger got the better of her at last; and when the stolen children fell +sick, she went back to her lawful protector and stayed till she died, as +meek as any lamb.” + +“Sally Danover won’t go back to Sam O’Dowd; she’ll die first,” cried +Mary; “and I glory in her grit.” + +“You haven’t answered my question, John,” said Mrs. Ranger. “What do you +propose to do with Sally O’Dowd?” + +“I s’pose I’ll have to take her to Oregon and let her take a new start. +She says she must get away from here, or go insane.” + +“I’d go crazy if I had to leave my children, John.” + +“You can boast, Annie; you can afford to. But if you were in Sally’s +shoes, you’d sing a different song.” + +Mrs. Ranger shrugged her shoulders. + +“I can’t see why women with good husbands and happy homes are so ready +to censure less fortunate women for breaking bonds that are unbearable,” +said her husband. “Women are women’s worst enemies.” + +“Sam O’Dowd’s no woman,” exclaimed Jean. “There’s not a woman on top o’ +dirt that’d treat any man as he’s treated Sally.” + +“I guess it’s about an even stand-off,” rejoined her mother. + +“No,” cried Jean. “The conditions are not equal. No woman has the power +to turn her husband out of doors. Even if it is her own house, he is its +lawful master. Women don’t stand any show at all compared with men.” + +“Jean is going to-morrow to see Sam O’Dowd’s mother. She can make matters +smooth for Sally if anybody can,” said the Squire. + + * * * * * + +“The sale of our effects is only two weeks off, John,” said his wife, +when they were alone. “I want to reserve a few things that are sacred. +There’s Baby Jamie’s cradle, that you made from the hollow section of +that old gum-tree that stood in the back pasture. Do you remember how +nicely I lined it with the back breadths of my wedding dress?” + +“Could I forget it, Annie?” + +“Then there’s my mother’s little old spinning-wheel. It was my +grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s. May I keep it for Mary?” + +“It won’t pay to haul such things over the plains, Annie. Better let your +mother keep ’em here till there’s a transcontinental railroad.” + +“But that won’t come in my time, John.” + + + + +VI + +_THE BEGINNING OF A JOURNEY_ + + +The sale of Squire Ranger’s effects proceeded without unnecessary delay. +The sawmill, the first portable structure of its kind ever seen west of +the Wabash River, was eagerly purchased on credit by a waiting customer, +and work at the mill went on without interruption. What a primitive +affair it was! And how like a pygmy it seems as the resident on the +North Pacific’s border recalls its littleness, and contrasts it with the +mammoth mills of Oregon, the lower Columbia, and Puget Sound, which grasp +in their giant arms the dead leviathans of the primeval forest, and set +their teeth to work tearing to pieces the patient upbuilding of the ages +gone! + +The motive power of John Ranger’s sawmill consisted of about a dozen +superannuated horses, some spavined, some ringboned, some wind-broken, +all more or less disabled in some way; these were regularly harnessed, +each in his turn, to a set of horizontal radiating shafts attached to a +rotating centre, above which, on a little platform, stood the driver, +with a whip. + +“I know it’s wicked to kill the trees and cut them up into boards; it’s +just as wicked as it is to kill pigs and cattle,” was Mary Ranger’s +comment when she first beheld the frantic work of the raging saw, which, +screaming like a demon, ate its way through hearts of oak and hickory, +or tore the slabs from the sides of the black-walnut and sugar-maple +patriarchs with ever unsated ferocity. + +But this sawmill had long been a boon to the entire country, as was +evidenced by the multiplication, since its advent, of framed houses, +barns, bridges, schoolhouses, and churches, which suddenly sprang into +vogue, not to mention the many miles of planked highways that rushed into +fashion before the railroad era in the days when “good roads conventions” +were unheard of. + +Children born and reared in cities—subject, if of the tenant class, to +frequent changes of habitation, or, if their homes are permanent, to +frequent intervals of travel—can have little idea of the love which +children of the country cherish for the farms and homes to which they are +born, and in which their brief lives are spent. The very soil on which +they have trodden is dear to them, and seems instinct with sentience. +They make a boon companion of everything with which they come in contact, +whether pertaining to the earth, the water, or the air. Their little +gardens are familiar friends; the flowers of the wildwood are loving +entities; the brook that sings in summer through the tangled grass and +sleeps in winter under a bed of ice is always a communing spirit. The +sighing winds chant rhythmic lullabies in the treetops, and the language +of every insect, bird, and beast has, to them, a distinctive meaning. The +blue heavens are their delight, and the passing clouds their friends. The +sun, the moon, and the stars hold converse with them, and the changing +seasons bring to them, each in its turn, peculiar joy. + +But, dearly as they loved the old home and its surroundings, the Ranger +children, who had never crossed the boundary of township number twelve, +range three west, in which they were born, looked forward eagerly to +the forthcoming journey. Once only had Mrs. Ranger ventured beyond the +township limits since leaving the Kentucky home of her childhood; and +that was many years before, when she went with her husband to the county +seat to attach her mark to the fateful mortgage, upon which the accruing +interest seemed always to be maturing at the time when she or the +children were the most in need of books or shoes or clothing. + +“I wasn’t allowed to learn to write in my childhood,” she falteringly +explained to the notary, when, after affixing her mark, she watched him +as he attached his seal to the document which was to be as a millstone +about her neck forever after. “My father always thought that education +was bad for girls,” she added. “He said if they knew how to write they’d +be forging their husbands’ names and getting their money out of the bank. +And he said, too, that if girls learned to write, they’d be sending love +letters to the boys.” + +“It’s never too late to learn,” was the notary’s reply. “If I were you, I +would learn to write when the children learn. You can do it if you try.” + +“I’d be glad to, if I could find the time; but it’s hard to learn +anything for one’s own especial benefit with a baby always in one’s arms. +When the children get big enough to learn to write, I’ll try, though.” + +And she did; with such success that she never after signed her name with +a cross. + + * * * * * + +“I’m glad we’ve got that mortgage off our hands at last, Annie,” said her +husband as they counted up the somewhat disappointing returns after the +sale of their personal effects was over. + +“But you’re not morally free from it, John, or even legally so. If the +purchaser should fail, the load would then revert to Lije, you know. +Say, John, can’t I deed my little ten-acre farm to my father and mother? +It never cost you anything. I took care of old man Eustis for six long +years; and you know he gave the little farm to me as pay for my services, +absolutely.” + +“Haven’t I paid its taxes all along, Annie?” + +“And have I earned nothing all this time, my husband?” + +“Oh, yes, you’ve earned a living; and you’ve got it as you went along, +haven’t you?” + +Mrs. Ranger made no reply, but being silenced was not being convinced. + +“Be patient,” said Jean, aside. “I’ll manage it.” + + * * * * * + +Several pairs of great brown-eyed oxen, with which the children had +become familiar in their days of logging about the sawmill, were easily +trained for the long journey; but others, untamed and terrified, as if +pre-sensing the trials awaiting them through untracked deserts, submitted +to the yoke only under the cruelest compulsion. New wagons, stanchly +built and covered with white canvas hoods, stretched tightly over hickory +bows, were ranged on the lawn, under the naked, creaking branches of +the big elm-tree. Provisions, resembling in quantity the supplies for +a small army, were carted to the front veranda, awaiting shipment down +the Illinois and Mississippi rivers to St. Louis, to be reshipped up the +Missouri to the final point of loading into wagons for crossing the Great +American Desert, as the Great Plains were then known. + +Visitors, including friends and relatives from far and near, came to the +dismantled house in great relays, and the business of Squire Ranger’s +office as justice of the peace increased a dozen fold. All this commotion +involved increasing labor for Mrs. Ranger, who faded visibly as she +silently counted the intervening days before the hour of final separation +from her sorrowing parents. If the Squire suffered at the thought of +parting with anybody, he made no sign except to complain of a “pesky +cold” that made his eyes water, which he attributed to the “beastly +climate.” + +“The spirit of adventure that inspires my husband to emigrate does not +permit him to foresee danger,” was Mrs. Ranger’s ever-ready reply to the +numerous prophets of evil who came to condole, but got only their labor +for their pains. “I will not try to interfere with his plans. I started +out as a bride to walk the road of life beside him, and I mean to do as I +agreed.” + +But the good wife grew thinner and whiter as the days sped on; and when +at last the wagons were all ranged in line, with every yoke of oxen in +place; when the last farewell had been spoken; when the last audible +prayer had ascended heavenward, and the command to move on had been +given,—she sank on her feather bed in the great family wagon and closed +her eyes with a feeling of thankfulness akin to that of the sufferer from +a fatal malady who realizes that his last hour has come. + +“‘He giveth His beloved sleep,’” said Mary, softly, as she covered her +mother with a heavy shawl. + + * * * * * + +It was now the first of April, a fitful, gray, and misty day. A soft +breeze was stirring from the south, and straggling rays of sunlight +struggled through occasional rifts in the straying clouds. The spring +thaw had at last set in. The sticky soil adhered to the feet of man and +beast, and clung in heavy masses to the wheels of wagons. + +The dog, Rover, who had always willingly remained at home on watch during +the family’s absence at church or elsewhere, had hidden himself at +starting-time; but he was found waiting in the road when the party was +several miles out on the way, and, when discovered, approached his master +with drooping tail and piteous whine. + +There were tears in the eyes of the strong man, of which he was not +ashamed, as he dismounted from the back of Sukie, his favorite mare, and, +stooping, patted the dog affectionately on the head. + +“They didn’t fool ’oo, did ’ey, Rovie?” said Bobbie, as he hugged the +dog, unmindful of his muddy coat. + +“Come to me, Rover,” exclaimed Mrs. Ranger, who had been refreshed by +her nap. The dog obeyed, and, wet and dirty as he was, attempted to hide +himself among the baggage. But his hopes were blasted by a peremptory +command from his master: “Go back home and stay with grandfather!” The +poor brute jumped, whining, to the ground and affected to obey; but he +reappeared a dozen miles farther on, at the Illinois River’s edge; and +when the ferry-boat, which he was forbidden to enter, was out of reach of +either command or missile, he sat on his haunches on the river-bank and +howled dismally. + +“Don’t you think a dog has a soul, daddie?” asked Jean, through her tears. + +“How should I know, daughter?” was the husky response. “I’m not yet +certain that a man has a soul.” + + + + +VII + +_SCOTTY’S FIRST ROMANCE_ + + +The home that was to be the abode of the Ranger family during the journey +was an over-jutting wagon-box,—Harry called it a “hurricane deck,”—made +to fit over the running gear of a substantial wagon, in which a dozen or +more persons might be stowed away at night in crosswise fashion. It was +named “the saloon” by the teamsters, in jocose recognition of its owner’s +well-known teetotal habits, and was assigned to the women and children as +their especial domicile. + +“It will be your duty to keep a daily record of our journey, Jean.” + +This was the first official order issued by Captain Ranger after he had +been formally elected as commander of the expedition, and was given under +the thickly falling snow, amid the bustle and confusion of making the +first camp. + +“What sort of a record?” + +“A daily write-up of current events. Here is a brand-new blank-book I +have bought for the purpose. And here’s a portable inkstand, with some +lead pencils, a pocket knife, and a box of pens. I’ve selected you as +scribe because you won the prize in that competitive contest over the +doings of Bismarck.” + +“But that was a different proposition, daddie.” + +“It’s all in the same line, Jean. You have a record to preserve now. You +must keep your credit good. Look to your laurels, and don’t forget!” + +And Jean, partly from innate ambition, but chiefly because she was under +orders from which she knew there could be no appeal, kept, through all +the tedious journey, a diary, from which the chronicler of these pages +proposes to cull such fragments as may fit into the narrative, without +strict regard to chronology, though with due regard to facts. + + * * * * * + +“We made camp last night in the discomfort of a driving snowstorm,” +wrote the scribe under date of April 2. “But in spite of our sorrow +over our departure from home and loved ones, the most of us were jolly, +and we made the best we could of the situation. To-night, after a day’s +disagreeable wheeling through mud that freezes at night and thaws by day, +making travel nasty, sticky, and tedious, we stopped for camp near an +isolated farmhouse, where the goodwife is disheartened and sick, and the +children are ragged, dirty, and frightened. + +“The storm has abated, and the sky is clear. Our teamsters are kneeling +on the ground around our mess-boxes, which are used for tables at +mealtime, and stored in the ends of the wagons when we are moving ahead.” + +“There, I can’t think of another word to write.” She closed the book with +a bang. + +For many minutes after gathering around the tables, all were too busy +with the supper to make any attempt at conversation. + +Beans and bacon, coffee and crackers, and great heaps of stewed fruits, +were reinforced by mountains of steaming flapjacks, which Mary and +Marjorie took turns at baking, their eyes watery from the smoke of the +open fire, and their cheeks reddened by the wind. + +“Wonder what’s become o’ Scotty,” said Captain Ranger, as he knelt in the +absent teamster’s place at table and helped himself bountifully. + +“He filled our water-buckets and was off like a shot,” said Hal. “He +ought to show up at mealtime. Ah, there he comes.” + +“Where’ve you been, Scotty?” asked the Captain. “Here’s plenty of room. +Kneel, and give an account of yourself.” + +“So you’re in love, eh, Scotty? and with that pretty widow in the next +camp?” + +The questioner was a tall, lanky teamster, answering to the appellation +of Shorty. + +“Never in love before,” said Scotty, as he swallowed his coffee with a +gulp. + +An uproarious laugh ran around the table. + +“Her hair is like the flower o’ Scotia’s broom in springtime, and the +sheen o’ her eyes is like Loch Achray!” exclaimed Scotty, as he passed +his plate for a fresh relay of flapjacks. + +“A love affair doesn’t spoil his appetite,” laughed Marjorie. + +“I want you all to understand that no falling in love’ll be allowed on +this journey,” said the Captain, dryly. “There’ll be time enough for that +kind o’ nonsense after you get to Oregon and get settled.” + +“Love, like death, has all seasons for its own, sir,” retorted Scotty, +with a deferential bow. + +“Women and war don’t go together,” replied his employer. “And you’ll find +this journey is a good deal like war before you’re done with it.” + +“Everything is fair in both love and war, sir.” + +“Excuse me,” said a woman in black, with a low, mellow voice and blond +complexion, who might have heard herself discussed if she had listened. +The clatter around the table stopped instantly. + +“We’re in a quandary, mamma and I,” she said, blushing. “Our matches are +damp and won’t burn. I thought perhaps—” + +A half-dozen men were on their feet in an instant, and half-a-dozen hands +went suddenly into half-a-dozen pockets, while half-a-dozen blocks of +matches were forthcoming in less than half a minute. + +“Here are more than I need, gentlemen, and I thank you ever so much,” she +said, taking the offer from Scotty; and, with a bow and a smile to all, +she was gone. + +“The red of her lips is like rubies, the white of her teeth is like +pearls, and her voice is a symphony,” said Scotty, looking after her as +she ran. + +“Scotty’s attack is as sudden as it is serious,” laughed Lengthy, a +short, stocky teamster, whose nickname was a ludicrous misfit. + +“What freak o’ fate do you s’pose it was that brought that beauty out +here on a journey like this?” asked Yank, a Southern-born teamster, whose +accepted nickname was another palpable misnomer, and who dropped his +_r_’s, like a negro preacher. + +“I know!” cried Bobbie, his fingers dripping with molasses. “She came to +meet Scotty.” + +The laugh that followed disconcerted the child, who ran, abashed, to his +mother in the family wagon. + +“I thought,” exclaimed Sambo,—a gaunt Vermonter, who dropped his _g_’s +as frequently as Yank dropped his _r_’s,—“I thought there’d be several +ladies comin’ along, to keep us company.” + +“Can you tell us why Mrs. O’Dowd didn’t join us?” asked Yank, turning +deferentially to the Captain. “I thought we were to have the pleasure +of one woman’s company,—I mean in addition to the ladies present, of +course.” + +Jean exchanged furtive glances with her father, who averted his face, and +said: “That’s a conundrum, Yank. Ask me something easy.” + + * * * * * + +The next noticeable entry in Jean’s diary was made on the fifth of April, +and was as follows:— + +“The snow this morning is four inches deep. We camped last night in the +mud and slush, in a narrow lane, after a hard day’s wheeling through the +miry roads. Mother, dear woman, is weary and weak, but daddie got her a +warm room in the farmhouse near us, where we children are allowed to go +sometimes to thaw our marrow-bones by a pleasant fire. + +“April 6. Cloudy to-day, with a threat of rain. But mother urges a +forward movement, so Mary and Marjorie are packing the mess-boxes, and +daddie says I must write up this horrid diary. There is nothing to write +about. The country through which we are struggling is swampy, monotonous, +muddy, and level. Cheap, rickety farmhouses are seen at intervals; the +bridges are gone from most of the swollen streams; our way goes through +narrow, muddy lanes, with crooked, tumble-down fences; and we see, every +now and then, a discouraged-looking woman and a lot of half-clad children +peeping through open doors, from the midst of a crowd of half-starved +dogs. Daddie says these frontier people (and dogs) are the forerunners of +all civilization; but I think they’re the embodiment of desolation and +discouragement. + +“April 7. The ague has broken out among our teamsters. We stopped +to-night at a farmhouse, where suspicious women treated us like so many +thieves. The whole family were barefoot, and lacked everything but +numbers. Mother says that starvation has aroused their cupidity, and we +mustn’t mind their suspicious airs. They had no feed for sale for the +stock, and no supplies to sell for our table; but there were plenty of +guns and dogs,—the latter a thieving lot,—from which we shall be glad to +escape when we again see morning. Weather and roads no better. + +“April 8. Mother quite ill again; but the skies are clear, and she +insists on moving forward. + +“April 11. No food for man or beast to be had for love or money. We must +move onward, sick or well. + +“April 12. A better-settled region. The scenery is often fine. +Pussy-willows peep at us from marshy edges, and birds are singing in +the budding treetops. Sick folks no better. Bought a liberal supply of +corn for the stock, and a lot of butter, eggs, and chickens for the rest +of us, so we have a feast in prospect. Camped on the edge of a pretty +little village, on a nice green grass-plat. Daddie took us girls to a +prayer-meeting. The good people eyed us askance. Evidently they thought +us freaks. Certainly our slat sunbonnets and soiled linsey-woolsey +dresses were not reassuring.” + + * * * * * + +The next day, at nightfall, the party reached Quincy, on the Mississippi, +and camped on a flat bit of upland outside of the city’s limits, where +many other wayfarers, like themselves, had halted and encamped. + +“Did you notice Scotty?” asked Marjorie, approaching Jean, who sat on a +wagon-tongue, trying to think of something out of the ordinary to jot in +her journal. + +“What’s he up to now?” + +“He’s been preening his feathers like a turkey-gobbler for the last +half-hour. Guess our pretty widow and her aristocratic mamma have +caught up with our train. Just watch him! See how the ex-scientist, +ex-statesman, ex-orator, and now ex-almost-anything is making a fool of +himself!” + +“All people, of both sexes, get a spell of the simples, sooner or later,” +laughed Jean. “Daddie says that when the system is in the right condition +to catch it, one gets it bad.” + +“Guess I’ll ride out and look over the town a little, Annie,” said the +Captain to his wife after the family had retired for the night. “I want +to look out a little for our Scotty. He seems to need a guardian.” + +Scotty, though a characteristic specimen of the educated Scotchman, was +a loyal adherent of the institutions of his adopted country. He had been +a member of the constitutional conventions of two border States, and was +known as a writer and orator of no mean ability. But, like many another +brilliant man, he had passed his fortieth year without acquiring a home, +a family, or a competence. He was well versed in the “Rise and Fall of +Republics,” and had travelled much in foreign lands,—themes of which he +never tired. But he could never reduce ox-driving to a science. + +Captain Ranger rode to the top of the bluffs, where he leisurely +contemplated the scene. Lights reflected from town and river danced and +gleamed, but barely made the darkness visible in the muddy streets. +Church bells rang, steamers whistled, and longshoremen tugged at heavy +loads. Powerful horses propelled great, clumsy freight-wagons through the +unpaved streets. Foot passengers picked their way through slop and mud. + +“Railroads will come here some day,” said the Captain to himself. “They +will compete with the river traffic and cripple it. Other towns, like +Chicago, will divert the trade, and there is no telling what the end will +be. What a busy, bustling world it is, anyhow!” + +“Halloa, Captain!” + +“Well, I’m blanked if it isn’t Scotty!” + +“I’ve been to call upon the widows we met in the beginning of our +journey, sir, and I’ve been thinking it would be a handsome thing for you +to do if you’d take them into our company, Captain Ranger.” + +“We’ll see about it, Scotty; but I’m afraid you won’t earn your salt if I +let them join us. I s’pose I’ll have to risk it, though.” + + + + +VIII + +_A BORDER INCIDENT_ + + +The public roads or thoroughfares through which the party floundered when +crossing the sparsely settled counties of western Illinois, which had +noticeably improved during the day or two of travel from the East toward +Quincy, grew almost impassable on the Missouri side of the Mississippi +River. Heavy freight-wagons, each bearing an immense load of merchandise, +chiefly hides and furs from the Northwest Territory, had stirred the mud +in the narrow lane to a seemingly inexhaustible depth; and the long spell +of freezing by night, followed daily by the inevitable thaw, caused the +many unbridged streams to overflow their banks and inundate the wide +wastes of bottom land through which the ox teams were compelled to wander +blindly, in continual danger of disaster. But the most disagreeable +experiences resulted from the frequent snow-storms, which generally +occurred at camping-time, accompanied by chilling winds and intermittent +falls of rain or sleet, covering the earth with a glare of ice. + +“When I get to heaven, I mean to ask Saint Peter to assign all cooks to +high seats,” said Jean one evening, as, balancing a tray laden with tin +cups and saucers, she paused above the heads of the men kneeling at the +mess-boxes, and in apparent innocence upset a steaming cup upon the head +of Yank. + +“No harm done, I assure you, Miss Rangeah. Don’t mention it!” he said, +affecting not to feel the burn at the back of his neck, whereat Jean grew +repentant. + +“Do you s’pose Saint Peter will pay any heed to the request of a slip of +a girl like you?” asked Hal. + +“I’ll not be a slip of a girl when I go through the gates o’ heaven, but +a mature matron, famous and honored.” + + * * * * * + +“We are in a slave State now,” wrote Jean, under date of April 16; “and +from my limited experience I am forced to conclude that slavery is more +deteriorating in its effects upon the white people we meet than it is +upon the blacks. The primitive cultivating of the soil we saw in central +Illinois, where the white men do their own farming, was bad enough, God +knows; but the shiftless, aimless, happy-go-lucky work of the Missouri +‘niggers,’ as they style themselves, is even worse. The white men we +see at times are idle, pompous, and lazy. The white women are idle and +apathetic; and the children are aimless and discouraged. Daddie says +slavery is wrong, and no contingency can make it right; but I notice that +he doesn’t propose any remedy.” + + * * * * * + +Prairie schooners were not known as “ships of the desert” then, for +Joaquin Miller had not yet sought or acquired fame; and no Huntington +or Holladay had made a transcontinental railway track, or tunnelled the +sierras of the mighty West to open the way for the iron horse. Even the +overland stage was an improvement as yet unknown; for Holladay had not +yet established his relay stations, or sent his intrepid drivers out +among the savages as heralds of approaching civilization. + +“Daddy says humanity’s a hog,” was the leader in Jean’s next entry in +her diary. “The weather continued so bad, mother was so wan and weak, +and the stock were so nearly starved, that he decided to stop over for +a day or two near a farmhouse and barnyard, where there seemed a chance +to purchase food for man and beast. But we were glad to move on after +a rather brief experience. The farmer doubled the price of his hay and +grain every morning after ‘worship,’ reminding those of us who could not +choose but hear his daily dole of advice to God, of Grandpa Ranger’s +story of a planter and merchant he knew in his youth, of whom it was said +that he would call his slaves to their devotions in the morning with a +preamble like this: ‘Have you wet the leather? Have you sanded the sugar? +Have you put meal in the pepper and chicory in the coffee? Have you +watered the whiskey? Then come in to prayers!’” + +The necessities of these farmers were born of isolation; and the +opportunities for barter and dicker with passing emigrants stirred the +acquisitive spirit within them into vigorous action. The prices of their +hitherto unsalable commodities went up to unheard-of figures, increasing +in geometrical progression. But Captain Ranger, having created a market +in the remote country places in Illinois for supplies of coffee, tea, +calico, and unbleached cotton cloth, had prepared himself at Quincy with +such commodities, and was able to adjust his trade somewhat to the law of +supply and demand. + + * * * * * + +Oh, those teamsters of the plains! No jollier crowd of brave, +enduring, accommodating men ever cracked cruel whips over the backs of +long-enduring oxen, or plodded more patiently than they beside the slowly +moving wagons, as, wading often over shoe-tops through the muck and mire +of the Missouri roads of early springtime, they jollied one another +and cracked their whips and sang. Each misfit nickname was accepted as +a joke, and none of the men inquired as to the origin of his peculiar +cognomen. But Hal, being more inquisitive than they, asked troublesome +questions of his sisters, who were in the secret. + +“Better tell him, girls,” said their mother. “He’ll be in honor bound to +keep the secret then. Won’t you, dear?” + +“Jean did it,” said Marjorie. + +“Then suppose you confess,” said Hal. + +“It was this way,” she explained after a pause of mock seriousness. “The +first night we were in camp, after we had washed the dishes, it occurred +to me to write each teamster’s name and paste it to the bottom of his +plate. I didn’t know the real name of one of ’em from Adam’s, so I wrote +them down as Scotty, Limpy, Yank, Shorty, Sawed-off, and so on. We didn’t +intend to perpetrate a misfit, but a joke, and we struck both. Scotty +got the correct title, though it merely happened so. But you just watch +’em! Limpy’s as straight as an Indian; Sawed-off stands six feet two +in his socks; Lengthy is no taller when he stands up than when he lies +down; Yank is a characteristic slave-owner; and Sambo is an ingrained +abolitionist!” + +“We couldn’t have made such a lot o’ misfits if we had tried a week,” +said Mary. “But the men all think Hal did it; so the suspicion doesn’t +fall on us; and you get the credit for being somewhat of a wag, Mr. Hal.” + +“It’s nothing new for men or boys to take the credit for what their +sisters do,” said Jean, as Hal strode away, satisfied that in protecting +his sisters from a piece of folly, by accepting it as his own, he was +acting the part of a man. “Adam set the example; and where would Herschel +have been if he hadn’t had a sister?” + +“Adam might have been in a box if he couldn’t have had Eve,” laughed +Marjorie; “for there would then have been nobody to raise Cain.” + +“Or the Ranger family,” added Jean. + + * * * * * + +Several days of tedious, laborious travel brought the wanderers into an +open, sparsely timbered, almost unsettled part of the State of Missouri. +The snow and sleet gave way to brighter skies, the roads and sloughs were +drying up, and the higher grounds were gradually arraying themselves in +robes of green and gold. + +“Here is vacant land, and lots of it,” said Mary, as she viewed the +virgin prospect of a mighty settlement in undisguised admiration. “This +is a beautiful world!” and she sighed deeply, her face toward the rising +sun. + +“Don’t look backward,” cried Jean. “Remember Lot’s wife.” + +“There’s no use in trying to look backward,” urged Hal. “Dad will never +halt till he lands us on the western shore of the continent, on the +eastern hem of the Pacific Ocean. He says this country’s too old for him. +The wild turkeys are all killed off, or scared out o’ sight; the deer and +elk are gone for good; and the country’s played out.” + +“Wait a few years, and there’ll be railroads gridironing this whole great +valley of the Mississippi,” said Jean. “There’ll be towns and cities +springing up in a hundred places. Farms and orchards and handsome country +homes will cover these rolling prairies. The native groves will be more +than quadrupled by cultivation, and schoolhouses and churches will spring +into existence everywhere.” + +“I wish you’d talk like this to your father! Won’t you, Jean?” asked Mrs. +Ranger. + +“You couldn’t hire him to live in a slave State!” cried Jean. + +“The Reverend Thomas Rogers might manage to get this far on the way +toward the setting sun without much money,” smiled Mrs. Ranger, +meaningly. “The children favor our stopping here, on Missouri soil,” she +added, as her husband joined the group. “Don’t you think the idea a good +one, John?” + +“What! And let the word go back among our people at home that we’d +flunked? No! I’d die first, and then I wouldn’t do it,” exclaimed her +husband, petulantly. + +Mrs. Ranger burst into tears. + +“There, there, Annie! Don’t worry. But don’t ask me to settle, with my +children, in a slave State. Father left Kentucky when I was a boy to get +away from slavery and its inevitable accompaniment of poor white trash. +There is an irrepressible conflict between freedom and every form of +involuntary servitude that exists under the sun. This nigger business +will lead to a bloody war long before Uncle Sam is done with it, and I +doubt if even war will settle it.” + +“But Oregon may come into the Union as a slave State, John. You know that +the extension of slavery is the chief theme that is agitating Congress +now.” + +“I’ll have a chance to fight the curse in Oregon, Annie. But it is a +settled condition here. I’ll fight it to the bitter end, if I get a +chance!” He strode away to look after the cattle and men. + +“Dear, patient mother!” cried Jean, stroking her mother’s cheek tenderly. +“Your head is as clear as a bell. But there’s a whole lot o’ common-sense +in what daddie says, too. We’ll soon have settled weather; then you won’t +mind travelling. We all think you’ll be well and strong as soon as we get +settled in Oregon.” + +“Maybe so, if I could only live to get there,” faltered the feeble woman. +“But—” + +“But what, mother?” + +“Nothing. I was only thinking.” + +Jean’s heart sank. “You must get to bed, mother dear,” she said lovingly. + +The Ranger children, tired out with the fatigue and excitement of the +day, were soon locked in the deep sleep of healthy youth and vigor. Not +so Mrs. Ranger. The regular breathing of her sleeping loved ones soothed +her nerves, but she seemed preternaturally awake. + +A gentle breeze stirred the white wagon-hood overhead. Sukie, who was +tethered near, neighed gently as Mrs. Ranger spoke her name, and came +closer to be stroked. + +“Is de Cap’n heah?” asked a dusky figure with a child on its hip, as it +edged its way between the mare and the wagon-wheel. + +“He’s out with the cattle at present. Is there anything I can do for +you?” + +“Hide me, quick! De houn’s is aftah me, honey. I’ve jes’ waded de crick, +and dey’ve lost de trail. Quick, missus; an’ I’ll sarve ye forever!” + +The low baying of the bloodhounds proclaimed that they were again on the +trail. + +“Climb in here! Be quick!” exclaimed Mrs. Ranger, making room for the +quaking fugitive. “I’ve never tried to sleep with a nigger and her baby, +but I can stand it if I have to,” she said to herself, as the refugee +took the place assigned to her. + + * * * * * + +“What in thunder are you up to now?” asked her husband when he looked +in upon his wife and children in the morning and discovered the dusky +intruder. + +“Trying to help you to circumvent the institution you are so ready to +fight, which, as you say, is wrong, and no contingency can make right,” +replied his wife, her cheeks and eyes aglow with mingled satisfaction and +excitement. + + + + +IX + +_THE CAPTAIN DEFENDS THE LAW_ + + +“Don’t you know it’s against the laws of your country to harbor a runaway +nigger?” asked the Captain, in genuine alarm. “We’ll never get off o’ +Missouri soil in this world if we’re caught hiding this wench and her +pickaninny among our traps. She’s got to get away from here in a hurry.” + +“So far as the laws go, I don’t care a rap, John. I, nor no other woman, +ever took a hand in making any of ’em. And as for Missouri soil, it’s +good enough for anybody. I’m quite enamored of it; and I feel perfectly +willing to stay here as long as I live.” + +“I don’t want to make no trouble for nobody, massa,” sobbed the fugitive, +peeping from her covert like a beast at bay. “De missus done tuk keep o’ +me ’dout ’siderin’ any consikenses. Didn’t ye, honey?” + +“There was nothing else I could do,” said Mrs. Ranger, firmly, though her +cheeks blanched with an unspoken fear. + +“Dey was goin’ to sell me down Souf, an’ keep my coon for a body-servant +for his own pappy’s new bride dat’s a-comin’ to de plantation nex’ week. +Wusn’t dey, dawlin’?” holding aloft her mulatto offspring, who blinked at +the rising sun. “’Fo’ God, massa, I won’t make a speck o’ trouble. I’ll +jest keep a hidin’ till we git across de Missouri Ribbah. Take me ’long +to Oregon, an’ ye won’t nebbah be sorry.” + +“I’ve already agreed to take along one widow and her babies,” said the +Captain, exchanging glances with Jean. “It doesn’t seem possible to add +to the number.” + +“Jes’ le’ me ride a hidin’ in a wagon till I get across de Missouri +Ribbah, massa! I kin take keer o’ myself an’ my pickaninny too, if you’ll +turn me loose among de Injuns.” + +“It is the slaveholding, free American white man that the poor creature’s +afraid of,” said Mrs. Ranger, with a bitter smile. + +Again the deep baying of the bloodhounds betokened the finding of the +trail. + +“Climb back into the wagon, quick,” cried the Captain, “and take care +that you keep out o’ sight! Deluge the wagon-wheel and all around it +with water, gals. Don’t let the wench put her nose out, Annie. Hang the +luck! When it comes to such a pass that a runaway wench would rather +trust herself and her brat among the red savages of the plains than +among her white owners in a free country, I get ashamed of a white man’s +government. What’s the wench’s name?” + +“She said it was Dugs.” + +“The devil!” + +“Don’t swear, John. She didn’t name herself.” + +“And the name of the coon?” + +“Geo’ge Washin’t’n, sah. I named him for de faddah o’ de kentry. He’s as +han’some a coon as ebber had a white daddy. Ain’t ye, honey?” And the +mother held him close. “Yo’s a flower o’ slavery, ain’t ye, dawlin’?” a +hidden meaning in her voice. + +Again the deep baying of the bloodhounds was heard. But they were taking +the back trail. The fugitive laughed. + +“De way we larn ’em dat trick is a niggah’s secret,” she said, as she +again hid herself and child. + +“My massa didn’t use to b’lieve in slavery, missus,” she said, as the +baying of the dogs grew faint and distant. “When massa first ’herited +his slaves, he used to tell us he’d set us free. But he got a habit o’ +holdin’ on to us, an’ it jist growed on him. It was like de whiskey +habit. It got fastened on him good an’ ha’d, and he didn’t talk ’bout +manumittin’ us no mo’. He didn’t want to sell me, he said, but I was +prope’ty, an’ times got bad, an’ he was ’bleeged to have money to pay his +debts. His new wife’s ’spensive, awful, an’ he had to sell some o’ de +niggahs. If he’d sol’ me an’ Geo’dy Wah too, I wouldn’t ’a’ runned away. +But when he said he’d sell me, an’ keep my coon to be his new wife’s +niggah, I couldn’t stan’ it nohow, so I scooted!” and the negress laughed +heartily. + +“Do you think you can hide her for a week, Annie? We’ll be across the +Missouri River, by that time.” + +“I’ll do my best, John. We’re running a terrible risk, though. Sometimes, +when I think of the sins of this so-called free government, all committed +in the name of Liberty, I long to turn rebel, and do my best to destroy +it, root and branch.” + +“I had a husban’ once, suh. But massa tuk a liken’ to me, so he sol’ him +down Souf,” said the fugitive. + +“And this baby?” + +“Is my massa’s own coon. Massa wouldn’t ’a’ sol’ him nohow.” + +“Be quick!” cried Jean, her breath hot with indignation. “Hide yourself! +You mustn’t let the teamsters see you here. They’re coming in with the +cattle now.” + +“Gimme some quilts an’ blankets, honey. Dah! Hol’ ’em up, so! Now lemme +make an Injun wickiup in one end o’ dis yah wagon. Geo’ge Washin’t’n ’ll +be still as a lamb. Won’t ye, my putty ’ittle yallow coon?” + +The baby, with its tawny skin, blue eyes, and blackish-brown, tangled +curls, looked elfish as he nestled close to his mother’s breast and gazed +affrighted into her turban-shaded eyes. + +“Sh-sh-sh!” cried Jean; “the men are almost here. Keep close to your den +and be very quiet.” + + * * * * * + +Day after day passed wearily along; but if the teamsters suspected aught, +they made no sign. And day after day the teams wended their way westward +without betraying the commission of this crime against the commonwealth +of the great new State of Missouri and the free government of the United +States of America, which it would have been base flattery to call a +misdemeanor; as its perpetrators would have learned to their cost if they +had been caught in the act. + + * * * * * + +“You don’t seem as happy as formerly,” said Captain Ranger to his wife +at the close of a long and trying day. “If the risk we’re running by +harboring that runaway nigger is making you uneasy, we can turn her out. +A man’s first duty is to his own flesh and blood.” + +“It isn’t that, John. The woman is no trouble; and her baby’s so afraid +of bloodhounds that she keeps him as quiet as a mouse. I’m willing to +risk my life to get them both away from their white owners and out into +the Indians’ country, where they may have at least comparative freedom. I +am not afraid.” + +“Then what is the matter, dear?” + +She toyed caressingly with his hair and beard, but said nothing. They +were seated on a log by the roadside, and a laughing rivulet sprawled at +their feet. + +“Speak, Annie; don’t hesitate. I can hear your heart beat. What’s the +matter?” + +“You remember my little farm, John? It’s only ten acres, you know.” + +“Yes; what of it?” + +“You won’t be angry, John?” + +“Of course not. What about it?” + +“I want to deed the place over to my mother before we leave the State o’ +Missouri.” + +His manner changed instantly. + +“I thought that matter was settled,” he said tersely. “Can’t you let me +have a little peace?” + +“I have held my peace as long as my conscience will let me, dear. You +didn’t settle anything about it. You merely put me off, you know.” + +“Well?” + +A man can put a world of meaning into a monosyllable sometimes. + +“I want you to let me deed that piece of property to my mother. If the +deed were made to my father, and she should outlive him, she’d be only +allowed to occupy it free from rent for one year after his death; but if +it is made hers absolutely, and he should outlive her, he’ll be allowed +to have a home and get his living off it as long as he lives. You see, it +makes a difference whether it is a cow or an ox that is gored,” and she +smiled grimly. + +“The women are all getting their heads turned over the question of +property,” said Captain Ranger to himself as he watched the rivulet +playing at his feet. + +“Jean’s been putting this into your head, Annie,” he said after a painful +silence. + +“The child has a strong sense of justice, inherited from you, John. You +know she is wonderfully like you.” + +“Yes, yes, Annie. I wish she had been a boy instead o’ Hal. She’d have +made a rackin’ good lawyer.” + +“I’ll admit that she advised me to urge you to make the deed, John.” + +“Very well; we’ll see about it sometime, Annie” and he arose to go. + +Mrs. Ranger’s heart sank. + +“Why is it that men who are proverbially just and upright in their +dealings with their fellow-men are so often derelict in duty where women, +especially their own wives, are concerned?” she asked herself as she +tottered by his side in silence. + +The next morning found her unable to rise. A racking cough, which had +disturbed her all through the night, was followed at daybreak by a +burning fever. Her husband, who had slept like a top in an adjoining +tent, was startled when he saw the ravages the night had left upon her +pinched, white face. + +“You caught cold last night, darling,” he said, as he prescribed a simple +remedy. “You ought not to have been sitting out in the night air.” + +“That didn’t hurt me, John.” + +“Then it is the apprehension you suffer on account o’ that wench that is +making you sick.” + +“No, John; it isn’t that at all.” + +“Then what is it?” + +“Ask Jean. I have nothing more to say.” + +But there was no time for further parleying. The breakfast was ready, and +the hurry of preparation for departure was the theme of the hour. + + * * * * * + +“We reached camp in a pouring rain last night and pitched our tents, amid +much discomfort, on the outskirts of the little town of St. Joseph,” +wrote Jean on the morning of the fifth of May. “But I haven’t much time +for you, my journal, for there are other things to claim attention,” and +she shut the book with the usual impatient bang. + +“Got any blank deeds along with you, daddie?” she asked, after it was +announced that they were to be ready to break camp the next morning. + +“Yes; why?” + +“Because we must have that deed of Grandma Robinson’s all ready for +mother to acknowledge before a notary in the morning, as we go through +town on our way to the ferry.” + +“Your mother isn’t able to attend to any business.” + +“She isn’t able to put it off, daddie dear.” + +“Very well; I’ll see about it.” + +“But I want the blank form now, so I can have it all ready when we go +through town. Mother has the original deed, and I can easily duplicate +it. I’ll search for a blank among your papers, if you don’t object.” + +“You have no idea how this little act of justice will help mother to +regain her health,” said Mary. “She’s been haunted by a fear that you’d +put it off till it would be too late.” + +Captain Ranger did not reply; but his silence was considered as consent, +and Jean hurried away to prepare the deed. + +“I’ve been dreaming about an island somewhere in mid-ocean,” said +Marjorie, “where women could hold their own earnings, just as men do in +the United States; where they had full liberty to help the men to make +the laws, for which they paid their full quota of taxes, just as the +women do in Missouri and Illinois and, for aught I know, in Oregon.” + +“I’ve paid the taxes on that ten-acre farm for a dozen years,” said her +father. + +“Yes, out of mother’s income from it,” retorted Marjorie. “It has always +been rented, you know.” + +The subject was dropped for the nonce, though John Ranger did not feel +wholly at ease, he hardly realized why. But the next day, as the train +was moving through the principal street on its way to the river-front, +he stopped his team hard by a notary’s office and tenderly assisted his +wife to alight. Here, with her thin and trembling fingers, Annie Ranger +affixed her signature to her last earthly deed of conveyance, her eyes +beaming with joy. + +“Are you satisfied now?” asked her husband, as he lifted her to her seat +in the wagon, where she watched Harry rushing away to the post-office +with a big envelope containing the precious deed. + +“Yes, dear; and I am so glad I didn’t have to make my mark! When I get to +Oregon, I’ll manage somehow to earn the money to pay you what I owe on my +taxes, John.” + +“Don’t speak of that,” her husband exclaimed, feeling half ashamed of +himself, for a reason he did not divine. + +“Then you’ll never try to hold those old tax receipts as a lien on the +property?” + +“Nonsense, Annie! Do you think I’m a brute beast?” + +“No, darling. I would to God all men were as good as you are, my own +dear, precious husband.” + + * * * * * + +They were nearing the Missouri River now, and in the rush that ensued, +the family had no opportunity for further exchange of confidences for +many hours. + +“Look!” cried Marjorie, after the last loaded wagon had been crowded on +to the big ferry-boat, and they had started to a point several miles +up the river to make a landing on the opposite bank. “There’s a posse +of officers. They’re after Dugs, I know they are, ’cause they’ve got +bloodhounds with ’em, and they’re signalling the boat to stop and come +back.” + +“She can’t do it,” said the captain of the ferry, after a hurried +conference with the captain of the train, as he suspiciously thrust his +closed hand into the breeches pocket over his hip. + +“You can come out of hiding now, Sally O’Dowd,” exclaimed Captain Ranger, +as soon as the last team was safely up the opposite bank. + +“I thought it was Dugs they were after,” said Mary. + +“So ’twas; and me too,” cried the grass widow, as she jumped to the +ground, surrounded by her three children. “Sam O’Dowd was one o’ the +posse. I saw him. He couldn’t have taken me; but he was after my babies.” +She hugged her children, as she laughed and wept by turns in a transport +of joy. + +“Don’t cry, Sally,” said the Captain, coaxingly. “You’re in the Indian +country, safe and sound.” + +“Before Sam can get a requisition from the Governor of Illinois to +reclaim your babies, and before the Governor o’ Missouri can give that +party o’ slave-catchers the power to arrest Dugs and her coon, we’ll have +you out under the protection of the Indians!” said Mrs. Ranger, with a +meaning smile. + + + + +X + +_THE CAPTAIN MAKES A DISTINCTION_ + + +“I thought it was arranged that Sally was to join us at Quincy, on the +Mississippi,” said Captain Ranger, after they were safely landed in the +Indians’ territory. + +“That was the agreement between Jean and myself,” interposed the +frightened fugitive, still holding her babies close; “but I overheard +a conversation at St. Louis that changed my plans. I was in hiding, +down among the wharf-rats and niggers on the river-bank, in a cheap +hash-house, half scow and half log cabin. The walls were thin, and I +couldn’t sleep much, so I heard most everything that was going on, out o’ +doors and in. And one night by the help of the good Lord I overheard a +voice that I knew was Sam’s. He was telling a pal that he was hunting his +runaway wife. He said she had stolen his babies, and he meant to get ’em, +dead or alive.” + +“I thought you’d led him off on an altogether different scent,” exclaimed +Jean. + +“So did I. But it appears that his mother got on the scent somehow, and +betrayed me. I don’t know why she did it, for she was over-anxious to be +rid of the children. But I suppose she was moved by an impulse of spite +or revenge. I heard Sam say he’d overhaul us at Quincy, so I had good +reason to change my route.” + +“You had a close call, Mrs. O’Dowd!” exclaimed the Captain, earnestly. +“I don’t know as he could have put me in limbo for harboring you, but +he could have made it go hard with me for hiding the children. I hate a +law-breaker; but what is a fellow to do in such a case?” + +“God has been merciful to me, Squire. I felt all along that I would get +away safe and sound.” + +“Wouldn’t God have done a better job to have saved you in the first +place?” asked the Captain, dryly. + +“How did you get money to pay your travelling expenses?” asked Mary. + +“I’ve a confession to make to you and Mrs. Ranger, Captain. Will you +promise not to scold?” + +“I’ll know better what to promise after I’ve learned the provocation. +Don’t be afraid to tell the truth. Speak out. Don’t mind the gals.” + +“I stole three hundred dollars—it was my own money—from Mother O’Dowd,” +she whispered. “It didn’t seem so very wicked. She got my home without +any equivalent, you know.” + +“Oh, Sally! How could you?” asked Mrs. Ranger, her cheeks blanching. + +“Do you think it was wicked to take my own money and my own children, +when I had the opportunity?” + +“It was a theft, certainly, under the law; and it is always wrong to +steal,” retorted Mrs. Ranger. + +“We must uphold the majesty of the law, if necessary, at the muzzle of +our guns!” said the Captain, loftily. + +“How about Dugs and her coon?” asked Jean, with a silvery laugh. + +“That was different. Slavery, as I have often said before, is wrong, and +no contingency can make it right.” + +“You are making a distinction where there is no perceptible difference, +except in the matter of complexion,” exclaimed Mrs. Ranger. + +“Did Dugs, the slave, have money?” asked Mrs. O’Dowd. + +“Dugs hasn’t taken me into her confidence,” said the Captain. “What in +creation are we to do with you all?” + +“There’ll be a way, John; don’t worry,” said his wife. “‘Trust in the +Lord and do good, and verily thou shalt be fed.’” + +“Do you know,” said Sally, turning to the Captain, “that the pretty +little blonde in black, whom I see over yonder, is a jewel? I met her on +the street this morning, on her way to the ferry, with her mother and her +carriage and wagons and drivers. I was getting desperate with the fear +that I couldn’t overtake you; and I knew there was no time to be lost. +So I told her my story. I may have exaggerated somewhat, for I told her +you had agreed to take me and the babies to Oregon. I said I had been +detained (which was true) and I must overtake you before you crossed the +river. She didn’t wait to ask a question, but bundled us all into her +carriage without a word.” + +“Didn’t I tell you you could trust my daddie?” asked Jean, aside. “He’s a +whole lot better than he thinks he is.” + +“Father thinks he is a stickler for the law,” said Mary, with a chuckle. + + * * * * * + +Indians came and went in great numbers around and into the company’s +first night’s camp on the plains, sometimes growing insolent in their +persistent demands for food and articles of clothing, but on the whole +peaceable and friendly. Every man, woman, and child was under orders to +give them no cause for offence, the Captain hoping, by example, to disarm +hostility. But he soon learned that this liberal policy brought hordes +of beggars; and the necessity of carefully guarding their freight was +made apparent the next morning, when they found their breakfast supplies +had been stolen, and with them the cooking utensils. The Captain found +it necessary to send a messenger back to St. Joseph to purchase fresh +supplies before they could go on. + +The next day’s drive over the beautiful prairie was without unusual +incident. The roads were good, the soil rich, and the undulating +landscape perfect. + +“Lengthy and Sawed-off are bringing in a buffalo,” cried Hal. + +“We had one yesterday,” said Mrs. Ranger. “The game ought not to be +slaughtered in this wasteful manner. You ought to stop it, John.” + +“Men are still in a state of savagery,” replied her husband. + +“The instinct to kill is as strong in us as it was in the days of +Agamemnon,” said Scotty. + +“Or the Cæsars,” exclaimed the little widow. + +“We’ll need this meat for food before we get to Oregon,” said Mrs. +Ranger, surveying the huge carcass of the fallen monarch thoughtfully. +“We must cut the flesh into strips and dry it, Indian fashion, in the +sun.” + +“But we can’t stop to dry it, Annie,” exclaimed her husband. + +“We needn’t stop, John. We can get the men to cut it into strips while +in camp. Here is a ball of strong cord. We can string the strips of meat +on the cord and festoon it along the outsides of the wagon covers.” + +“A woman is a born provider,” exclaimed Scotty. “We men may take to +ourselves the credit for the care of women and children, but we’d soon be +on the road to starvation if it were not for the protecting care of the +mother sex, to help us out.” + +Mrs. Ranger, pleased with the praises of her family and the teamster, +sank back on her pillows and slept fitfully. + +“It pays a mother to rear a family of loyal children,” said Mrs. O’Dowd +to Mrs. McAlpin, with whom she had become quite intimate. “I’d rather +be an honored mother, like Mrs. Ranger, than be a Queen Elizabeth or a +Madame de Staël.” + + * * * * * + +“I believe I’ll reconnoitre a little, Annie, if you don’t mind,” said the +Captain, after the camp was still. “I’d like to study the lay o’ the land +from the adjacent heights. You won’t miss me?” + +“No, John. Or, I mean, I won’t mind it. You must learn, sooner or later, +to depend upon yourself for company, my dear. And you’d better practise a +little beforehand.” + +“What do you mean, Annie?” + +“Can’t you see that I’ll not be able to finish this journey, John?” + +“Nonsense, Annie! Just be patient till we get to Oregon. I mean to build +you a pretty room, away from the noise of the household, where you’ll +enjoy the fruits of your labors. I’ve hired Dugs to be your body-servant +during the remainder of your days.” + +“I’ll change her name, John. I’ll have nobody around me that answers to +the name of Dugs. It isn’t a good name for a dog.” + +“What’ll you call her?” + +“Susannah.” + +“What if she objects?” + +“She’s already agreed to the change, if it suits you and the girls.” + +John Ranger laughed. + +“So-long!” he cried, and galloped away to a point overlooking a bend in +the river, where he loosened the reins and allowed the mare to nibble the +tender herbage, which, tempted by the sunshine, was clothing the moist +earth in a covering of grass and buttercups. + +“O life,” he cried, “what a mystery you are! How puny, yet how mighty! +The living rain comes down in silent majesty upon the sleeping earth; the +living sunshine melts the ice and snow; and the living earth, awakening +from her season of hibernation, answers back to rain and sun with a power +of reproduction that defies the mighty law of gravitation, and sends +outward and up toward the living sky the living vegetation that sustains +the living man. O sky, all a-twinkle with your myriads of stars, how +inscrutable you are in your infinitude! And how like a worm of the dust +is man, who has no power to hold in the precious body of even the woman +he loves the mystery of existence, of which Creation is the only master!” + +Below him, so far away that it gleamed like a silver ribbon in the +starlight, ran the muddy Missouri, carrying in its turbid waves the +_débris_ of the Mandan district, and bearing on its troubled breast the +throng of river craft at whose little windows hundreds of lights were +twinkling, like diamonds on parade. Beyond gleamed the moving steamers +and their accompanying hosts of lesser boats, now nestling close to the +water’s edge, and now climbing in irregular fashion toward the uplands at +the town of St. Joseph; and, far beyond, his mental eyes beheld the homes +of his own and his Annie’s beloved parents. + +“I do wonder if it is really wrong for me to leave them in their old +age, and take Annie away also,” he said to himself, half audibly, as he +continued his gaze over the dim expanse of silence that surrounded him on +every hand. + +There was no answer. He gave Sukie the rein and bowed his head upon his +hands, and wept. How long he remained alone, absorbed in the mingled +emotions that possessed him, he did not know. He took no note of time, +and Sukie moved leisurely over the plain, daintily cropping the tender +grass. + +“I was ambitious, selfish, and exacting,” he exclaimed at last, as a +sharp gust of wind slapped him in the face. “Annie doesn’t complain; but +she is fading from my sight. It is all my fault. If she could be happy, +she would soon be well. I wonder if I ought not to take her back to her +father and mother and her childhood’s home. Everybody would laugh; but +what should I care? Are not the life and happiness of my wife worth more +to me than all the world’s approval?” Then, after a long silence, he +tightened the reins and said: “Come, Sukie; let’s go back to camp. Right +or wrong, I must go ahead. I’ve burned my bridges behind me.” + +As he expected, Scotty was found sitting in the midst of an audience at +Mrs. McAlpin’s camp-fire. He was discoursing on his travels in Egypt, and +had collected about him quite a crowd. + +“The earth is old, very, very old,” the teamster was saying. He arose to +make room for Captain Ranger, as he passed the reins to Jean, who, with +Mary and Marjorie, had been an enraptured listener. “The comparative +topography of Central America and northern Africa excites the liveliest +speculation. When I was in Darien, I found many features among the ruins +abounding in the jungles of the isthmus, strikingly similar to those +one sees in the land of the Pyramids. True, the analogy is not always +apparent, because the almost total absence of rain in Egypt is exchanged +for an almost total lack of dry skies in Panama and Yucatan. Science +scoffs at my assumptions, because I cannot prove them; but I’d bet a +million if I had it, and wait for the fact to be proven—as it surely will +be some day—that there was once a continuous continent between the homes +of the early Pharaohs and those of a prehistoric people who inhabited the +two Americas.” + +“I’ve often reached a similar conclusion myself when visiting the +prehistoric scenes of both hemispheres,” said Mrs. McAlpin. “Sometime, +not so very remote in the history of the planet, there must have been a +sudden and awful cataclysm, such as might result from a change in the +inclination of the earth’s axis, of which history can as yet give no +authentic account.” + +“Then the fabled Atlantis may not be so much of a fable, after all,” +exclaimed Mary. + +“Do you suppose any of you know what you are talking about?” asked +Captain Ranger. + +“The world has scarcely yet begun to read the testimony of the air, the +earth, the water, and the rocks,—especially of this Western Continent,” +said Scotty, with a respectful bow to his captain. + +“That’s true,” remarked Mrs. McAlpin, rising to end the interview. +“Travel in any direction broadens and enlightens anybody who has eyes to +see or ears to hear.” + +“Or a soul to think,” echoed Jean. + +“Say, Scotty, have you watered your steers?” asked Captain Ranger, in a +sarcastic tone. + +“By Jove! I forgot. Good-evening, ladies!” The teamster turned away, +crestfallen. + +“Excuse me, madam; I didn’t intend to be rude,” said the Captain, as +he paused to say good-night; “but we’ve embarked on a journey in which +theories must be set aside for duties sometimes,—that is, if we’re ever +to see Oregon.” + + + + +XI + +_MRS. McALPIN SEEKS ADVICE_ + + +The next forenoon Captain Ranger rode up alongside the carriage of Mrs. +McAlpin and her mother, in which Jean was posing as driver and guest, and +said: “I hope I gave you no offence in speaking as I did to Mr. Burns +last night.” + +“No offence at all, Captain. Don’t mention it; you were simply +discharging your duty. But”—and Mrs. McAlpin hesitated a little—“would +you mind exchanging your mount with Jean for a little while? I am quite +sure she will enjoy a canter on the back of Sukie, and I wish to counsel +with you a little. I am sorry to impose upon your good nature.” + +Mrs. Benson took little notice of the Captain or of her daughter, but +leaned back on the cushions, apparently absorbed in a book. + +“I want your candid opinion,” said Mrs. McAlpin. “Do you consider the +marriage ceremony infallible? Is it an unpardonable sin to break it, +except for a nameless reason? I have an object in asking this question +that is not born of mere curiosity.” + +“Nothing of human origin is infallible, madam; and, for aught I can see +to the contrary, nothing is infallible anywhere.” + +“Do you believe it is better to break a bad bargain than to keep it?” + +“That depends upon circumstances.” + +“Why do you evade my question?” + +“Because I can’t see what you’re driving at.” + +“Then I’ll come at once to the point. Suppose you had been born a woman?” + +“That isn’t a supposable case.” + +“But we’ll let it rest for the present as if it were. Suppose you +were born to be a woman,—we’ll put it that way for the sake of +illustration,—and suppose, while you were yet a child, you had been +married to a man many years your senior—married just to please somebody +else—in defiance of your own judgment or desires?” + +“Millions of women are married in that way every year, madam. Look at +India, at China, at Turkey, and at many modern homes, even in England and +America! It would seem to be the exception and not the rule where women +get the husbands of their choice. I know it is the fashion to pretend +they do; for a woman has to become desperately weary of her bargain +before she’ll own up honestly to a matrimonial mistake.” + +“But suppose one of those women had been yourself; don’t you think if you +had been so married in childhood, that you would have rebelled openly as +soon as you reached the years of discretion?” + +“Nonsense, Daphne!” interrupted Mrs. Benson. “You harp forever on a +single string. Suppose you discuss the weather, for a change.” + +“There are points on which my estimable mother and myself do not agree,” +said the daughter, with a sad smile. “Don’t mind her, please. I have +learned that you are a wise and just man, and I am in need of advice. +What would you do if, although you had obeyed the letter of the human +law, you knew in your own soul that your marriage was a sin?” + +“Don’t talk like that in my presence, Daphne! I cannot bear it!” +exclaimed her mother, petulantly. + +“When I left the States I hoped to get away from everybody’s domestic +troubles,” said the Captain, earnestly. “Please don’t tell me about +yours—if you have any—unless it is in my power to assist you.” + +They had reached a narrow and rocky grade, where careful driving was +necessary to avoid disaster. + +“We must turn aside here, ladies,” the Captain exclaimed suddenly, as he +dexterously alighted and guided the horses by the bits to the only point +of advantage in sight. “Cattle and horses ought never to be compelled to +travel together. You can’t hurry a steer except in a stampede, and then +Old Nick himself couldn’t stop him.” + +“They remind me of more than one pair of mismated bipeds I have met,” +said Mrs. McAlpin. + +The Captain stood at the horses’ heads till the last of the jolting and +complaining wagons had safely passed the perilous bit of roadway. Then, +guiding the team back to the road, he resumed his seat in the carriage, +his lips compressed like a trap. + +“Don’t you think Mr. Burns is a wonderful man?” asked Mrs. McAlpin, in a +desperate effort to rekindle a conversation. + +“He’s a fellow of considerable genius in some ways, but a mighty poor +ox-driver.” + +“He reminds me of many a woman I have seen,” continued Mrs. McAlpin, “who +has failed to get fitted into her proper niche. His mind isn’t fitted to +his work. I have seen women chained by circumstances to the kitchen sink, +the wash-tub, the churn-dash, and the ironing-board, who never could make +a success of any one of these lines of effort, though they might have +made excellent astronomers, first-class architects, capable lawyers, good +preachers, capital teachers, or splendid financiers. It is a pity to +spoil a natural statesman or stateswoman to make a poor ox-driver or an +indifferent housekeeper.” + +“You seem to take great interest in Scotty,” remarked the Captain. + +“I do. We have travelled extensively through the same lands, though we +had never met until our orbits chanced to coincide on this journey. He +has a retentive memory, a wide experience, and a keen appreciation of the +beautiful, both in nature and art, and so have I. He is as much out of +place as an ox-driver as I should be in a cotton-field. He’s a perfect +mine of information, though, about a lot of things.” + +“Then why not take counsel of him, instead o’ me?” + +“He would hardly be a disinterested adviser.” + +“Ah, I see!” + +Mrs. McAlpin blushed. “He has not spoken to me one word of love, +Captain,—if that is what you mean. I am not an eligible party,” and the +lady used her handkerchief to wipe away a tear. “I want your opinion +about getting a divorce from a union that I detested long before I ever +met Mr. Burns. It is unbearable now.” + +“Hush, Daphne! Not another word,” interposed her mother. “Strangers have +no right to an insight into our family affairs.” + +“But I must speak to somebody. Stay, Captain!” laying her hand upon his +arm as he was about to leave the carriage. + +“Are you running away from your husband, madam?” he asked, resuming his +seat. + +“You guess correctly, sir.” + +“I suspected it all along; but it was none of my business in the +beginning, nor is it now. But I confess that it looks as if I were making +it my business to conduct a caravan of grass widows to Oregon, judging +from the present aspect of affairs.” + +“To make a long story short,—for I see you are growing restless,—I was +married in my callow childhood, married in obedience to my mother’s wish. +She was a widow and poor; my suitor was accomplished and rich. If he’d +been a sensible man he would have courted and married my mother, who +adores him. But old men are such idiots! They’re always hunting young +women, or children, for wives.” + +“You’re complimentary.” + +“Beg your pardon; present company is always excepted. They imagine that +young and silly girls will make happy and contented wives,—when any +person not overcome by vanity knows that no young man or young woman can +be truly enamored of anybody that’s in the sere and yellow leaf. What +would you think of a woman of mamma’s age, for instance, making love to a +boy? And if such a boy should consent to marry her, who believes that he +would be content with his bargain after his beard was grown?” + +“Ask me something easy,” said the Captain. + +“My father was a physician; and it was my childhood’s delight to study +his books, attend his clinics, and make myself generally useful among +his patients. I never dreamed of surrendering my person, my liberty, my +will, and the absolute control of my individuality to the commands of any +human being on earth except myself, till after the deed was done for me +by another. No wonder I rebelled when I reached the years of maturity and +discretion.” + +“Mr. McAlpin was a good man and a gentleman, Captain Ranger,” interrupted +Mrs. Benson. + +“Yes, mamma; he was always ‘good.’ He never whipped his wife; he gave +her everything that money could buy. There is no reason that the law can +recognize for me to be dissatisfied. But I don’t belong primarily to +myself, and I don’t like it. Mamma here, with her ideas of woman’s place +in life, would have made him an excellent and happy wife.” + +“He was always a gentleman, Daphne,” repeated her mother. “Don’t do him +an injustice.” + +“Yes; and I was his personal and private property. I was a beautiful +animal, as he thought, to bedeck with his trinkets and show off his +wealth; but I was nobody on my own account. I was simply his echo,—or +supposed to be,—and nothing else.” + +“Daphne, you forget that this carriage, these horses, our wagons and +oxen, and the supplies for this journey are all the product of his +bounty.” + +“They are the product of my jewels, Captain. This outfit is mine; it was +bought with my own heart’s blood! I owe nothing to Donald McAlpin.” + +“Do you think you have dealt justly by your husband?” asked the Captain. +There was reproof and impatience in his tone. + +“I owe him nothing, sir. I am in the same line with Dugs,—a runaway +chattel. That is all.” + +“But Dugs, whose name now is Susannah, did not enter into her bargain +voluntarily.” + +“Neither did I. My mother made the bargain.” + +“How did you escape, Mrs. McAlpin? And why did you undertake this +journey?” + +“Mr. McAlpin was called away to England last year, to inherit an +additional estate. Mamma was too ill to go, so I stayed to nurse her. I +had been his body vassal for four years, and was at last a woman grown. +One taste of liberty was enough. I will never be his vassal again. I +decided to make this very unusual journey to elude pursuit. He’d not +think of searching for me outside of the United States or Canada; least +of all in the Great American Desert, whither we are bound. I mean to lose +myself for good and all in Oregon.” + +“And so now you are seeking a divorce?” + +“Yes, sir; that is, when I reach Oregon.” + +“Thousands of other women have borne far worse conjugal conditions all +their lives, and died, making no outward sign, Mrs. McAlpin. Men also +have their full share of these afflictions, which they bear in silence to +the bitter end.” + +“That is their own affair, sir. If other people choose to wear a ball +and chain through life, that is their privilege. I would not do their +choosing for them if I could.” + +“What course would you pursue if you had children?” + +“Then I suppose I should be compelled to die with my feet in the stocks. +Children might have diverted my mind and helped to save my sanity, +though. I’ve prayed for them without ceasing, but in vain. I’m going to a +remote country, a new country, where new environments make newer and more +plastic conditions. The laws of men, one-sided as they are, will divorce +me after seven years.” + +“And what is Scotty going to do during all this time?” + +“If he loves me as he thinks he does, he’ll wait. If it’s only a passing +fancy, he’ll get over it in time. I will not permit his attentions now, +nor until Donald McAlpin divorces me and gets another wife.” + + * * * * * + +Captain Ranger’s union with the gentle bride of his choice had been +so natural, and their lives together had been so harmonious, despite +their many cares and sorrows, that neither of them had ever harbored +a thought of living apart from the other. Differences of opinion they +had sometimes, and now and then a brief, angry dispute, but the end was +always peace; and he remembered now, with a pang of self-reproach, that +in all such encounters he, whether right or wrong, had invariably gained +his point. + +“You are my guiding star, my faithful wife,” he whispered, as he gently +assisted her from the wagon after they had halted for the night. “Come +with me, dear, and get some exercise, while Sally and Susannah help the +other girls to get supper.” + +“I don’t see why we mightn’t end our journey here, John,” said his wife, +as they gazed abroad over the vast expanse of table-land that stretched +away on every side, intersected here and there with streams, their +courses marked by stately rows of cottonwood just bursting into leaf, +their bases hedged with pussy-willows. “Here are land and wood and water +as good as any we passed yesterday. This surely will be a rich and +thickly settled country some day.” + +“But it is all Indian country, my dear. I wish you would talk about +something else.” + +They returned to the camp in silence. + +“I wish the girls were as tractable as you are, Annie,” he said an hour +later, after having had a heated dispute with his daughters over some +trifling disagreement. “They are as headstrong as mules.” + +“Being girls, they take after you, John,” replied his wife, with a smile. +“I’m afraid their husbands won’t find them as tractable as I have been.” + + * * * * * + +“Bring on more of your flapjacks and bacon, Miss Mary,” cried Scotty, as +Mary poised a big pile of the steaming cakes over the heads of the hungry +men who knelt at the mess-boxes. + +“You seem to be regaining your lost appetite,” exclaimed Sawed-off. “Have +you and the widder cried quits?” + +“That’s our business,” was the curt reply. + +It was late when Mary sought her mother’s couch for a brief visit that +night. She was weeping silently, and her mother caressed her tenderly. +“I know your heart is troubled, darling,” said Mrs. Ranger, “but do not +be discouraged. Be of good cheer. Every cloud has a silver lining.” And +Mary’s heart was comforted, though her reason could not tell her why. + + + + +XII + +_JEAN BECOMES A WITNESS_ + + +“How’s your journal getting on, Jean?” asked her father, one evening, +after all was still in camp. + +Mrs. Ranger had been unusually nervous and timid all day, and Susannah +had been in constant attendance upon the wagon-bed full of little +ones,—seven in all,—who had been more than usually unruly, fretful, and +quarrelsome. + +Jean looked ruefully at her father. “The pesky thing isn’t getting along +at all!” she exclaimed. “There’s nothing to inspire one to write. There’s +no grass for the cattle, no wood for the fires, and no comfort anywhere.” + +“Then write up the facts. Don’t allow yourself to get morbid. Don’t be so +listless and lackadaisical.” + + * * * * * + +It was now the twentieth of May; and under this date, in restive +obedience to her father’s command, Jean began her entries again:— + +“We came about eighteen miles to-day. And such a day! It has been +drizzly, disagreeable, and cold from morning till night, with no cheery +prospects ahead. We hear of an epidemic of measles having broken out on +the road, endangering much life among children and such grown folks as +didn’t have sense enough to get the disgusting disease before they left +their mothers’ apron-strings. We passed several newly made graves by the +roadside to-day,—a melancholy fact which interested mother deeply. + +“Indians, for some reason, are keeping out of our sight. As we are right +in the midst of the summer haunts of many tribes, we are shunned, +possibly on account of the contagious diseases among the whites, which +are said to kill off Indians as the Asiatic plague kills Europeans. Our +company has escaped the epidemic so far; so there is one blessing for +which we may be thankful. + +“We forded a stream to-day, called the Little Sandy, in the midst of +a driving rainstorm, and are now encamped in a deep, dry gulch; that +is, we call it dry, because the water runs away nearly as fast as it +falls. There is a fine spring on the hillside; and some green cottonwood +which we found at the head of the gulch is being slowly coaxed into the +semblance of a fire. + +“May 21. The skies cleared this morning, and we have found some good +grazing for the poor, half-famished stock. We haven’t travelled over a +dozen miles, but we must stop and give the animals a feed. We have passed +extensive beds of iron ore to-day, outcroppings of which are seen in +every direction. + +“May 22. We yoked up early this morning and came three miles, to the +banks of the Big Sandy. The day is clear, but the roads are still muddy +after the rain. The early morning was dark and foggy, the air was raw and +cold, and the outlook was cheerless in the extreme. Some of the horses in +a neighbor’s outfit stampeded, and it has taken nearly the whole day to +recapture them. + +“May 23. We hear rumors of Indian raids ahead of us, and mother is much +alarmed. We must not stop for Sunday, but must hurry on to get past the +danger-point. If the Indians knew how defenceless we really are, they +would rout the camp before morning. + +“The sluggish waters of the Big Sandy are swarming with larvæ. Daddie +says it’s lucky they’re not mosquitoes yet; but the trains coming along a +week hence will be terribly annoyed by the intruders, who are now unable +to molest us. + +“May 24. We are following the Little Blue,—a muddy stream about a hundred +feet in width. + +“May 25. We met to-day a long train of heavily loaded wagons coming +from Fort Laramie with great mountains of buffalo robes. At this rate, +the buffalo will all be killed off in a very few years. The frightened +creatures are now so wild that it is next to impossible to get a shot +at one of them; and the antelope are even more timid. Why is man such a +destructive animal, I wonder? + +“The men driving the freight-teams we met were a mixed-up lot of Indians, +Spaniards, and French and Indian half-breeds. Their speech was to us an +unintelligible jargon in everything but its profanity, which was English, +straight. There was one white man in the crowd, or maybe two of them. +They were on horseback, and kept aloof from the common herd. A peculiar +apprehension overcame me as I gazed at one of these strangers. He was +large, bronzed, and portly, and sat his horse like a centaur; or perhaps +I should come nearer the truth if I said like an Englishman. My heart +beat a strange tattoo as I watched him. Somehow, it seemed to me that he +was in some way concerned with some of our company. I did not understand +the feeling, but it wasn’t comfortable.” + +“There, daddie!” she cried, exhibiting the written pages. “Don’t say I’m +neglecting my journal now!” + + * * * * * + +The twilight had deepened. Below the camp ran a deep ravine, at the +base of which a little brook sang merrily. Clumps of cottonwood, badly +crippled by wayfarers’ axes, struggled for existence here and there. +In her haste to reach the covert of the bushes unobserved, Jean ran +diagonally over a settlement of prairie dogs, near which the campers +had inadvertently pitched their tents. The Lilliputian municipality was +evidently well disciplined, for at the sound of approaching footsteps the +same sharp, staccato bark, of mingled warning and authority, that had +for an instant startled the foremost team at camping-time, was heard, and +every little rodent dropped instantly out of sight. Profound silence fell +at once upon the little city, which had before been a bedlam of voices. + +Jean reached the foot of the ravine and stopped to listen, her heart +beating hard. “I am sure Sally made an appointment to meet somebody in +this ravine to-night,” she said to herself, “and I’m just as sure she’ll +need a friend. Women are such fools where men are concerned.” She heard +the sound of human voices, and pressed her hand hard over her heart. + +“I know you think you’re safe from arrest,” said a voice she knew to be +Sally O’Dowd’s. “As your wife, I may not be able to give legal testimony +that will send you to the gallows; but you’re not beyond the pale of +lynch law.” + +A mocking laugh was the only audible response. + +“I haven’t even told the Squire,” resumed the woman’s voice. “Nobody +knows about it but you and me and the unseen messengers of God.” + +Again that mocking, brutal laugh, followed by oaths, with words of +commingled anger and exultation. Jean held her breath. + +“S’posing you could testify,—which you can’t, for that divorce is tied +up on appeal,— my oath would be as binding as yours, Mrs. O’Dowd. And I +would swear to God that it was you did the deed. It would be easy enough +to make any court believe my story, for it was common talk that you +rebelled all the time against such a litter of babies.” + +“O God, have mercy!” + +“Nobody saw me kill the brat but you, Sally. It would have been bad +enough if the young ones had come one at a time, being only a year apart; +but when it came to two pairs of twins inside o’ thirteen months, it was +time to call a halt.” + +“Are you never to have any mercy on me, Sam?” + +“Come back to me as my lawful wife, and you’ll see. I’ll be easy enough +to get along with if you’ll treat me right.” + +The wife was struck dumb with astonishment. + +“Come back to me, darling!” The mocking tone gave way to one of cooing +tenderness. Jean saw his dusky figure through the shadows. “You see +you’re in my power, Sally. Better make a virtue of necessity. You can +coax the Squire to let me join his train. I will even be a teamster, if +necessary, for your sake and the children’s.” + +“What?” cried the woman, in sincere alarm. “Could I be your wife after +I’ve seen you kill one of our children before my very eyes? No, no! Go +your way, and let me go mine in peace. If you will leave me and the three +surviving babies alone, I’ll never tell anybody about the murder. I swear +it!” + +Again that brutal laugh. + +“Do your worst, Sally O’Dowd! You can’t prove that I killed the brat. You +haven’t any witness.” + +“I have the silent witness of my own conscience; and so have you, Sam +O’Dowd. Do you think that I am such an idiot as to come out here to meet +you alone?” + +“She knows he’s a coward,” thought Jean, “and she’s bluffing.” + +“Now see here, Sally! You love me; you know you do; you’ve told me so a +thousand times.” + +“I did love you once, Sam; but that was so long ago that it seems like a +far-off dream. I despise, I loathe, I abhor you now!” + +“Then this’ll settle it. I’ll go to the Squire and tell him we’ve buried +the hatchet, and I’m going with you to Oregon. I don’t care a rap whether +you hate me or not. But if you give me any trouble, I’ll swear that you +did that killing.” + +“Oh, help me, pitying Christ!” wailed the unhappy woman. “Is there, in +all this world, no Canada to which a fugitive wife may flee, and no +underground railroad by which to reach it?”. + +Again arose that brutal laugh upon the air. The belated bird in the +bushes cooed to its mate, and the prairie dogs chattered in the distance. + +“Don’t be afraid of him, Sally,” cried a clear voice from the depths of +the cottonwoods. “A tyrant is always a coward. I heard your confession, +Sam O’Dowd; and as I am not your wife, I can be a witness.” + +There was no more brutal laughter. A horse stood picketed and stamping +at the head of the gulch, and the murderer hurried toward it with heavy +strides. Jean listened with eager attention till he mounted and rode +rapidly away. + +“Are you still there, Sally?” she asked, as the hoof-beats died away in +the distance. + +“Yes, Jean; but where are you, and why are you here?” + +“The Holy Spirit guided me, I reckon. I was just possessed to come. I +didn’t know I was following you, or why I came; but I just did it ’cause +I had to.” + +“It was hazardous, Jean. He might have killed us both.” + +“He’s too big a coward to kill a more formidable foe than his own baby. +But you were an idiot to meet him out here, Sally.” + +“He was with that freighters’ outfit, but on horseback. He came to me +a few minutes before camping-time, when I was walking for exercise. I +didn’t want a scene at camp, so I agreed to meet him out here alone, if +he would keep out of sight.” + +“You’re a bigger fool than Thompson’s colt, and he swam the river to +get a drink,” said Jean. “But we mustn’t linger here. He may have a +confederate.” + +“Not he, Jean. He’s too suspicious to trust a confederate.” + +“Let’s go back to camp, anyhow, Sally; mother will be missing us. But +you needn’t be afraid of Sam again. I’ve settled his hash,” she said, as +they hurried to the open. “Isn’t it a terrible thing to be married?” she +added, as soon as she could speak again. + +“No, Jean. Marriage under right conditions is the world’s greatest +blessing. All enlightened men and women prefer to live in pairs, and +make each other and their children as happy as possible. I admit that I +made a big mistake when I married; but your mother didn’t, because your +father is one of God’s noblemen. The fault isn’t in marriage, but in the +couple, one or both of whom make the trouble, when there is trouble. But +the conditions between husbands and wives are not equal. Law and usage +make the husband and wife one, and the husband that one. Where both +the parties to the compact are better than the law, it doesn’t pinch +either one; but when a woman finds herself chained for life to a sordid, +disagreeable, stingy, domineering man, the advantages of law and custom +are all on his side. It is no wonder that trouble ensues in such cases.” + +“But, young as I am, I have seen wives that could discount almost any man +for meanness,” said Jean. “There are women, now and then, who take all +the rights in the matrimonial category, and their husbands haven’t any +rights at all.” + +“Women sometimes inherit the strongest traits of their fathers; I admit +that. And such women can outwit the very best husbands.” + +“I’ve read of a woman,” said Jean, musingly, “Elizabeth Cady Stanton by +name, who went before a legislative assembly in New York a few years +ago, and secured the passage of a law enabling a married woman of that +State to hold, in her own right, the property bequeathed to her by her +father. And then, as if to prove that women are idiots, there were women +in Albany who refused to associate with their financial savior any more. +They said she had left her sphere. But never mind. The world is moving, +and women are moving with it.” + +The camp-fires had died to heaps of embers, the lights were out in the +tents and wagons, and all except themselves were settled for the night. + +“Don’t say anything to anybody about my meeting with Sam, will you, Jean?” + +“Not unless he annoys you again. Then I’ll be ready to meet him with +facts.” + +“He might put your life in jeopardy, my dear.” + +“Jeopardy nothin’!” cried Jean, adopting the slang of the road. “He’s too +big a coward to put his neck in danger. But just you wait! I’ll live to +see an end to one-sided laws and a one-sexed government. See if I don’t! +And the men will fight our battle for us, too, as soon as they are wise +enough.” + +“If you don’t come across a matrimonial fate that’ll change your tune, my +name isn’t Sally O’Dowd,” exclaimed her companion, as they drew near the +camp. + +“Your name isn’t O’Dowd, but Danover,” cried Jean. “You’re safe in making +such a prophecy on such a basis.” + + + + +XIII + +_AN APPROACHING STORM_ + + +“We came eighteen miles to-day,” wrote Jean, under date of May 28, “and +halted for the night opposite Grand Island, in the Platte River, where +we find both wood and pasture. All day we floundered through the muddy +roads, occasionally getting almost swamped in heavy and treacherous +bogs, with ‘water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.’ I’m too +tired to write, and too sleepy to think.” + +On the evening of May 29 she added: “We started early, and reached +Fort Kearney after eight miles of heavy wheeling, where we halted to +write letters for the folks at home, and examine many things quaint and +crude and curious. The old fort is weather-worn, and a general air of +dilapidation pervades its very atmosphere. There are two substantial +dwellings for the officers, though; and they (I mean the officers) keep +up a show of military pomp, very amusing to us, but quite necessary to +maintain in an Indian country, to hold the savage instinct in check. The +officers were very gracious to daddie, and very kind and condescending +to the rest of us. They made us a present of some mounted buffalo-horns, +some elks’ antlers, and the stuffed head of a mountain sheep, all of +which, mother says, we’ll be glad to leave at the roadside before the +weary oxen haul them very far. + +“A week ago a party passed us, going westward with a four-wheeled wagon, +two yokes of discouraged oxen, two anxious-looking men, two dispirited +women, and about fourteen snub-nosed, shaggy-headed children. On their +wagon-cover was a sign, done in yellow ochre, which read: ‘Oregon or +bust!’ To-day we met the same outfit coming back, and no description +from my unpractised pen can do it justice. The party, doubtless from +over-crowding, had quarrelled; and the two families had settled their +dispute by dividing the wagon into two parts of two wheels each. On the +divided and dilapidated cover of each cart were smeared in yellow ochre +the words, ‘Busted, by thunder!’ + +“May 30. We forded the Platte to-day. It is a broad, lazy, milky sheet of +silt-thickened water, with a quicksand bottom. It is about two miles wide +at this season of the year at the ford, and is three feet deep. + +“The day was as hot as a furnace, and the sunshine burned us like +blisters of Spanish flies. Our wagon-beds were hoisted to the tops of +their standards to keep them from taking water, and at a given signal +from daddie, they were all plunged pell-mell into the quicksand, over +which teams, drivers, wagons, and all were compelled to move quickly to +avoid catastrophe. + +“Poor dear mother suffered from constant nervous fear because of the +quicksand and the danger that some of the children might be drowned. +It took us two and a half hours to ford the stream; but we reached the +opposite bank without accident, and camped near an old buffalo wallow, +where we get clearer water than that of the Platte, but we are not +allowed to drink it till it has been boiled. Cholera has broken out in +the trains both before and behind us; and daddie lays our escape from +attack thus far to drinking boiled water. We have no fuel but buffalo +chips, and almost no grass for the poor stock. The game has disappeared +altogether, and the fishes in the Platte don’t bite. But we have plenty +of beans and bacon, coffee, flour, and dried apples; so we shall not +starve. + +“June 1. The day has been intensely hot. The stifling air shimmers, and +the parched earth glitters as it bakes in the sun. The mud has changed to +a fine, impalpable dust, and the loaded air is too oppressive to breathe, +if it could be avoided. We passed a number of newly made graves during +the day. We meet returning teams every day that have given up the journey +as a bad job. Daddie often says he’d die before he’d retrace his tracks, +and then he wouldn’t do it! We found at sundown, just as we were losing +hope, a bountiful spring of clear, cold water, beside which we have +halted for the night. + +“June 3. Another insufferably hot day. But we encountered at nightfall +a stiff west wind, which soon arose to a gale, in the teeth of which we +with difficulty made camp and cooked our food. Heavy clouds blacken the +sky as I write, and vivid flashes of sheet lightning, which blind us for +a moment, are followed by thunder that startles and stuns. + +“June 4. The storm passed to the south of us, on the other side of the +Platte. But daddie has ordered the tents and wagons staked to the ground +hereafter every night, as long as we are travelling in these treeless, +unsheltered bottom-lands, as he says we would have been swept away _en +masse_ into the river if last night’s storm had squarely struck our camp.” + +The hoods of the wagons, so white and clean at the outset, were now of an +ashen hue, disfigured by spots of grease, and askew in many places from +damage to their supporting arches of hickory bows. Heavy log-chains, for +use in possible emergencies, dangled between axles, and the inevitable +tar-bucket rode adjacent on a creaking hook, from which it hung suspended +by a complaining iron bail. + + * * * * * + +“The incessant heat by day, followed by the chilly air of night, is +perilous to health, John,” said Mrs. Ranger, one evening, as she +lay wrapped in blankets in the big family wagon, watching the usual +preparations for the evening meal. + +He gazed into her pinched, white face with sudden apprehension. + +“Don’t be afraid of the cholera, dear,” he said tenderly. “I understand +the nature of the epidemic, and I don’t fear it at all. Cholera is a +filth disease, and we are guarding against it at every point. Your blood +is pure, darling. There’s nothing the matter with you but a little +debility, the result of past years of overwork. Time and rest and change +of climate will cure all that. No uncooked food or unboiled water is used +by any of us, and no cold victuals are allowed to be eaten after long +exposure to this pernicious, cholera-laden air. You can’t get the germs +of cholera unless you eat or drink them.” + +That Captain Ranger should have thus imbibed the germ theory of cholera +long in advance of its discovery by medical schools, is only another +proof that there is nothing new under the sun. A newer system of medical +treatment than that of the Allopathic School, styled the Eclectic by its +founders, had come into vogue before his departure from the States. + +Many different decoctions of fiery liquid, of which capsicum was supposed +to be the base,—conspicuous among them a compound called “Number +Six,”—proved efficacious in effecting many cures in the early stages of +cholera; and the contents of Captain Ranger’s medicine chest were in +steady demand long after his supplies for general distribution had been +exhausted. + + * * * * * + +“Can you imagine what this wild-goose chase of ours is for?” asked Mrs. +Benson. + +“I undertook it to gratify my good husband,” was Mrs. Ranger’s prompt +reply. + +“And I to gratify my daughter.” + +“Excuse me, ladies; but I came along to please myself,” interposed Mrs. +O’Dowd. + +“I, too, came to please myself,” cried Jean; “that is, I made a virtue of +necessity, and compelled myself to be pleased. There are two things that +mother says we must never fret about: one is what we can, and the other +what we cannot, help. Every human being belongs primarily to himself or +herself, and to satisfy one’s self is sure to please somebody.” + +“But a married couple belong, secondarily, at least, to each other,” said +Mrs. Ranger. “No couple can pull in double and single harness at the same +time.” + +“Some day,” said Mrs. Benson, “it will become the fashion to read your +journal, Jean; and then the dear public will both praise and pity our +unsophisticated Captain, who led these hapless emigrants out on these +plains to die.” + +“That’s so, Mrs. Benson,” exclaimed Jean; “and they won’t see that it’s +all a part of the eternal programme. Evolution is the order of nature, +and one generation of human beings is a very small fraction of the race +at large.” + +“Haven’t you gossiped long enough, mamma?” asked Mrs. McAlpin, +petulantly. “Your supper is ready and waiting. What has detained you so +long?” + +“I was listening to the chat of the Ranger family. They are an uncommon +lot; very clever and original.” + +“Yes, mamma; they talk like oracles. A little brusque and unpolished, +but that will be outgrown in time. You’re looking splendid, mamma! The +society of your neighbors is a tonic. You must take it often.” + +“I wish we might all stop here, Daphne.” + +“We’ve no more right to these lands of the Indians than we have to—” + +“Oregon,” interrupted her mother. “Oregon was Indian territory +originally.” + +Jean approached with a plate of hot cakes, saying: “I fell to thinking so +deeply over the problems we had been talking about that I forgot what I +was doing, and baked too many cakes. They’re sweet and light, and we hope +you’ll like them.” + +“Thank you ever so much, Miss Jean!” said Mrs. McAlpin. “I congratulate +you with all my heart upon the way you cheer your mother, my dear. You +are a jewel of the first water!” + +“We all try to keep mother in good spirits,” replied Jean. “Dear soul! +she’s weak and nervous; and what seem trifles to us often appear like +mountains to her. Never can I forget, to my dying day, the look of terror +that came into her gentle eyes when we were crossing the Platte that day +in the quicksands. The raised wagon-bed had tilted, for some cause. I +suppose the weight of so many of us was not evenly distributed; and we +should all have been pitched into the water if it had not been that dear +mother hustled us to the other side. She forgot her own danger in her +effort to save the children, giving her orders like a sea captain in a +storm. Each of us grabbed a baby,—Susannah’s coon fell to my lot,—and we +clung like death to the upper edge of the wagon-bed till the danger was +over, and the great lopsided thing settled back to its place. + +“But I must go now. Daddie’s calling me to write up that pestilent old +journal!” + + * * * * * + +On the evening of the 4th of June, the train had its first encounter with +a blizzard. + +Captain Ranger, seeing the approach of the storm, as did the cattle and +horses, ordered a sudden halt a little way from the banks of the Platte. +The day, like a number of its predecessors, had been oppressively hot; +but about five o’clock a sudden squall came up, though not without +premonitory warning in the way of a calm so dead that not a blade of +grass was quivering. The wagon-hoods flapped idly, like sails becalmed in +the tropics. Suddenly the air grew icy cold, bringing at first a moment +of relief to suffocating man and beast. + +“Gather your buffalo chips in a hurry,” exclaimed the Captain, addressing +the girls. “Get ’em under cover in the tents, under the wagon-beds; +anywhere so they’ll keep dry. Turn out the stock in a jiffy, boys. Head +’em away from the river. Drive ’em up yonder gulch. Be on the alert, +everybody!” + + + + +XIV + +_A CAMP IN CONSTERNATION_ + + +“Stake down the wagons,” was the next order. “Don’t stop to pitch any +more tents. Don’t try to kindle any fires.” + +Scarcely had the orders been obeyed before a darkness as black as Erebus +had settled upon the camp like a gigantic pall. It was a peculiar +darkness, permeated by an ominous, silent, intangible, vibrating, +appalling Something! A silence that could be felt was in the air. The +oxen in the gulch bellowed in terror; the horses neighed. The stillness +of the air was oppressive, portentous, awful. The women clasped the +children in close embrace. The children clung to their protectors in +silent terror. All hands save the teamsters, who were out with the stock +at the mouth of the ravine, where they were stationed to guard the +animals against stampede, crouched under the wagons in the Cimmerian +blackness. Anon, a blinding flash of sheet lightning, followed by others +and yet others in bewildering succession, awoke a rolling, roaring, +reverberating cannonade of thunder. Guided by the flashes of lightning, +the frightened men left the cattle to their fate and, returning to the +camp, took refuge under the wagons. Hailstones as big as hens’ eggs fell +by hundreds of tons, displacing the awful silence with a cannonade like +unto the heaviest artillery of a great army in battle. + +The wind blew a terrific gale. The chained wagons rocked like cradles. +Several heavy vehicles in a neighboring train, not being chained to the +ground, as the Ranger wagons had been, were upset and their contents +ruined by the hail and rain. Others were blown bodily into the river. +Luckily no lives were lost. The cattle and horses, pelted by the hail +till their bodies were bruised and bleeding, huddled together at the head +of the gulch for mutual protection. + +The storm lasted less than twenty minutes, and ceased as suddenly as it +began. The black clouds soared away to the northward, leaving a blue +starlit sky overhead, and underfoot a mass of hail and mud. The Platte, +having caught the full fury of a cloud-burst a few miles above the camp, +rose rapidly, threatening the frightened refugees in the wagons with a +new danger. But the shallow banks were high enough to confine the mad +rush of muddy water within an inch or two of the top, thus averting the +horror of a flood which, had it come, would have completed the havoc of +the storm. + +The lightning, as though weary of its display of power, retreated to the +distant hills, and played at hide-and-seek on the horizon’s edge, while +Heaven’s Gatling guns answered each pyrotechnic display with a distant, +growling, intermittent roar. + +Mrs. McAlpin’s carriage was a total wreck; but her wagons remained +intact, and she and her mother escaped to them in safety. + +The morning revealed a scene of desolation. The earth in all directions +as far as the eye could see had been torn into gulleys by the mad rush +of falling hail and rain, each seeking its level in frantic haste. +Hailstones lay in heaps, some soiled by contact with the liquid mud, some +as clean and white as freshly fallen snow. + +The contents of Mrs. McAlpin’s carriage were entirely gone. Nothing +remained of the vehicle but one of its wheels and some shreds of its +cover, which were found half buried in the mud. Of the harness, nothing +was left but a bridle bit, in which was lodged a woman’s glove, and near +it the remains of a palm-leaf fan. + +“We should all be thankful that no lives were lost,” said Mrs. Ranger, +who was looking on while Sally O’Dowd and Susannah assisted her +daughters, who, with Mrs. Benson and Mrs. McAlpin, were exposing the wet +and dilapidated paraphernalia of the camp to the hot rays of the morning +sun. + +“But we’d have a heap mo’ to thank Gahd fo’, missus, if He’d hel’ off dat +stawm,” exclaimed Susannah, with a characteristic “yah! yah! yah!” + +At eleven o’clock the order was given to bring in the stock, and prepare +to move on, when it was discovered that Scotty was missing. + +“We s’posed he was helpin’ Mrs. McAlpin’s men, as he generally does, to +get her things to rights, so we didn’t bother our heads about him,” said +Sawed-off, who was Scotty’s partner of the whip and yoke. “I’ve been +doing the most of his share of the work ever since we’ve been on the +road.” + +Scotty was nowhere to be found. An organized search was begun at once, +and all thought of moving on was abandoned till the Captain should learn +his fate. The cattle and horses were turned out on the range for another +badly needed half-holiday. Through all the remainder of the day the +anxious quest continued. Mrs. McAlpin was as pale as death. Her sombre +weeds, worn for no known reason, formed a fitting frame for her pinched +and anxious face and bright, abundant hair. Her mother was visibly +agitated. Mrs. Ranger lay on her feather bed all through the trying +afternoon, her eyes closed and her lips moving as if in prayer. + +“Night again, and no Scotty!” exclaimed Captain Ranger, his voice husky +with feeling. As no trace of the man had been discovered, the organized +search was called off. + +“Scotty’s death was one of the freaks of the flood,” said Hal. + +“None of you ever did Scotty justice,” exclaimed Mary, as she descended +upon the party with a heaped plate of their staple food. + +“That’s what,” echoed Jean, as she brought on the beans and bacon. + +“Scotty knew more in a minute than half of us can ever learn,” cried +Marjorie, with whom he was a favorite. + +“Yes,” said the Captain, dryly. “He’s a genius, Scotty is! He’ll turn +up presently. Doubtless he’s off somewhere studying a new stratum of +storm-clouds. He has killed two of my leaders already by making them +start the whole load while his mind was on the incomprehensible and +unknowable in nature. But I’ll wager he knows enough to look out for +himself in a crisis.” + +“He was a whole mine of information about other things, if he didn’t know +much about driving oxen,” sobbed Jean. + +“He isn’t dead!” exclaimed Mrs. McAlpin. “I mean to continue the search +myself to-night.” + +“You’ll get caught by a panther!” cried Bobbie. “I haven’t seen ’em, but +I know they’re there!” + +“Where, Bobbie?” asked Marjorie. + +“Up in the gulch. I can see ’em with my eyes shut!” and the child, not +understanding the laugh that followed at his expense, hastened to the +wagon where his mother lay, to receive the consolation that never failed +him. + + * * * * * + +“It won’t be against the laws of God or man for me to love Rollin if he +is dead,” said Mrs. McAlpin to herself, as she crept shivering from her +retreat in her wagon to the ground. Throwing a shawl over her head, she +hastened out in the direction in which Scotty was hurrying when she had +last seen him. The cattle, quite satisfied from the unusual effects of +a day’s rest and a full meal, chewed their cuds quietly, or lay asleep +in the best sheltered spots they could command, breathing heavily. She +wandered fearlessly among them, calling frequently for the lost man, but +received no response save an occasional “moo” from an awakened cow, or a +friendly neigh from Sukie, who was tethered near. + +The morning star rose in the clear blue of the bending sky as her search +went on, and she knew that the long June day was breaking. Flowers of +every hue, newly born from the convulsions of the recent storm, smiled at +her in their dewy fragrance; and in the branches of a crippled cottonwood +a robin began his matin song. A meadow lark, disturbed in its languorous +wooing by the lone watcher’s footsteps, soared upward in the crystal +ether, sending back, when out of her sight, a swelling note of triumph, +prolonged, triumphant, sweet. + +“Rollin! Rollin Burns!” she called, repeating the name in every note of +the scale. + +At length a long, low moan startled her. She listened eagerly for a +moment, and repeated her call. Whence had come that moan? There was no +repetition of the sound. She spoke again, calling the name in a higher +key. + +Another moan—it might have been an echo from the canyon’s walls—came, +more distinct than the first, but the echoing gulch gave no indication of +its location. + +“Call again, Rollin! It is I,—your own Daphne!” + +“Is it indeed you, Daphne?” + +She pinched herself to see if she was really awake. She had never heard +her Christian name spoken by Burns before. The name sounded strangely +sweet in the breaking twilight, and in spite of her apprehension and +uncertainty her soul was glad. + +“Call again, Rollin! Help is near.” + +“Come this way, Daphne! I am in a cave, almost under your feet. A bowlder +that I stepped upon rolled over, loosened by the storm, and let me +through into the bowels of the earth. My leg is broken. I must have been +unconscious. I have swooned or slept, or both. Be careful how you tread. +There are badgers in this hole, and I have heard rattlesnakes.” + +“Which way, Rollin? Where are you?” + +The sound of his voice seemed to come from beneath her feet. + +“Is the storm over?” + +“Yes, long ago. It’s been over for thirty-six hours. But I can’t locate +you.” + +“Here, I tell you! Under this rock. If it had fallen directly on me, I +should have been a goner. For God’s sake, be careful, or you’ll break +your own dear neck! Don’t get excited. Run for help, and don’t stir up +the rattlesnakes.” + +The injured man had fallen at first by the turning of the rock, as he had +stated, giving his leg a twist that broke it, and, by the turning of his +body in falling farther, had overturned the bowlder again, and thus was +held a prisoner. + +Mrs. McAlpin peered into a narrow aperture through which the coming +daylight had entered. Their eyes met. + +“Daphne!” + +“Rollin!” + +“So near and yet so far!” cried the prisoner, as he struggled to free +himself. A spasm of pain overspread his face, and a dew, like the death +damp, settled on his hair and forehead. + +“O God! he has fainted again!” she cried, running with all her might and +screaming for help. + +“What in thunder is the matter now?” exclaimed Captain Ranger, as he +emerged, half dressed, from his tent. + +“I’ve found Rollin! He’s imprisoned in a cave, with a broken leg! Fetch +spades and a mattock to dig away the dirt from the rock! Be quick!” cried +Mrs. McAlpin, leading the way. + +Nobody heard the robins sing, or paused to enjoy the triumphant melody of +the lark. + +Scotty was still in a merciful swoon. Very carefully the men loosened the +rock from its hold on his legs, and with their united strength rolled it +away from the mouth of the cave. + +“It’s damned lucky you are, old boy!” cried Yank, as the crippled man +regained consciousness. “That rock would have crushed you to pulp if the +walls of the cave hadn’t saved you.” + +“A miss would have been as good as a mile!” replied Scotty, as he fainted +again. + +“Who’s going to set these bones?” asked Sawed-off. “It’s a bad fracture, +compound and nasty. There’s no severed artery, though, which is lucky, or +he’d ’a’ bled to death. Captain Ranger, did you ever set a broken bone?” + +“Never.” + +“I’ll do it,” exclaimed Mrs. McAlpin. “Cut away his boot. Bring a cot +from the camp. Bring some adhesive plaster. Captain, can you make some +splints? Stay! I’ll cut away the boot. There! Steady! Slow! If we can set +the bones before he recovers consciousness, so much the better.” + +The cot with its unconscious burden was carried to the side of the +widow’s wagon. + +“Bring water and more bandages, girls.” + +“Where did you get your skill?” asked the Captain, as Mrs. McAlpin felt +cautiously for the broken bones and deftly snapped them into place. + +“It isn’t a very bad fracture,” she said, unheeding the question, as she +held the bones together while the orders for splints and bandages were +being obeyed. + +“Some water, quick, and some brandy!” she said in a firm voice, though +her cheeks were blanching. She held stoutly to her work till the limb was +securely encased in the proper supports. But when her patient recovered +consciousness and looked inquiringly into her eyes, she fell, fainting, +into the Captain’s arms, and was carried to his family wagon, her eyelids +twitching and her muscles limp. When she recovered, she found herself +reclining in the wagon beside Mrs. Ranger, who was gently chafing her +face and hands. + +“All this has been too much for you, dearie,” said the good woman. + +“Where’s Rollin?” + +“In your mother’s wagon. We have rigged him up a swinging bed, and Mrs. +Benson will see that he wants for nothing. You are to ride here, in the +big wagon, with me.” + +“You have no room for me in here. You and I, and Mary and Jean, and +Marjorie and Bobbie, and Sadie and the baby and Sally, and the three +little O’Dowds, and Susannah and George Washington can’t all ride and +sleep in this narrow space. We’d offend the open-air ordinances of +heaven.” + +“It is all arranged, my dear; don’t worry. Our overflow has gone to +another wagon. We’ll have plenty of room.” + +“But Mr. Burns?” + +“Your good mother has taken entire charge of him. She is behaving as +beautifully in this crisis as you are, my dear.” + + + + +XV + +_CHOLERA RAGES_ + + +“Cholera is epidemic everywhere along the road,” wrote Jean in her diary +on the 8th of June. “Our company is not yet attacked, but our dear mother +is seriously alarmed. She counts all the graves we pass during the day, +and sums them up at night for us to think about. Some days there is a +formidable aggregate.” + +The fame of Mrs. McAlpin’s skill as a physician and surgeon, and of +Captain Ranger’s marvellous medicine-chest, grew rapidly in the front and +rear of the Ranger train as the epidemic spread. + +“It is lamentable to note the lack of forethought in many people,” +Captain Ranger would say, as he dealt out his supplies of “Number Six,” +podophyllin and capsicum, which grew alarmingly scant as the demand +increased, and his patience was sorely tried. But he never refused aid +to any who applied for it; and the “woman doctor,” who because of her +proficiency was considered little else than a witch, was scarcely given +time to eat or sleep. + +“How do you keep your company from catching the cholera?” asked the +anxious father of a numerous family, most of whom had fallen victims to +the scourge. + +“Common-sense should teach us to allow no uncooked or stale food to be +eaten, and no surface or unboiled water to be drunk. Let all companies +be broken into small trains, and keep as far apart from each other as +possible. Rest a while in the heat of every noonday. Don’t be afraid +of the Indians, or of anything or anybody else. The greatest enemy of +mankind is fear.” + +But in spite of both his precept and his example, the cholera continued +its ravages; and Captain Ranger, to avoid contact with the epidemic, and, +if possible, relieve Mrs. Ranger’s mind of apprehension, changed his +course from the main travelled road, and turned off to the north by west, +leaving the multitude to their fate. + +“The other trains can follow if they choose, and we can’t help it,” he +said to his wife; “but I must get my family away from the crowd, as the +best way to save us all from the nasty epidemic.” + +“Isn’t there danger of getting lost, John, or of getting captured by +the Indians?” asked Mrs. Ranger, as the teams were headed for the Black +Hills,—a long, undulating line, which looked in the shimmering distance +like low banks of dense fog. + +“My compass will point the way, Annie. The Indians will give us no +trouble if we treat them kindly. They’re a plaguy sight more afraid of us +than we have any reason to be of them.” + +Mrs. Ranger, blessed with full confidence in her husband’s ability +to accomplish whatsoever he undertook, leaned back on her pillows and +guarded the children from danger, as was her wont. + +On June 15, Jean made another entry in her much-neglected journal, as +follows:— + +“We have travelled all day between and over and around, and then back +again, among low ranges of the Black Hills. The scenery is grand beyond +description, and the road we are making as we go along, for others to +follow if they are wise, is good. Lilliputian forests of prickly pears +spread in all directions, and are very troublesome. Their thorns, barbed, +and sharp as needle-points, are in a degree poisonous. We laugh together +over our frequent encounters with the little pests, though our poor +wounded feet refuse to be comforted. But we are missing the long lines +of moving wagons, before and behind us, swaying and jolting over the +dusty roads we’ve left to the southward, and we are glad to be alone, +or as nearly so as our big company will permit. The streams we cross at +intervals are clear, and the water is sweet and cold. + +“Mother seems in better health and spirits since we have removed her from +the constant sight of so much suffering and death. + +“Dear, patient, faithful, loving mother! Will her true history, and +that of the thousands like her, who are heroically enduring the dangers +and hardships of this long, long journey, be ever given to the world, I +wonder?” + +Near nightfall, on their second day’s journey away from the main +thoroughfare, they encountered a long freight-train, in charge of +fur-traders, the second thus met since their travels began. Every wagon +was heavily loaded with buffalo robes which had been prepared for market +by the tedious, patient labor of Indian women. As the wives and slaves +of English, French, Spanish, and Canadian hunters and traders, these +women followed the fates of their grumbling and often cruel lords and +masters through the vicissitudes of a precarious existence, with which +nevertheless they seemed strangely content. + +The leader or captain of the freighters’ outfit was a tall, bronzed, and +handsome Scotchman, whose nationality was betrayed at a glance. Captain +Ranger bargained with him for a big, handsomely dressed buffalo robe, +paying therefor in dried apples and potatoes. + +“Our men are getting scurvy from the lack of fruit and vegetables,” the +leader said, as the exchange was concluded. “When they are in camp the +squaws keep them supplied with berries, camas, and wapatoes. But they +can’t bring the women out on a trip like this, away from the scenes of +their labors.” + +“Here’s a present for you, Annie,” said Captain Ranger, bringing a soft, +heavy, furry robe to his wife, and spreading it over her much-prized +feather bed. “It will help you to bear the rough jolting over the rocky +roads.” + +“Thanks, darling. You are very kind and thoughtful, but I shall not need +it long.” + +“Oh, yes, you will, Annie! We’ve passed the cholera belt. The sun rides +higher every day; and I’m sure you’ll soon be all right.” + + * * * * * + +“Did you notice that big handsome Scotchman who seemed to be the boss +of that freighters’ outfit?” asked Mrs. McAlpin, addressing Jean, and +emerging from her hiding-place in one of the wagons after the outfit had +passed out of sight and hearing and the Ranger company had encamped. + +“Yes, Mrs. McAlpin. He seemed master of the situation.” + +“Do you think he discovered me or mamma?” + +“I didn’t think to notice whether he saw either of you or not.” + +“I kept out of his sight, and made mamma do likewise.” + +“Did you know him?” + +“May I trust you, Jean?” + +“Why, certainly! What’s up?” + +“I need you, Jeanie; I need a friend with a level head.” + +Mrs. McAlpin’s face was gray, like ashes, and her aspect of fear was +startling. + +“What under heaven is the matter?” asked Jean. + +“That man is my husband!” + +“Then I congratulate you. Daddie was much pleased with him. But I thought +your husband was a man of leisure, travelling in Europe, or Asia, or +among the ruins of Central America. You told me he was an archæologist. +Did you expect to find him here on these plains?” + +“No, Jean, or I should not have been here myself. Only think of it! I +started on this journey on purpose to hide myself away from him for +good and all. He had gone to England a year ago to claim a vast estate, +and I planned to leave Chicago for this wild-goose chase on purpose to +avoid him. I had no idea he’d ever think of taking up a business like +freighting in a fur company. But there is no way to foresee the acts of a +man who has more money than he knows what to do with. I suppose he grew +weary of the Old World.” Mrs. McAlpin sighed. + +“Are you quite sure it was he?” + +“It could not have been anybody else. I’d know that voice if I heard it +in Kamchatka. And I saw him, too. I cannot be mistaken.” + +“And you are determined not to live as his wife any more?” + +“I simply cannot, will not, live a lie any longer.” + +“Why do you tell me about this, Mrs. McAlpin? I’m nothing but an +inexperienced girl.” + +“But you have more discretion than most grown-up people.” + +“That’s ’cause I’ve never been in love, I guess. They say that all people +when in love are fools.” + +“I want you to go with me to meet that man to-night, Jean.” + +“I? What for?” + +“I’m going to talk it out; and I’ll need a witness.” + +“Absurd! You remind me of a moth around a candle. Does your mother know +about this?” + +“No. I let her think an Indian was wanting me for a wife, and she +remained hidden till the freighters had gone. The rest was easy. She is +mortally afraid of Indians.” + +“I can’t imagine why you desire an interview with a man you are trying to +avoid. How did you arrange a meeting?” + +“I sent him a note by Hal, who thinks I want to buy a buffalo robe like +your mother’s.” + +“To be plain with you, Mrs. McAlpin, you’re a fool.” + +“I know it. But I confess to you that I want to see him so I can defy +him.” + +“If you want sensible advice, go to daddie.” + +“I don’t want anybody’s advice. I just want you to accompany me, and keep +hidden so as to be close at hand during the interview. He has no idea +that he is going to meet Daphne Benson.” + +As Jean had been forbidden by her father to continue her rides in Mrs. +McAlpin’s company, she did not feel satisfied with herself during this +stolen interview. + +“Then you didn’t let your husband know it was you who wanted to see him?” + +“Of course not. What do you take me for?” + +“I’ll certainly take you for one of the silliest women on earth if you +don’t give up this interview.” + +“I believe, after all, that you’re right, Jeanie. But I thought, if I met +him unexpectedly out here in these wilds and put him upon his honor, he +would never try to trouble me again. I have something very important to +say to him.” + +“Then wait till we get to Oregon. We must go back to camp at once. It is +time all honest folks were at home in bed.” + +They found Mrs. Ranger sitting alone on a wagon-tongue, shivering in the +sharp night air. + +“I’m very ill, my daughter,” she said; “dangerously so. I’ve been +watching and waiting for you the past half-hour. Where have you been?” + +“She’s been pommelling a little common-sense into my addled noddle,” said +Mrs. McAlpin. + +“I’ve been taking a little walk with Mrs. McAlpin, mother dear, that’s +all. But what’s the matter, mother? Where’s daddie?” + +“Asleep, poor man. I don’t want him disturbed. Get me the bottle of +‘Number Six.’ There!” taking a draught of the fiery liquid. “I’ll soon be +better. Go to bed.” + +Jean never could forgive herself for not sounding an alarm. During the +remainder of the short summer night Mrs. Ranger wrestled with her fate, +suffering and unattended. The heavy breathing of the weary oxen as they +slept, or the low chewing of their cuds in the silence, the occasional +hoot of an owl, or the sharp scream of a belated eagle, the sighing of +the wind in the juniper-trees, and the acute pangs of her suffering +body occupied her half conscious thoughts as she patiently awaited the +dawn, which broke at last, spreading over earth and sky the radiance of +approaching sunrise. + +“John dear, come quickly; I’m very sick, and I believe I’m dying!” cried +the lone sufferer at last. + +Her husband was instantly aroused. + +“Why didn’t you call me long ago, darling?” he asked, crawling from +beneath a tent and rubbing his eyes to accustom them to the light. A +deadly fear blanched his cheeks as his wife fell back in convulsions in +his arms. + +She opened her eyes after a prolonged spasm of pain and gave him a look +of melting tenderness. + +“Make the biggest tent ready, boys!” he called, holding her close. +“Fetch the feather bed and the buffalo robe. Get hot water, Sally. Get +everything, everybody,” he exclaimed, carrying her in his arms and pacing +excitedly to and fro. + +“Oh, why did I bring you out here into this wilderness?” he sobbed, as he +laid her on the bed and chafed her stiffening fingers. “Only live, and +the remainder of your days shall be as free from care as a bird’s!” + +“But I shall not live, John,” she whispered during a brief lucid +interval, her eyes beaming with love and devotion. “Or, rather, I shall +not die, but awake into newness of life. This body is worn out, but that +is all. The life that animates it will never die, though I am going away.” + +No effort that circumstances permitted was spared to retain the vital +spark. Not a man, woman, or child in the company would have hesitated at +any possible sacrifice to keep her spirit within the body, or to give her +ease and comfort in passing to the land of souls. + +The afternoon was wellnigh spent when she grew easier. A prolonged +interval of consciousness followed. + +“Where’s Bobbie?” she asked in a whisper. + +“Here, mother!” cried the child, who had been a dazed and silent watcher +all the day. + +“Bless his little life!” she whispered with a look of unutterable love. + +“Come, Bobbie dear,” said Jean, “let’s go out and see if we can’t find +heaven, where God is. Mother is going there to live with the angels. +Let’s see if there’ll be any room for us.” + +“There’ll be room for me, Jeanie; there’ll have to be, for I’m going to +die before long.” + +“Why do you think so, Bobbie?” + +“Cos I just am. I dreamed I went to heaven. It was a tight house, too, +like Oregon, or Texas.” + +“You mustn’t think you’re going to die, Bobbie.” + +“There isn’t any surely death,” said the child. “It is just going to +heaven.” + + + + +XVI + +_JEAN’S VISIT BEYOND THE VEIL_ + + +To the surprise of her sorrowing loved ones, Mrs. Ranger rallied before +sundown, after a stupor of several hours, her eyes bright and her +faculties wonderfully clear. + +“It seems hard to leave you alone in this wilderness, John,” she said in +a low whisper, while feebly clasping her husband’s hand. + +The sun’s expiring rays fell upon the open tent, illuminating her angelic +face, settling like an aureole upon her bright brown hair, and causing +her eyes to glow like stars. “I’m not afraid of death, dear. I am not +even afraid to leave you alone with the children in the wilderness, for I +know you’ll do your duty. But I am sorry to leave all the burden for you +to carry alone. There is One who heareth even the young ravens when they +cry. Trust in Him, dearest. He doeth all things well.” + +“How can I give you up?” cried the distracted husband, stroking her pale +cheeks and forehead tenderly. + +“You won’t be giving me up, John. God will let me come to you sometimes +to bless and comfort you. I know He will; for He is good, and His mercy +endureth forever. I couldn’t leave you to go far away if I tried, dear, +and I’ll never try. Do try to be a Christian, John.” + +“I’ve always been a Christian, according to my lights, my darling; and +God Himself can’t keep me away from you in heaven,—if there is a God and +a heaven,” he added under his breath, unable, even in that trying hour, +to lay aside his doubts. + +“God is just, and He will give you the benefit of every honest doubt, +John.” + +“But He ought to let me keep you, darling; I need you, oh, I need you!” + +“All is well, my husband. I am safe, and so are you, in the Everlasting +Arms. Call the children; I must be going. Don’t you hear the angels sing?” + +The children were aroused, but she had relapsed into unconsciousness, and +it was fully an hour before her reason again returned. + +“Mother,” she said once, while her mind was wandering, “did you get my +deed? Are you snugly settled in the little house? I tried very hard +to provide for your and father’s welfare in your last days, and—” Her +concluding words were inaudible. + +“Yes, darling, your parents are provided for; there is no doubt about +it,” cried her husband, as she awoke again to semi-consciousness. And if +ever a man experienced a thrill of supreme satisfaction in the midst of +a grave sorrow, that man was Captain John Ranger, of the overland wagon +train. + +“Mary!” + +It was her next word of consciousness. + +“Come close, dear; and Jean, and Marjorie, and Harry. The light has +faded, and I cannot see you, darlings. But be good. Obey your father. +Take good care of Bobbie, Sadie, and Baby Annie. God bless—” The sentence +was not finished. + +There was another prolonged convulsion. Her husband released her hand +and closed her eyes, believing all was over. But while they all waited, +silent and awe-stricken, as if expecting a resolute move from some one, +she opened her eyes again and whispered, “John!” + +“Yes, Annie. John is here.” + +For an instant she beamed upon him with a look of unutterable love. Then, +as if attracted by a familiar voice, she turned her gaze toward the only +space in the tent where no one was standing. + +“Yes,” she cried in clear, ringing tones; and her brightening eyes grew +strangely full of eager expectation. “I’m coming! Tell grannie I’ll be +ready for her when she comes to heaven!” + +“Leave me alone with my dead!” said the bereaved husband, as he cleared +the tent of other occupants and threw himself upon the ground beside the +still and cold and irresponsive body. No longer animated by the invisible +power that for forty years had thrilled it with the mystery of being, it +lay with closed eyes and folded hands beneath its drapings of white, upon +the heavy, furry buffalo robe, placed beneath the inanimate form by the +husband’s loving hands. + +Through all the years of John Ranger’s sturdy manhood, that self-denying +life had been his, devoted with all its tenderness to his interests and +those of the sweet pledges of their love, for whose sake he must now live +on, alone. + + * * * * * + +Months after, when the remnant of the Ranger family had reached the +land “where rolls the Oregon,” a letter came to the bereaved husband +and father, by way of the Isthmus of Panama, bringing tidings of the +dear great-grandmother’s transition; and John Ranger, still an agnostic, +awaiting the proofs of immortality that had never come to his physical +senses in such a manner as to be recognized, wandered out alone among the +whispering firs, and cried in bitterness of spirit: “Man giveth up the +ghost, and where is he?” + + * * * * * + +“I ought to have known better than to bring you out here to die in the +wilderness, Annie darling!” cried the grief-stricken husband, caressing +the attenuated fingers that lay stiff and cold upon the pulseless +breast. “You would never have undertaken the journey but to gratify me; +and the end is here! If you had positively refused to come, that might +have settled it. But I knew your wishes, and disregarded them; so all the +blame is mine. If I had always taken counsel of you, my better self, as +I ought to have done, I should not now have been left with our precious +little ones in these wild fastnesses, in danger of I know not what.” + +“Daddie!” cried an anxious voice, “may I come in?” + +He heard, but did not answer. Jean opened the door of the tent, and knelt +beside the still, white form of her mother. + +“Couldn’t you sleep, my daughter?” asked her father, reaching across the +shrouded figure of his dead and tenderly caressing her tear-wet face. + +“No, daddie; at least, not any more. I’ve had one short nap. When I woke +and heard you moaning, I thought maybe you’d be glad to have me come in. +I want to tell you my dream. May I, daddie dear, for mother’s sake?” + +“Yes, child.” + +“I dreamed that I was all alone in a great park. I have never seen +anything half so beautiful when awake, so I can’t tell you what it was +like. But there were flowers and trees and fountains, and birds of +paradise that sang heavenly songs. It seemed that I could understand the +language of every bird and butterfly and tree and flower. The birds did +not seem the least bit afraid of me; and the memory of their music is +sweet in my ears now. + +“I don’t know how I got across, but before I had time to think about it, +I found myself on the opposite side of a broad and shining river, as +clear as crystal and as blue as the sky. On the water, which I could see +through to a wonderful depth, were countless living things, reflecting +all the colors of the rainbow, and many more,—all swimming, as if +without effort, among the rarest foliage and flowers. Everything seemed +alive,—that is, sentient, if that’s the proper word,—and acted as if it +knew me, and was glad I had come. + +“The park I had first entered was even prettier at a distance than it +had been at closer range. The river-bank, which was covered with grass +that looked like pea-green velvet spangled with diamonds, was furnished +in spots with vine-embowered seats. To sit or step upon them did not +crush the vines; and I noticed that after they had yielded to pressure, +they would rebound at its removal, like a rubber ball,—only, unlike the +rubber, they seemed to have a consciousness all their own. The bending +green of the trees was like emeralds, and their leaves shone like satin. +The hearts of the flowers glowed like balls of living fire; and when I +plucked a spray, there was left no broken stem to show what I had done. I +was too happy to think, and I closed my eyes in absolute peace. + +“Suddenly a brilliant light permeated everything; the river looked like +melted silver, and the park glowed so brightly that I tried to shield my +eyes with my hand. But my hand was almost transparent, and I could see +everything as well when my eyes were closed as open. As I sat, quietly +inbreathing the wonderful beauty of it all, filled with a happiness that +I cannot express in words, there came to me, not audibly, but yet as if +spoken by somebody, the words of the last Sunday-school lesson I had +learned in the little log schoolhouse in the Illinois woods: ‘And there +shall be no night there!’ + +“‘Am I in heaven?’ I tried to ask aloud; but my words gave forth no +audible sound. And though I heard nothing in the way we hear sounds, a +reply reached my senses instantly. I heard it through and through me, +though not a word was spoken. Do you want to hear the rest of it, daddie +dear?” + +“Yes, child. Go on.” His eager gaze betrayed his soul-hunger. He buried +his face in his hands. “I am listening, Jean.” + +“Then I will go on. In a little while I found myself floating, but +I wasn’t the least bit afraid; I just trusted. Pretty soon I became +conscious that somebody was guiding me along. I did not stir; I hardly +breathed. I was too happy to move, lest I should break the spell and find +that I was only dreaming. + +“Suddenly I found myself seated in a wonderful chair. It was clear, +like crystal, but white, like ivory. It was beautifully carved, and +the figures seemed instinct with life. They yielded readily beneath +my weight,—though I was not conscious of any weight,—and they always +returned to their proper shape when relieved of pressure. The crystal +river rippled at my feet. The beautiful park spread everywhere. A bird of +paradise alighted on a bough over my head and shook its plumage in the +air, exhaling a perfume that was like that of the tuberose. + +“And now comes the part that you will most like to hear. As I sat, I +heard, or rather felt, a sound, as of a gentle wind. A white arm, thinly +covered with a filmy, lustrous lace, stole gently around my neck, and +mother glided down beside me into the chair. Her eyes were as blue as the +heavens and as bright as the morning star. + +“I wasn’t the least bit surprised or startled. I did not care to speak, +nor did I expect her to utter a word. I did not want the heavenly silence +broken. I pressed her hand, which was as soft as down, and pink and +white, like a sea-shell. She put her finger to her lips, as if in token +of silence. + +“Suddenly a light, different from any I had yet seen, surrounded us. We +looked upward, and a form like unto the Son of Man stood before us. He +was transparent, and as radiant as the sun. We lost ourselves in the +light of His presence, as the stars lose themselves in the light of the +sun. He did not speak an audible word; but as He outspread His hands +above our heads, I turned to gaze at mother, whose raiment was as sheer +as the finest gauze. It was all edged with luminous lace; and the sheen +on her hair was like spun gold, glistening in the sunshine.” + +“Didn’t she say anything, Jean?” + +This man, who had all his life refused to listen to any story which could +not be verified by physical law, had lost himself in the strange recital. +Jean looked as one transfigured. She resumed her story. + +“Mother said: ‘You must go back to your duties, Jean.’ Her arms were +about my neck, and her shining draperies floated around us like a mist +with the sun shining on it. ‘You have a long and weary road before you, +Jean,’ she said, speaking silently, but in words that could be felt. ‘The +experiences you will encounter will all be good for your development, +my dear,’ she added, still inaudibly. ‘The time will come when you +will realize, no matter what befalls you, that every lesson in life is +necessary for your development. You are in the arms of the Infinite One, +whose kingdom is within you, and who doeth all things well. Go back to +your dear father, Jean. Tell him I am not dead. Tell Mary, Marjorie, +Harry, and all the rest—’ Just then I felt a sudden sensation, as of +floating downward, toward the earth. + +“A cow lowed as I stirred myself in the wagon, and I remembered that you +had tied Flossie to a wheel to keep her from straying from camp. Bells +tinkled on the hillsides, the wind whistled in the trees, and I sat up, +wide awake. I heard you moaning, daddie, and my heart went out to you +with a longing that I cannot describe. I could not rest till I had told +you all. What do you suppose it means?” + +“I can only say, like one of old, ‘Such knowledge is too wonderful for +me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it.’ Leave me now, daughter. You are +weary and must sleep.” + + + + +XVII + +_FATHER AND DAUGHTER_ + + +Jean passed out silently into the night, and pausing a moment, looked up +to the silent stars, and whispered: “‘The heavens declare the glory of +God; and the firmament sheweth His handywork.’” + +How long she stood meditating she never realized. The tethered cow lowed +again,—a plaintive, beseeching wail, that seemed almost human. She was +mourning for her slain calf, poor thing,—a calf left by the roadside at +its birth. It had been mercifully killed by Captain Ranger’s order, that +it might escape the hardships of a sure but lingering death in following +its ill-fated mother. + +The cow’s udder was distended and feverish. Jean, as mindful of the +practical affairs of life as of its mysteries, knelt upon the ground, +and, with the skill of much practice in the art of milking, relieved the +poor bereft mother of her pain. + +“Poor Flossie!” she said, as the patient animal drew a sigh of relief. +“Poor Flossie! It seemed cruel to deprive you of your baby. And they did +it, too, before your very eyes! You must be thirsty, Flossie; you’re so +feverish,” she said, as she brought the grateful animal a pail of clear, +cold water. + +Jean crept shivering into bed between her sleeping sisters, where she +tried in vain to lie awake, to live over again the vivid experiences of +her dream. + +“Was it a dream?” she asked herself as she cuddled close among the +blankets. “Who knows what dreams are, anyhow? And is there anybody on the +earth who can understand, define, or fathom the mystery of sleep?” In a +few minutes she was fast asleep, and when she awoke it was morning. + +“There are, there must be, other senses finer and more acute than our +five physical ones,” she thought, as she crept from her bed, refreshed +and wide awake. + +The stars had paled, and the clear gray of the early dawn lit up the +crests of the abounding hills. + + * * * * * + +The simple preparations for the funeral rites were made in silence. Men +and women moved mechanically about the camp. The very cattle seemed to +understand. + +No casket was procurable, but every man in camp was ready to do all in +his power to supply the need. Junipers of goodly size abounded in the +neighboring woods. From two of these, felled for the purpose, thick +puncheons were hewn to form a crude but stanch enclosure for the good +woman’s final home. A grave was made, with hard labor, in the abounding +sandstone, and the women lined its vault and edges with flattened boughs +of evergreen, thus making an ideal resting-place for the still, white +form, as beautiful in death as it had been in youth. + +There was no prayer or sermon. The simple rites were about to close when +Mary whispered to her father: “I have heard mother say she wanted us +all to sing when they should be laying her away.” And the three eldest +daughters of the peaceful dead and the storm-rent living sang with +tremulous but not unmusical tones:— + + “Oh, heaven is nearer than mortals think, + When they look with trembling dread + At the misty future that stretches on + From the silent home of the dead. + + “’Tis no lone isle in a boundless main; + No brilliant but distant shore, + Where the loving ones who are called away + Must go to return no more. + + “No, heaven is near us; the mighty veil + Of mortality blinds the eye, + That we see not the glorious angel bands, + On the shores of eternity. + + “I know, when the silver cord is loosed, + When the veil is rent away, + Not long and dark shall the passage be + To the realms of endless day.” + +John Ranger looked upward with bared brow and streaming eyes, and in his +heart a flickering hope was born. + +The Reverend Thomas Rogers, with all his fervent eloquence and well +grounded belief in the very orthodox scheme of salvation which he had so +constantly preached, had never shaken his doubts as did the plaintive +promises of that simple, impressive hymn. + +His devoted wife, strong in her faith in the efficacy of prayer, had long +ceased to speak to him of her religious convictions, for which his ready +logic and quaint ridicule suggested no answer. At such times, consoling +herself with the command of her Master, she would enter into her closet, +shut the door, and pray for him and their children in secret, with never +a doubt that sometime, someway, her prayers would be answered openly. And +who shall say that her faith was not at last rewarded, in a way she least +expected, through that plaintive song, through which, being dead, she had +yet spoken? + +After the burial, the remainder of the day was spent in the silent +performance of the many accumulated duties of the camp. There was no time +for the luxury of grief. The women and girls washed, ironed, cooked, did +the dishes, mended wearing apparel, sewed up rents in wagon-covers and +tents, and gathered heaps of wild flowers, with which they adorned the +fresh mound of earth that none of them expected ever to see again. + + * * * * * + +The men were not idle. A broken ox-yoke needed mending. Wagon-tires were +reset. Such heavy articles as could be dispensed with were discarded. + +Jamie’s cradle, for which Mrs. Ranger had begged a place in their +effects, and her grandmother’s spinning-wheel, which she had stored in +one of the wagons, were among the articles ordered to be thrown away. + +“Your mother will not miss them now,” said Captain Ranger, huskily. + +“It is a shame to disregard our dear mother’s wishes, now that she cannot +speak for herself,” said Mary, in a whisper, aside to Jean. + +“I know it; and I’ve already made a bargain with Mrs. McAlpin to store +them in one of her wagons. Daddie will thank us for it sometime.” + +Sadly and silently the work went on; for the living had to be cared for, +and nothing more could be done for the dead. + +When evening came Jean sought her journal, climbed to the rim of the +little natural amphitheatre overlooking the sparkling spring of icy water +near her mother’s last resting-place, and read in the last space she had +left blank, in her father’s bold chirography, some lines of a poem which +he had quoted from memory:— + + “’Twas midnight, and he sat alone, + The husband of the dead. + That day the dark dust had been thrown + Above her buried head. + + “Her orphaned children round him slept, + But in their sleep would moan; + In bitterness of soul he wept. + He was alone—alone. + + “The world is full of life and light, + But, ah, no light for me! + My little world, once warm and bright, + Is cheerless as the sea. + + “Where is her sweet and kindly face? + Where is her cordial tone? + I gaze upon her resting-place + And feel that I’m alone. + + “The lovely wife, maternal care, + The self-denying zeal, + The smile of hope that chased despair, + And promised future weal; + + “The clean, bright hearth, nice table spread, + The charm o’er all things thrown, + The sweetness in whate’er she said,— + All gone! I am alone. + + “I slept last night, and then I dreamed; + Perchance her spirit woke; + A soft light o’er my pillow gleamed, + A voice in music spoke: + + “‘Forgot, forgiven, all neglect, + Thy love recalled, alone; + The babes I loved, O love, protect, + I still am all thine own.’” + +“Dear bereaved and sorrowing daddie!” sighed Jean, as she closed the +book. “I cannot write a word to-night. Sacred to him and his be the page +on which he has inscribed these echoes of his heart. But let nobody say, +after this, that daddie has no sentiment in his make-up. The trouble is +that he is too busy a man to give rein to his feelings, except under +extraordinary pressure. I wish he hadn’t tried to throw away those +heirlooms of mother’s, though. The oxen wouldn’t have felt the difference +in the load. It was an act that he’ll be ashamed of some day.” + +Weeks after, when the memory-hallowed relics came to light, Captain +Ranger bowed his head upon his hands and gave way to such a convulsion of +grief as had not shaken him, even at the time of her transition. Jean had +good cause to recall the stanzas he had inscribed to her mother’s memory +in her battered journal, as she said to herself: “I knew all the time +that daddie’s heart was right. It is only necessary to touch it in the +proper place to show that it is tender.” Once more she closed the book +without having written a word. + +But we must not anticipate. + +On the 22d of June another entry is recorded,—Jean’s last memorandum of +their journey in the Black Hills: “The prickly pears still give us much +annoyance. The roads are heavy with sand, and the rocks over which our +wagons must bump and bound are terribly rough and jagged. + +“Across the Platte, and away to the southward many miles, though they +seem much nearer, owing to the rarity of the air, are quaint and curious +formations in the rocky cliffs, worn by the winds of ages into rude +images of men and animals that stare at us with sunken eyes, their broken +noses, grinning skulls, and disfigured bodies reminding us of unhappy +phantoms risen from the under world. + +“Sometimes the semblance of a great mosque or cathedral rears its domes +and minarets in the clear blue of the heavens; and sometimes what seems +a great embattled fortification is seen rising with realistic majesty +from a vast sage plain that looks, with a little aid of the imagination, +like the dried-up bed of a big moat. Of course, ‘’tis distance lends +enchantment to the view,’ as no doubt the images we see so distinctly +would resolve themselves into shapeless masses if we could see them at +close range. + +“The grass we so much need for the stock has again disappeared, and +daddie says we shall return to-morrow to the main travelled road. Wild +flowers are blooming in profusion all around our camp, smiling at us as +if in mockery of the prevailing desolation. Wood is scarce again, and we +find few buffalo chips. + +“We seldom see any more deer or antelope, and the buffalo have all +escaped to the distant hills; that is, all but the hapless multitudes +that have been cruelly and needlessly slaughtered by the unthinking and +greedy hunters of the plains. + +“We passed half-a-dozen newly made graves again to-day, and it is evident +that we are getting back into the dreaded cholera belt. The day has been +extremely hot, but the evening is chilly and blustering. Daddie says the +most of the victims of the epidemic are women. I wonder if such sorrow as +ours pervades every family into whose ranks the Silent Messenger comes +unbidden and steals away its hope. + +“The Indians seem to have all been scared away by the cholera. What must +they think of us, who claim to be civilized and even enlightened, who +have come to bring them our religion, and with it starvation, pestilence, +and death? + +“Our world isn’t yet fit for the abode of anything but beasts of prey, +of which poorly civilized man is chief. No wonder the Indians fear and +hate us. We destroy their range, we scare away their game, we scatter +disease and death among them; and as rapidly as possible we seize and +possess their lands. ‘No quarter for man or beast’ should be written upon +our foreheads in letters of fire. But maybe we are merely fulfilling our +destiny. I cannot tell; it’s all a mystery.” She closed the book with a +sigh. + + + + +XVIII + +_THE LITTLE DOCTOR_ + + +After leaving the Black Hills and descending again into the valley of the +Platte, the Ranger company found travelling still more difficult than +before they had left the main travelled road. The cattle, from burning +their hoofs in the alkali pools, through which they were often compelled +to wade for hours at a stretch, became afflicted with a serious foot-ail. + +“A more dangerous epidemic than the cholera menaces us now,” said Mrs. +McAlpin, as she watched the poor brutes limping along the road, many of +them bellowing with pain and writhing under the cruel lashes of the +drivers’ whips, as they hobbled wearily on toward the setting sun. + +“Yes,” replied Captain Ranger, as he blanched with apprehension. “Our +very lives depend upon the cattle; we have no other means of getting out +of the wilderness. We must do something heroic to heal their feet, or +we’ll all be left to die together.” + +Scotty, whose serious accident had been overshadowed by the death and +burial of Mrs. Ranger, and who had grown weary of receiving only such +attention as could be bestowed upon an invalid not considered dangerously +afflicted, began to demand the careful nursing he at first pretended to +disdain. The jolting of the wagon, in which he still lay upon a sort +of swinging stretcher, though it alleviated the roughness of constant +rebounds from the rocky roads, aggravated the inflammation of his wound; +and the pain grew more intolerable as the bones began to knit. His +ravings of discontent were often hard for Mrs. Benson to endure. But she +adhered resolutely to her purpose as her daughter’s chaperon to prevent +too frequent visits between the twain, and often kept Mrs. McAlpin away +from his side for many hours together. + +“Scotty has managed somehow to disarrange his bandages, Little Doctor,” +said Captain Ranger; “and badly as our cattle need attention, you will be +obliged to look after his case this evening. I know how punctilious your +mother is over what she is pleased to call the proprieties, but you must +attend the fellow professionally, whether she consents or not. + +“I do not want any more disagreeable encounters with my mother, Captain.” + +“Damn it! I beg your pardon, ma’am! But I’m sure God swore in His wrath +under less provocation,—if there is any truth in Holy Writ. These are no +times for conventional hair-splittings. You are in duty bound to visit +Scotty as his physician. I will accompany you if it will help you out.” + +“I shall be glad indeed of your company, Captain. But women are not +supposed to be doctors. We’ve always been taught to look upon the +profession as one beyond our comprehension.” + +“And indeed it is beyond your comprehension. Men do not comprehend it any +more than you do. If they did, it would long ago have been developed into +a science, instead of what it is,—empiricism. I’m afraid I’ll swear again +if I hear any more nonsense about the things women are not supposed to +know because they are women.” + +“Are you ready to accompany me now, Captain?” + +“I’ll have to be. But our lunch is ready; and, by my beans and bacon, I +must have something to eat first! There! I didn’t mean to swear. It was a +sort of slip of the tongue.” + +“I am free to admit that it isn’t polite to swear, Captain. But you +didn’t take the name of God in vain; so you are forgiven. You will grant +that swearing, even by beans and bacon, is a bad habit, though. Don’t set +a bad example before the children, to say nothing of the rest of us,” she +added, laughing. + +They found the patient in a high fever. + +“It is his impatience that does it,” said Mrs. Benson. “He fumes like a +madman sometimes.” + +Mrs. McAlpin deftly unbound, dressed, and rebandaged the unfortunate limb. + +“We’re doing nicely,” she said, when her work was finished. “You mustn’t +fret yourself into a fever again. A sick man should be as serene as a May +morning.” + +“How in the name o’ Melchizedek and the Twelve Apostles is a man going +to keep cool when the thermometer is raging in the nineties, and one’s +self-elected nurse is scolding like a sitting hen? If she’d ride in +the other wagon and leave you to do the nursing, I’d stand a chance to +recover.” + +“Mamma is getting on famously,” laughed the Little Doctor. “You are so +amiable and sweet-tempered yourself that I can’t see why she doesn’t fall +down before your injured foot and worship you. I feel almost tempted to +try it myself. You don’t think she is enduring all this for fun, do you?” + +“I suppose I haven’t been acting the angel; but it was because I wanted +the society of my doctor.” + +“You allude to Mrs. McAlpin, of course,” said the Captain, smiling. + +“Who else in thunder should I mean? There is but one woman doctor in the +world, so far as I know. Didn’t she find me in that infernal hole, wedged +in it like a rat in a trap? And didn’t she patch my broken bones, like a +trained physician, when there wasn’t a man in a hundred miles that could +have done it?” + +“It is never wise to argue a point with a man in a fever, Mr. Burns. We +can talk it out later on. See! Mamma has brought soap, fresh water, and +towels. You couldn’t have a better nurse. You must let her bathe your +face and hands and head.” + +“Won’t you take her place, Daphne?” + +Captain Ranger and Mrs. Benson were not listening or looking just then; +and as for an instant their eyes met, the patient felt upon his fevered +forehead the fluttering touch of a soft, cool hand. + +“Delicious!” he whispered. “I shall get well now.” + +“Allow me,” said Mrs. Benson, elbowing her daughter aside; “I am head +nurse in this ward.” + +The patient groaned. + +“The Captain says you ought to have been a man, Daphne,” said Mrs. +Benson, as her daughter yielded her place. + +“If my father had lived to see this day, he would have rejoiced that I +didn’t allow my usefulness to run to waste because of my femininity. Of +that I am as certain as that my patient is better.” + +“You are a disobedient and ungrateful girl, Daphne.” + +“You are my mamma.” + +“I am not to blame for that, Daphne.” + +“Am _I_?” asked the daughter, seriously. “I don’t pretend to understand, +and so of course cannot explain the cause that leads to individual being, +mamma dear. I know, though, that I am; and if the time should ever come +that I can know why I am, I shall understand why I am a woman. I cannot +now see that anybody is to be blamed on account of the fact, or accident, +of sex.” + +“You are to blame for being a thankless child, Daphne.” + +“I am neither a child nor thankless, mamma dear. I simply desire to +be and act myself. You know I love and honor you; but I have learned, +by sad experience, that each human being exists primarily for himself +or herself; and not one of us can live for another. If I had been +taught this truth in my childhood, we might both have been spared much +suffering. But”—turning to her patient—“we have other duties. Your fever +has fallen several degrees in the past fifteen minutes. I must go. When +you want to rail at anybody just pitch into me and let mamma have a +rest. Jean will bring you some broth. I’ll send Mrs. O’Dowd to sit with +you sometimes, to give mamma a little liberty. You two have been forced +to keep each other’s company till you are both as cross as a pair of +imprisoned cats.” + +“I believe I’ve been pursuing the wrong policy,” said Mrs. Benson to the +Captain, as they walked together on the burning sand. “If Daphne had been +compelled to endure that patient’s petulance for more than a week, as I +have, she would have been as weary of the sight of him as I am.” + +“I am not so sure of that,” replied the Captain, “seeing they’re not +married yet. Two cats will agree together like two doves, as long as they +have their individual freedom; but if you tie ’em together, they’ll fight +like dogs and tigers.” + +“Poor little mamma! She’s all tired out, so she is!” exclaimed Mrs. +McAlpin, as she and her mother were walking out together after they +had stopped for the night. “You must change places to-morrow with Mrs. +O’Dowd. Then you can ride in Captain Ranger’s big family wagon with the +children and me, and get your much-needed rest.” + +“Do you mean to say that I shall ride in that widower’s wagon, Daphne, +and his wife only just buried? What would people say?” + +“Why should you think or care what anybody says, so long as you do your +duty, mamma? Captain Ranger is a gentleman. His heart is buried with his +wife. Don’t be a silly! Beg pardon, mamma. I didn’t mean to be slangy or +saucy. We’ve other troubles in store, and ought not to be quarrelling +between ourselves. Do you know that Donald McAlpin is following, or at +least shadowing, this train?” + +Mrs. Benson blanched. + +“Why do you think that, Daphne?” + +“I’ve seen him twice since we met that colony of freighters. If he +persists in his persecutions, I’ll kill him!” + +“Do not talk that way, child. People have been made innocent victims of +the scaffold for having made threats which they never meant to and never +did fulfil.” + +“I have nothing to say against him as a man. But before God he is not +my husband, no matter what the law may have decreed, and I am living a +lie when I permit the outrage. He would make you an agreeable husband, +because you love him. I’ve known this for many a day. If I were dead or +divorced, you could become his wife, and then you would both be happy. We +are all miserable as it is.” + +“But think of the looks of it, daughter! What would people say?” Her +eyes grew suddenly aglow with a newly awakened hope, in spite of her +demurrer, and her heart beat hard. + +“Do you intend to do what you know to be right in the sight of God? or +do you mean to remain a slave all the days of your life to the idle +words of men and women who care nothing for you, and to whom you owe no +allegiance? Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the +heart. At least, I so read the Scripture, which you say is your rule of +faith and practice.” + +“But we owe allegiance to the English Church and to human law, my child.” + +“That is true; and I for one intend to obey the laws of man till they +are amended, although I was allowed no voice in their construction. But, +thanks to the progressive spirit of the age, we have divorce courts +established almost everywhere throughout the civilized world, so anybody +can obey the law and still ‘to his own self be true.’” + +“No divorce can be had in our church, Daphne, except for a nameless +crime.” + +“That ruling is a relic of barbarism. I will see that the way is opened +for both you and Donald to obey the law and be honest with yourselves +also.” + +“But how about Mr. Burns? Does your rule apply to him?” + +“We won’t discuss that matter, mamma. Mr. Burns fully understands that I +am not a free woman, and he has no right to discuss with me a question +that I am not at liberty to consider. Although I despise the law that +holds me in its thrall, I will obey it till it is annulled.” + +“You don’t know what you’re saying, child.” + +“Yes, I do, mamma. I have studied the law carefully. I shall obey it in +everything I undertake.” + +“Don’t you know that Rollin Burns is a pauper?” + +“That’s neither here nor there. The possible future relations between Mr. +Burns and myself are neither supposable nor discussable under present +conditions. What a glorious world we live in!” she exclaimed, clinging +to her mother’s arm and pulling her along. “How happy everybody might +become if everybody could afford to be honest!” + +“But public opinion is a moral safeguard, my child.” + +“It has wellnigh made a lunatic of me,” exclaimed the daughter, with a +sigh. “I should have been in an insane asylum if I had not grown strong +enough to defy the thing you call public opinion. Now please remember, +mamma, you may meet Donald McAlpin at any time. I have told you that +he was shadowing us. But you are not to recognize him so long as I am +his lawful wife, or it will be the worse for all of us. God knows, I am +anxious enough to set him free; and I’ll do it as soon as the law will +let me. ‘All things come to him who waits.’ Be hopeful, be trustful, be +patient, mamma dear; and be sure ‘your own will come to you.’” + +A solitary horseman galloped past them and halted at the camp. + +“It’s Donald!” cried Mrs. Benson, nervously clutching her daughter’s arm. +“Why can’t we speak to him, Daphne?” + +“Come this way.” + +Reluctantly Mrs. Benson followed. + +“Let’s sit behind these rocks,” said the daughter. “It is fortunate +that I gave Captain Ranger his latest name. He knows him only as Donald +McPherson.” + +They watched the two men parleying. Captain Ranger pointed toward the +distant hills with one hand, and with the other was gesticulating +vigorously. + +“Will you promise not to let him recognize you while we are on this +journey, mamma dear?” + +“It would be an easy promise to make, my child, if I could know when, +where, and under what circumstances we might meet again in the future.” + + + + +XIX + +_A BRIEF MESSAGE FOR MRS. BENSON_ + + +“We’ll not be able to advance another mile unless something can be done +to cure the cattle’s feet,” exclaimed the Captain the next morning, when +his teamsters came together for consultation. + +“I have been studying the case during the night,” said Mrs. McAlpin, +who was preparing breakfast. “It is cool and pleasant now, but it will +be terribly hot by nine o’clock. We must treat the sore feet of our +sufferers to a heroic cure, and get them out on the range, away from the +sand of the public road, before the sun gets over the hills. We can’t +drive a hoof over the road to-day.” + +“I’d like to know how in blazes we’re going to doctor the cattle’s feet +without medicine,” cried Hal. “We haven’t even enough o’ ‘Number Six’ on +hand to give my off-leader’s left foot a thorough treatment.” + +“I guess we have everything we need,” replied the Little Doctor. +“Bring me your fullest tar-bucket. There, that’s encouraging. Got any +turpentine, Captain? That’s good. Now bring me an iron pot, Susannah. +Here’s a good bed of glowing coals. There,” she cried, as she emptied the +liquid tar into the iron kettle. “Now let’s add the turpentine, and I’ll +heat the mixture as slowly as possible over these red-hot coals. It is +fortunate that the flames are dead, otherwise we might set our dish on +fire and spoil our broth. Have you any oakum?” + +“Not a bit. Who’d ’a’ thought we’d need oakum on a land-lubbers’ journey +like this?” said the Captain. + +The Little Doctor knitted her brows. “Have you some Manila rope and a big +pan?” she asked. + +“We have mother’s clothes-line, if that will do,” said Jean. + +“Yo’ uns not gwine to empty dat stuff in my dish-pan, honey?” exclaimed +Susannah, in indignant protest, as Mary was fetching the pan. + +Mrs. McAlpin laughed. + +The seething mixture was lifted dexterously from the coals in the nick +of time to prevent an accident by fire. It was then emptied into the +dish-pan and stirred to the consistency of blackstrap,—a commodity with +which the wayfarers were familiar,—and pieces of the tarred rope were +made ready for placing between the doctored hoofs. + +“We’ll try our Little Doctor’s remedy on Scotty’s off-leader first,” said +Hal. “If it should kill him, there will be only one dead, and he’s nearly +dead anyhow.” + +The poor beast bellowed pitifully as his hoof was plunged into the almost +scalding mixture; but like the lassoed victim of a branding iron, he +could not get away, and each hoof received its treatment in its turn. + +By the doctor’s order, a tent had been cut into convenient patches; and +the seared feet of the afflicted brute, after a liberal supply of the +flour of sulphur had been added to the tar and turpentine, were securely +wrapped with the pieces and bound with rope, to protect them from the +dust and gravel of the roads. + +By the time that each disabled animal had been subjected to this heroic +treatment, it was long past noon, and the Captain decided to turn the +teams back upon the range for the remainder of the day. + + * * * * * + +“May I take a ride on Sukie, daddie dear?” asked Jean. “I’ll find good +grass for her, and plenty of it.” + +“Yes, Jean. Take her to yonder ravine, where you see a clump of +cottonwoods. You’ll be pretty sure to find some tender grass at their +roots.” + +Jean leaped nimbly to the saddle and cantered leisurely away. + +Suddenly a bronzed and handsome horseman rode up beside her and lifted +his hat,—a large sombrero, surmounting a pair of square shoulders that +sported a gay serape. + +“Good-morning, little miss. Or would you call it afternoon? I had stopped +under the cottonwoods to graze my horse, and I couldn’t resist the +temptation to accost you. Going to California?” + +“No; to Oregon.” + +“A God-forsaken country that. Rains thirteen months in every year.” + +“Have you ever been there?” + +The stranger shook his head. “I’ve had rain enough in England to do me +for the rest of my life.” + +“A little of the Oregon rains we’ve read about would be a godsend if +we could have it now,” said Jean, mopping her perspiring face with the +curtain of her sunbonnet, and glancing ruefully at the brazen sky. + +“May I ride beside you for a little distance?” + +“If we keep in sight of the wagons, sir.” + +“You’re not afraid of me, I hope?” + +He was close beside her now, so close he could have grasped her +bridle-rein. + +“Afraid? Of course not. I am not afraid of any gentleman.” + +“Do you belong to yonder camp?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And there are two ladies travelling with you,—a widow and her daughter?” + +“There are a grass widow and a nigger, sir.” + +“Now see here, little one,” and his voice grew harsh and loud, “you’ve +been coached; that’s evident. Don’t be frightened. I don’t mean to harm +you. But I am no longer deceived. Will you do me a favor?” + +He was reading her face anxiously. + +“What can I do for you, sir?” + +“Will you carry a note for me to Mrs. Benson?” + +“I don’t know, sir. See! They’re bringing in the cattle. I must hurry +back to camp.” + +“Wait a little, miss. I must write a note.” + +“I haven’t promised to give it to anybody, sir.” + +“But you’ll do it,” he said, thrusting a few hastily written, unsealed +lines into her hand. “Give that to the young lady’s mother. I feel that +I can trust you. Here’s a dollar. You will not read the note, nor say a +word about it to any one?” + +“You can trust me, sir, but I do not want your dollar.” + +“Keep it, child.” + +He wheeled and was gone. She watched him disappear in a cloud of dust, +and hid the note away in the bosom of her dress. + +“He trusted me, and I won’t read it, though I’d be glad to know its +contents,” she whispered to herself. “Why does Fate make me the +depositary of other people’s affairs and then burden me with secrecy? I’m +only an ignorant girl; but I know enough about the secrets of more than +one of our fellow-travellers to explode bombs in several directions if +I’d tell!” + + * * * * * + +“I am overjoyed at the success of my first practice as a veterinary +doctor,” said Mrs. McAlpin the next day. + +“We’re all glad,” said the Captain. “Small use any man would have +for this world if it weren’t for the women to help him out under +difficulties.” + +“Poor Captain! How he misses his wife!” she thought, as she sought the +wagon where Scotty lay. + +“I’d get well a great deal faster if I had you for a nurse, Daphne,” he +said appealingly. + +“Nature is doing her best for you. She’s mending your bones thoroughly. +If we patched you up in too big a hurry, we’d soon be in trouble again.” + +“But I feel like a chained eagle, lying here.” + +“Captain Ranger is making you a pair of crutches, Mr. Burns. You’ll soon +be out again on your well foot, if you obey orders. Where’s mamma?” + +“In the shadow of the wagon, yonder.” + +Mrs. Benson was resting in the shade, indulging in a silent reverie. “Are +all the teachings of my life to be overthrown?” she said, as she thrust +a note into her pocket and buried her face in her hands. “Can it be true +that Daphne was right and I was wrong? What will people say? Daphne has +good principles, but she’s as unsentimental as a Mandan squaw. She has no +more romance in her make-up than black Susannah. Yet,” and a fluttering +hope welled up in her heart, “she’s a true and faithful daughter. I would +to Heaven that all the people in the world were as good.” + +She produced her treasured note again, and read it stealthily. + +“Yes, yes! it can be managed, and none of the curious will ever be the +wiser,” she said, after due reflection. “It is indeed fortunate that he’s +been compelled by the law of entail to take his mother’s name. Nobody +will know him in Oregon.” + +Mrs. McAlpin found Scotty at camping time with a voracious appetite and a +temper like a caged bear. + +“Where have you kept yourself through all this blistering afternoon?” he +asked, munching his food heartily. + +“I can’t stay with all my patients all the time, Mr. Burns, especially as +so many of them are quadrupeds, with the hoof-ail.” + +“I suppose, then, that I am to be classed as a biped, with the leg-ail.” + +“Exactly.” + +“Ouch! oh!” he exclaimed with a grimace, as the knitting bones gave a +sudden twinge, reminding him that they were awake and on duty. “These +infernal bandages are loose again, I hope.” + +“Your bandages are doing nicely, sir. The Captain will have your +crutches ready in a day or two. Then you can take some exercise.” + +“What have you done with those hideous black garments, Daphne?” + +“Do you like these gray ones better?” + +“Yes, I like the gray ones better.” + +“So does this abounding dust. My black clothes were getting rusty, so I +made a contribution of them to the water nymphs of the Platte.” + +“Why did you wear those weeds?” + +“They served my purpose, sir.” + +“You almost provoke me into profanity, Mrs. McAlpin; you are so +mysteriously non-committal.” + +“Glad to hear it. Men don’t feel like swearing when death is staring them +in the face.” + +“Your supper is getting cold, and Mrs. Benson says you must hurry up.” +The intruder, as usual, was Jean. + +“I will see you later, Mr. Burns,” said Mrs. McAlpin, and she ran away, +laughing. + +“You seem very happy this evening, mamma,” she said, as with cup and +plate in hand she seated herself on a wagon-tongue. + +Mrs. Benson blushed. “Why don’t you eat?” she asked, evading her +daughter’s question. + +“I hardly know. But I am out of sorts. Just think of men coming out on +a journey like this, with ailing wives and unborn children, with no +adequate preparation for their needs! I left one woman, less than two +hours ago, with newly born twins, and a yearling squalling like mad at +the foot of her bed. The mother was as docile as a kitten, and a hundred +times more helpless.” + +“Where was the father?” + +“Oh, he was shambling around, helpless and in the way. He was kindness +personified; but he was as useless as a monkey. When woman’s true history +shall have been written, her part in the upbuilding of this nation +will astound the world. I’ve seen heroines on this journey who far +outrank the Alexanders, Washingtons, and Napoleons of any of our school +histories. Yonder’s a herald coming to announce another case! Will you +accompany me, mamma? I can ask Captain Ranger to stay with Mr. Burns.” + +“Not to-night, Daphne. I am very tired. And you know I have no patience +with a woman doctor, anyway. Women were seen and not heard when I was a +girl.” + + + + +XX + +_THE TEAMSTERS DESERT_ + + +“You seem to be in trouble, my little man. What can I do to help you?” +asked the Little Doctor, as a shocky-headed, freckle-faced child, ragged, +barefoot, and dirty, paused in her presence, balancing himself first on +one foot and then on the other, and occasionally rubbing his eyes with a +grimy shirt-sleeve, open at the wrist and badly out at elbow. + +“I hearn tell that you was a doctor, mum. Can you come to see my mam? +She’s sick, awful.” + +The child led the way to a rickety wagon, which had halted at an +inconvenient distance from the creek, in the blazing sunshine, though a +friendly tree stood near that might have afforded a grateful shade for +an hour or more if the head of the family had thought to stop the wagon +in the right spot before unhitching his team. Three or four sallow, +barefoot, and ragged little children were playing in the sand. The scant +remains of a most uninviting repast littered the ground. A half-dozen +hungry dogs, tied to the wagon-wheels, out of reach of the poor remains +of food, whined piteously. + +A loose-jointed man shambled aimlessly about, wiping his tear-stained +face on the buttonless sleeve of a very dirty shirt. “She’s got the +cholera, an’ she’ll die, an’ thar’ll be nobody left to keer fur her young +uns!” he sobbed within hearing of the writhing patient. + +“When did this suffering begin?” asked the Little Doctor, trying hard not +to smile. + +“Nigh on to half a day ago, mum. I druv like hell to git to this ’ere +crick. I’d hearn of it afore I left the last camp.” + +“Have you a tent?” + +“Lawd, no! nor nothin’ else to speak of.” + +“But dogs and children!” the visitor thought, as she ruefully surveyed +the scene. + +“The steers have got the foot-rot. Kin you kore ’em?” + +“Yes, but we must first attend to the needs of your wife. Go to Captain +Ranger. Tell him I sent you. Tell him I must borrow one of his tents and +some physic and a bottle of ‘Number Six.’ Ask for Mrs. O’Dowd, and be +sure to say that Mrs. McAlpin wants her badly.” + +When Captain Ranger and his man Limpy appeared on the scene, bringing the +tent and medicines, water was already boiling in a black iron kettle, +the only cooking utensil in sight. The tent was soon pitched, and a bed +prepared for the sufferer, who was writhing in convulsions. + +“Any woman accustomed to the comforts of a well-ordered home would have +died,” said Mrs. McAlpin the next morning, after the crisis was past. +“But the average specimen of the poor white trash of the original slave +States has as many lives as a cat.” + +“I didn’t have no doctor,” said the patient, as soon as she was able to +be on her feet. “Thar was a woman yar, an’ she giv’ me some hot truck, +but I jist kored myself.” + +The woman was telling her story to a visitor, who had called, partly from +sympathy, but chiefly from curiosity; and Mrs. McAlpin, who was assisting +Captain Ranger to compound the mixture for the ailing feet of the +stranger’s cattle, overheard the shrill-voiced visitor add, “I never did +take no stock in them women doctors.” + +“I wanted water,” continued the patient, “an’ couldn’t git none; so I +waited till nobody was watchin’ and jist stole out o’ the tent in the +night an’ swallered all I could hol’ from a canteen; and I mended from +the word ‘go.’ The stuff was as warm as dish-water, but I wanted it so +bad I didn’t stop to taste it.” + +All day the convalescent wrestled with weakness; but as the afflicted +cattle could not go forward till the following morning, she moved +languidly about the camp and fed her family with beans and bacon, with +the never-failing accompaniment of black coffee, which Captain Ranger +declared was “strong enough to bear up an iron wedge.” + + * * * * * + +The scenery became more diversified as the travellers continued their +journey up the Platte. Gradually the heat became less suffocating. Desert +sands gave way to alluvial valleys, and the health of man and beast +improved. On the opposite, or south side of the river, the scenery was +strikingly unlike that of the plain through which the emigrant road ran, +winding its sinewy length in and out, over the vast, untilled fields that +lay asleep in the sunshine, awaiting the fructifying power of the autumn +rains, and the future labor of plough and seedsman. + +It was now the first of July. The heavy duties of the day were over, the +short summer evening had come, and Captain Ranger lay upon the grass, +playing with his own little ones, Susannah’s George Washington, and the +three babies of Sally O’Dowd. + +The evening breezes stirred his hair and beard and filed his lungs with +a sensation of vigor he had not enjoyed since bidding farewell to his +faithful wife. + +“The story goes that some prospectors have discovered gold in the +foot-hills across the big drink,” said Yank, approaching the Captain +with a sort of half-military salute. + +“What of it?” asked the Captain, as he shook himself loose from the +little group, and arose to his knees, a vague fear tugging at his heart. +“What does such a discovery mean to us?” + +“Nothing; only the most of us are going to throw up our job and go off +a-prospecting.” + +“What! and leave me alone in this wilderness, without teamsters, a +thousand miles from nowhere, with all these women and children on my +hands to starve to death or be captured by Indians?” + +“That’ll have to be your own lookout, I reckon. The gold fever’s as +sudden as the cholera, and takes you off without warning when you get it +bad.” + +“What’s the matter, daddie?” asked Jean. “Are you sick?” + +“I’m face to face with an awful difficulty, daughter. Our ox-drivers have +caught the gold fever. They are all going to leave us in this wilderness +but Scotty; and he’d go too, no doubt, if he weren’t crippled and +helpless.” + +“Don’t let the desertion of your teamsters worry you,” exclaimed Sally +O’Dowd. “I can drive one of the teams myself.” + +“What! You?” + +“Yes! Didn’t I tell you that you’d never be sorry if you’d let me travel +in your train to Oregon?” + +“We can all drive oxen,” cried his three daughters, in a breath. + +“But who will drive for Mrs. Benson and the Little Doctor? Their +teamsters have joined the stampede, and they can’t drive oxen.” + +“Just try us and see if we can’t,” laughed the Little Doctor. + +“But you have two teams, and your mother cannot drive one of them.” + +“I’ll make a trailer of one of the wagons, just as the freighters do in +the Assiniboin country.” + +“Does Mrs. Benson know about this?” + +“Yes; we’ve talked it all over. It’s a genuine case of ‘have to,’ +Captain.” + +“What will you do with Scotty?” + +“We’ve considered him! He’ll soon be on his feet again. Meanwhile, he’ll +have to stay on in his hammock.” + +“He’s not good for anything there nor anywhere else!” said the Captain, +testily. “He doesn’t know beans about driving oxen, and I doubt if he can +ever learn!” + +“He’s great on ‘intervention’ and ‘non-intervention,’ though,” laughed +Mrs. McAlpin. “He’s even greater on the Monroe Doctrine.” + +“Yes!” exclaimed Jean, “and you ought to hear him rave over the nation’s +allegiance to Mason and Dixon’s Line. It’s on the troubles over the +slavery question, which he says are looming all along the national +horizon, that he comes out strong.” + +“He’s taught me a lot about law and equity, courts and criminals, +constitutions and codes,” said Hal. + +“You make light of the peril of our situation because you do not +comprehend its gravity,” exclaimed Captain Ranger. “We need our +teamsters. Scotty is a capital theorist, but he’ll never set a river +afire.” + +“That’s a feat you’ve never accomplished yet, daddie,” laughed Jean. + +“I’ve come as near it as any living man; for I boiled the Illinois dry, +once!” replied the Captain, alluding to an experience of a former year of +drouth, when a steam sawmill he was operating on the river-bank had to be +closed down for a season for want of water. + +“Don’t worry, Captain,” cried Sally O’Dowd. “The women and children won’t +forsake you.” + +“Because they can’t,” was the curt response, and he walked away to be +alone. + + * * * * * + +The next morning, the teamsters, notwithstanding the strike, were +standing around the camp-fires, waiting for breakfast. Some of them +looked a little ashamed, some were a little concerned as to the fate of +the train, and two or three seemed to enjoy the Captain’s predicament. + +“Clear out, every last one of you!” he exclaimed, as they made a move for +the mess-boxes as soon as breakfast was ready. “The women folks are my +teamsters now, and they shall have the first seats at my table.” + +As the men turned away, crestfallen and hungry, their resolution to “get +rich quick” began to drop toward zero; but their leader and spokesman +hurried them away, explaining that they would find a trading-post and +plenty of “grub” across the river. + +Mrs. McAlpin paused to visit Scotty a moment at his hammock; and as Mrs. +Benson was busy with some duties at the fire, the couple were alone. + +“Why these groanings, Mr. Burns?” she asked, placing her cool hand upon +his corrugated forehead. + +“Because I’m a fool!” + +“Did anybody ever dispute it?” she asked with a silvery laugh. “There! +Not another word. You are my patient, remember. You mustn’t talk back.” + +“Your touch is the touch of an angel.” + +“Did you ever see an angel?” + +“I’m _vis-à-vis_ with one this holy minute. Ouch! Confound that pain!” + +“I thought you enjoyed my surgery. You said you did.” + +“I have just said I was a fool.” + +“Did I dispute it?” + +He laughed in spite of his pain. “Say, Little Doctor, are you never going +to let me talk it out?” + +“Talk what out?” + +“Our personal affairs.” + +“Not yet. You must be patient. I am not a free woman yet.” + +“But you’ll let me hope?” + +“I cannot say. I am determined to obey the letter of the law.” + +“I could leap for joy, Daphne!” + +“Better not try it; might injure your knitting-bones.” + +“Here,” said Mrs. Benson, who had been purposely busy at the fire, “is a +dish of savory stew. And here is some hardtack, soaked till it is light +and soft. It is hot and nicely buttered. The coffee is guiltless of +cream, but it is fresh and good.” + +“And black and aromatic and Frenchy,” exclaimed Scotty. “Mrs. McAlpin, +will you dine with me to-day?” + +“No, Mr. Burns; my meal awaits me at the fire.” + +“What sort of game is this?” he asked, as he ate with relish. + +“Captain Ranger called it a prairie bird.” + +“Birds in my country don’t wear hair, but feathers,” he said, holding to +the light the hind-quarter of a prairie dog, and pointing to bits of hair +afloat in the gravy. + +“Ask me no questions, for conscience’ sake,” cried Mrs. Benson, who was +laughing heartily. “It may be a prairie dog, or it may be a prairie +squirrel. But it is good for food, and much to be desired to make you +well and wise.” + +“It is all right,” laughed Mrs. McAlpin. “When Lewis and Clark were on +the Oregon trail, nearly fifty years ago, away yonder to the north of us, +they were glad to trade with the Indians for mangy dogs, sometimes, if +they got any food at all.” + + * * * * * + +When Scotty awoke the following morning, after a sleep that was as +refreshing as it seemed brief, the sun was creeping over the wide +expanse of the Platte, making it shine like a gigantic mirror. The women +and girls, who had been up for an hour, were bringing in the stock. +Susannah, who had been detailed to cook the breakfast and mind the +children, was baking flapjacks, and the aroma of coffee was in the air. + +“We can all eat at the first table now,” said Jean, as they knelt around +the mess-boxes. + +Before the repast was finished, they were surprised to see the men who +had left them for the gold mines reappear at camp, looking cheap and +ashamed. + +Sawed-off was the first to speak. “We talked it over with Brownson +and Jordan, and the four of us concluded that we couldn’t desert you, +Captain. So the rest of ’em joined in.” + +“I reckon you got hungry,” said the Captain, dryly. + +“No, Captain. It wasn’t hunger; it was conscience that sent us back.” + +“How much cash can you put up as collateral, if I conclude to trust you +again?” + +The crestfallen men were silent. + +“Seeing the risk is all mine, and all the provisions and other parts of +the entire outfit are mine, and you are foot-loose and can play quits at +any time, I guess we’d better not make any new deal. My gals and these +widders can help drive the teams.” + +The self-discharged teamsters withdrew beyond hearing of the camp, and +parleyed long and earnestly. + +“We’ve got to do something!” exclaimed Sawed-off. “Just watch them gals +handle them cattle! They’ve the true grit.” + +“Do you s’pose the Cap’n ’d take us back if we’d pungle say fifty dollars +apiece?” asked Limpy. + +“We can’t do better than make the offer,” said Yank. + +“This cash’ll come handy at the other end of the line,” said the Captain, +intrusting the gold to the care of his daughters and reinstating his men, +after a sharp exhortation to avoid repeating the offence. + + + + +XXI + +_AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER_ + + +“Oh, this wonderful Western country!” wrote Jean in her diary, under date +of midnight, July 4. “After travelling so long on the banks of the Platte +that we had come to look upon it as a familiar friend, we left it to the +southward and turned our course up the valley of the Sweet Water, through +a succession of low, wooded hills. This little river, though not more +than a hundred feet wide, is quite deep, and runs like a mill-race. The +water is as clear as ether, and agreeably cold. + +“Nobody can conceive the vastness of this country, or imagine its future +possibilities, until he has crossed the great unsettled part of this +continent to the westward and seen it for himself. + +“Some days we move for many hours over great stretches of alluvial soil, +which only needs the impulse of cultivation to make it yield of the +fruits of the earth like magic. Again, we are in the midst of big fields +of crude saleratus, or salt, or sulphur. Now and then our cattle are +compelled to wade through an alkali swamp, suggesting more foot-ail; but +our Little Doctor says that danger is past for this year; she has not +stated why, and maybe she doesn’t know. + +“We encamped last night near Independence Rock,—a huge pile of gray +basalt, covering an area of perhaps ten acres, and looking to be about +three hundred feet high. Its sides are formed of great irregular +bowlders, worn smooth by the warring elements of ages. + +“July 5. Yesterday was Independence Day, and as we had camped near +Independence Rock, daddie laid over to celebrate. + +“About noon, Mary, Marjorie, and I concluded that we would climb the rock +to its summit, carrying with us the only star-spangled banner the train +could boast. But our scheme failed through the fickleness and fury of the +same elements that have been smoothing the surface of the rock during the +ages gone. + +“We had climbed over halfway to the top when a low, dense cloud, as +blue-black as a kettle of indigo dye, enveloped us. It came upon us so +suddenly that we hardly realized our danger till we were surrounded +by semi-darkness in the midst of a pelting hailstorm. We retreated so +blindly and hastily that it is a miracle we didn’t break our necks. + +“Thunder and lightning followed, or rather accompanied the hail, and +were succeeded by a deluge of rain. Sudden squalls of wind would fairly +lift us off our feet at times as we hurried downward, making the descent +doubly perilous. But the storm soon spent its fury, leaving the air as +clear and sweet as a chime of bells. + +“A roaring fire welcomed us at camp, by which we warmed our chilled +marrow-bones and dried our sodden toggery. + +“Daddie scolded; Mame charged our mishap all to me; Marj blamed both of +us, and excused herself. It is the way of the world, or of most people in +it, but it is sometimes very provoking. I hadn’t thought of attempting +the climb till the other girls proposed it; but I took the brunt of the +blame, and, as usual, got all the scolding. + +“The storm wouldn’t let us try to float the flag, but it got very wet, +and we had our labor for our pains. + +“Sally and Susannah prepared a Fourth of July banquet of antelope steaks, +to go with our regulation diet of beans and coffee. After dinner Mrs. +McAlpin sang ‘The Star-Spangled Banner,’ the rest of us joining in the +chorus. Susannah sang a lot of negro melodies, and George Washington +danced for us, his white teeth shining, and eyeballs gleaming. Hal read +the Declaration of Independence, and daddie ‘made the eagle scream.’ + +“He was in the midst of his oration, and I was wondering where all +the men of valor came from, seeing they had had no mothers to assist +in getting up this spread-eagle scheme we call a republic, when I was +compelled to leave the crowd and poise myself on a wet wagon-tongue +to write the thing up. Scotty, who is still on crutches, delivered an +oration on the side, of which I heard but little, owing to my banishment. + +“But I won’t always be so meek and silent on the Fourth of July. I’ll +write a Declaration of Independence for women some day. + +“Daddie burned some powder after dark, ‘to amuse the children,’ he said, +but I noticed that the men enjoyed the noise even more than the children +did. Poor Bobbie got some powder burns about the face, and Sadie and the +babies gave us a squalling chorus, prompted by fright, causing me to +wonder why men must always celebrate our patriotism with the emblems of +death and destruction.” + +On July 6 she wrote: “We have reached the edges of the Rocky Mountains +now; and as we climb slowly and almost imperceptibly toward their +summits, our road winds in and out along the meandering bases of a great +divide, down which many little streams of icy water dash with foam and +roar, forever in a hurry, always trying to go somewhere, and never +reaching any settled goal. + +“Now and then we get glimpses of distant summits, but we are reaching +them by an ascent so gradual that daddie says we shall not realize that +we have crossed the great divide till we see the water has changed its +course from east to west. + +“We passed a trading-post to-day, belonging to a company having its +headquarters at Salt Lake. The men in charge wore big sombreros, buckskin +trousers, and moccasins of buffalo hide. They all smoked incessantly +and affected the airs of the genus cowboy, or _vaquero_ of the plains, +of whom we often see specimens roving over hill and plain on horseback, +their shoulders covered with gayly colored serapes, flapping in the wind +like wings. + +“We pass daily from six to a dozen graves, but not so newly made as those +noticed heretofore; so we conclude the cholera is abating. + +“There, old Journal! I’ve done my level best to write you up to date. +But it’s like climbing these mountains,—uphill work, and dreadfully +monotonous!” + + * * * * * + +“Did you buy a fresh stock of provisions, Captain?” asked Sally O’Dowd, +as they were preparing to leave the trading-post which Jean had +mentioned, after he had held a long parley with a big, bronzed, and +heavily bearded mountaineer, who was strikingly handsome despite his +peculiar make-up. + +“Yes, Sally. I bought a couple o’ hundred pounds o’ flour, for which I +paid a twenty-dollar gold-piece.” + +“I was feeding the children, and didn’t get a chance to make my purchases +at the proper time. Won’t you hold the teams back a few minutes for me?” + +“Yes, but hurry up.” + +“Let me have a hundred pounds of flour, sir,” she said, approaching the +counter, behind which the trader stood, smoking a huge meerschaum. + +“Anything else?” + +“Yes; the balance of this twenty-dollar gold-piece in dried peaches, +please.” + +In filling her order, the trader raised the cloth partition of the tent +to reach his base of supplies, and in the middle of the tent Sally espied +an unkempt squaw and half-a-dozen dusky children. + +“I’ll be compelled to hurry,” she said, as he leisurely weighed her +fruit. “Captain Ranger is always demanding haste.” + +The trader started suddenly, his face blanching. + +“Where does your train hail from?” he asked. + +“From the middle West, sir. We are going from the West to the West.” +The trader balanced two sacks of Salt Lake flour on his shoulders, and +grasping the smaller package of peaches, strode out hurriedly toward the +wagon near which Captain Ranger was standing, impatient to be gone. + +“These purchases are for the lady, sir. Where will you have them dumped?” + +“Any place where there’s room, and don’t let any grass grow under your +feet!” + +“The lady tells me your name is Ranger, sir.” + +“Yes. What of it?” + +“Will you walk with me a little way ahead of the wagons? I have something +important to say to you alone.” + +“We are scarce of drivers,” replied the Captain, hesitating. “Two of my +men are out hunting.” + +“I can drive,” exclaimed Jean, reaching for the whip, which she handled +with the skill of a freighter, finishing her flourishes with a series of +snaps at the end of a deerskin cracker, like the explosion of a bunch of +fire-crackers. + +“If we’ll take this cut-off, we’ll come out a mile or more ahead of the +wagons,” said the trader. “Then we can rest by the roadside till they +catch up.” + +The Captain strode by his side in silence. + +“Don’t you know me, John?” asked the stranger, grasping him by the arm, +and speaking in a hoarse whisper. + +Captain Ranger eyed him earnestly, his cheeks paling. + +“Can it be possible that you are—Joe?” he asked, seizing his hand with a +vise-like grip. + +“I am indeed your brother Joe,—an outlaw, now and always.” + +“No, you are not an outlaw; the fellow over whom you got into that +trouble is alive and well. You’d have got out of that scrape all right if +you hadn’t jumped your bail and left all the rest of us in the lurch. Why +didn’t you stand your trial, like a man?” + +John Ranger’s feelings overcame him, and he sank upon the ground, filled +with old-time memories. He buried his face in his hands. Time and +distance faded away, and he saw, with eyes of memory, the gentle, fading +face of his toiling, uncomplaining wife, whose life had been for years a +sacrifice to penury through the debt entailed by this brother’s cowardice. + +“Do you mean to tell me that Elmer Edson is not dead?” + +The question called him back to present conditions with a sudden start. + +“Elmer Edson is not dead, but Annie Ranger is!” he said hoarsely. “We had +to leave her precious dust in the ground away back yonder in the Black +Hills. We started together on this terrible journey, hoping to escape the +consequences of that awful mortgage with which you left us in the lurch. +She had denied herself many comforts and all the luxuries of life for a +dozen years to feed the ever-eating cankerworm of interest. No, Joe, you +didn’t kill Edson; but through my efforts to help you out of a trouble in +which you should never have been entangled, you became accessory to the +lingering death of my wife.” + +“Don’t reproach me, John! I loved Annie like a sister. I did indeed. She +was a sister to me from the day she became your wife. You don’t or won’t +see how it grieves me to hear of her death.” + +“Why didn’t you write to us, like a man?” + +The brother had risen to his feet, and was pacing nervously to and fro, +whittling aimlessly on a bit of sagebrush. + +“I was afraid to write. There was a price upon my head, as you have no +need to be informed.” + +“Yes, Joe; and to pay the interest on that price was the bane of my +existence for a dozen years. But you can write now. Our dear mother—God +bless her!—would forget all the terrible past if she could hold you in +her arms once more. It is your duty to return at once, and settle, as +well as you can, for the trouble you have caused. You ought at least to +lift that accursed mortgage from the farm, and let Lije Robinson and +Sister Mary and our parents spend the remainder of their lives in peace. +You are a free man, and can go where you please.” + +“But I am not a free man, John. Even with that horrible load off my +shoulders, I still am bound, hand and foot.” + +“Are you married, Joe?” + +“Yes, John. You see, when a fellow is in hiding among the Indians, with a +price set upon his head, and is therefore afraid to go home, he’s nothing +but a fugitive from justice; he expects to spend his life there, and +never see the face of another white woman; and when there are scores of +pretty Indian girls in sight—” + +John Ranger jumped to his feet, his fists clinched and his eyes glaring. + +“You don’t mean to tell me that my brother is married to—to a—squaw?” + +There was ineffable scorn in his tone and manner. It was now Joe’s turn +to sink upon the ground and bury his face in his hands. When he again +looked at his brother, there was an expression of age and anguish upon +his face which had not been there before. + +“I am the husband of an Indian woman, and the father of seven half-breed +children,” he said with the air of a guilty man on trial for his life. +“But there are extenuating circumstances, John. My wife was no common +squaw. If you care for me at all, you will not apply that epithet to the +mother of my children. She was the daughter of a Mandan chief, who had +large dealings with the Hudson Bay Company, and who sent her to England +to be educated. You’d hardly think it to see her now, though; for the +Indian women fall back into aboriginal customs when they leave the haunts +of civilization to return to their people and take up life, especially as +mothers, among their own kind and kin. At least, that is what Wahnetta +did.” + +John Ranger groaned. “My God! has it come to this?” he cried, looking the +picture of despair. + +“If you had been in my place, you would have married her yourself, John. +Nobody has a right to judge another; for no one knows what he will do +till he is tried.” + +“Don’t you regret the marriage, Joe?” + +“It is too late for regrets. The deed is done, and I cannot get away from +my fate. Shall we part as friends and brothers? Or is there an impassable +gulf between us?” + +There was an unspoken appeal in his tone, far stronger than words, which +John Ranger remembered for many a day. But he refused his brother’s +proffered hand, and said hoarsely, as he sprang to his feet: “Don’t, at +your peril, let anybody know that you are my brother!” + +He wheeled upon his heel and was gone. + + + + +XXII + +_THE SQUAW MAN_ + + +Captain Ranger overtook his train at a late hour, still nursing his +towering wrath. His face was livid, and his breathing stertorous. +Snatching the ox-whip from the hands of Jean and frightening the +discouraged cattle into the semblance of an attempt at hurry by the cruel +vehemence with which he belabored their lash-beflecked hides, he urged +them forward, never once relaxing his attacks with the whip till he had +rushed them over the uneven road and rocks for six or seven miles. + +“Daddie is in a terrible tantrum over something very unusual,” said Jean. +“Do you know what is the matter?” she asked aside, addressing Sally +O’Dowd. + +“No, Jean; unless he had some hot words with that post-trader. I know +he thought ten dollars a hundred for flour was robbery. And think of a +dollar a pound for dried peaches!” + +“Daddie’s not idiot enough to work himself into a fever over a trifle +like that,” answered Jean. “But suppose he has been thrown into a passion +by anybody, the poor half-sick and half-famished oxen ought not to be +punished for it. He reminds me of an old Kentucky slave-owner who got +so mad because one of his sons failed to pass his first exams at West +Point that he went out, as soon as he heard about it, and cruelly whipped +a nigger.” And falling back to the family team, beside which Hal was +trudging, whip in hand, striving to keep the jaded cattle close behind +his father’s oxen, she dropped hastily on one knee on the wagon-tongue +and climbed nimbly to a seat. + +“That trader is still sitting by the roadside,” she cried to Sally, who +was trudging through the sand. “He’s digging the earth with a jack-knife +or dirk, or some other sharp implement, and seems quite as savage and out +of humor as daddie. Wonder what daddie said to him.” + +One by one the wagons passed the solitary trader, who had climbed to a +low ledge of rocks, where he sat as silent as the sun. His knife had +fallen to the ground and lay glittering at his feet. His broad sombrero +shaded his face. + +The sudden rebound from the great happiness that had been his when first +informed that he was not a murderer and an outlaw, to the abject position +of a spurned and degraded “squaw man” seemed more than he could bear. “I +am not a murderer, though, and that’s some comfort,” he moaned. “But +I am still a Pariah,—an outcast from my own people. What will my dear +mother think of me when John acquaints her with the facts? What will my +father say or do?” + +It is well that Mother Nature, in her wisdom and mercy, has provided a +limit to human suffering, else everybody in this world would at times +become insane. + +Cicadas gave forth their rasping notes in the dry grass, and a colony +of prairie dogs played hide-and-seek over the uneven streets above an +underground settlement hard by. A badger peeped cautiously from the mouth +of his sagebrush-guarded den, and a rattlesnake crawled unnoticed past +his feet. + +“I don’t blame John for being disappointed and angry,” he said aloud, +“but I am amazed at his lack of charity. If he could have seen and known +Wahnetta as I did, at the time of our marriage, he would have been +pleased with my choice. But it is too late now. Her girlish grace and +beauty are gone, and one could hardly distinguish her from any of the +other pappoose-burdened, camas-digging squaws that abound in spots in the +land of the Latter-Day Saints. I might send her back, with the children, +to the remnant of her tribe among the Bad Lands, but the act would be +infamous. No, Joseph Ranger; you must take your medicine.” + +He thought of his joyous exultation at the time he had won the +accomplished and graceful Indian princess, whom half-a-dozen +distinguished braves and as many handsome white traders had sought in +marriage; of her trusting preference for him; of their joyous honeymoon; +and of the herd of beautiful horses with which he had purchased her for +his chosen bride, thus making her a slave. He winced as he thought of the +legal status of his wife and children. + +He blushed with shame as he thought of her loyalty to him through all the +years of her transformation from a lithe and pretty maiden of sixteen, +whom every man admired, to the shapeless and slovenly specimen of her +people, of whom he was now ashamed. He thought bitterly yet lovingly of +the numerous children she had borne him uncomplainingly, while wandering +from place to place in quest of roots and berries to save them from +starvation in their early married years, when game would be scarce and +his fickle fortunes had vanished for months at a stretch. + +He remembered with what loving pride he had named his first two children +John and Annie, in honor of the brother and sister for whom his heart had +so often hungered. “And the end is this!” he cried, noting with a start +that the sun was down. “Why did I name them John and Annie? I might have +known better. I was a fool. And yet why should they be spurned on account +of their Indian blood? If, instead of marrying Wahnetta, I had refused to +make her my lawful wife, would my white relations have spurned me now?” + +His childhood days passed and repassed before his mental vision like a +panorama. + +His family had been proud of him. What sacrifices they had made to send +him to college, and with what base ingratitude he had repaid their +loyalty and love! He had worse than wasted his opportunities, he thought, +as he gazed abroad over the mighty landscape, bounded on the one hand by +the wide basin of the receded and still slowly receding waters of Great +Salt Lake, and on the other by the Rocky Mountains,—so near that they +obstructed his vision, though he well knew their extent and majesty. +“This won’t do!” cried the wretched man, as he started homeward, reeling +like a drunken man. + +“Papa!” cried a childish voice. “Do hurry home! We are so hungry! Where +have you been for so long?” + +“All right, Johnnie; I’m coming. Papa forgot.” + + * * * * * + +In a large military tent, or annex, at the rear end of the trader’s tent +sat Wahnetta, his wife. He shuddered at the thought. And yet why should +he? Was she not as good as he? Had all her years of faithful servitude +counted for nothing? + +A meal of boiled buffalo meat and vegetables, with bread, coffee, butter, +and eggs, was waiting on a table of rough boards resting on trestles, and +covered with an oilcloth that had once been white. + +In one corner, beside a big sheet-iron cook-stove, sat, or rather +crouched, the woman whom he had made his wife. She was not yet thirty +years of age, but all traces of her girlish youth and beauty of face +and figure were gone. Her dress, a cheap and garish print, was open at +the neck and arms, and hung in slovenly folds about her fat form and +moccasined feet. + +“Why in thunder don’t you keep yourself and the young ones clean and +dressed up?” asked her husband, as he dropped into his seat at table. +“You keep yourself like a Digger squaw!” + +“I should belie the customs of my people if I aped the airs of white +folks when I must live like an Indian, Joseph Addicks!” said the woman, +in well-modulated English, as she arose and approached the table, +coffee-pot in hand. + +“I loathe and abhor the very sight of you!” he exclaimed with a savage +glare. + +“You didn’t talk like that when I was young and pretty, Joseph! If you +had tried it once, you would not have had a chance to repeat it then. +Perhaps,” she added bitterly, a moment later, as she filled his plate, +“perhaps I could have retained my charms if you had taken me back to +London and kept me within the pale of civilization in which I was +educated. You said before you married me that you would take me back to +Canada, where you said your people lived, who would be glad to welcome +me. How well you have kept your promise let these surroundings answer. I +married you believing that your people would be my people, and your God +my God. And,” looking around her, “this is the result!” + +The sleeves of her gaudy dress were rolled back above the elbows, +exposing her fat yet muscular arms, not over-clean; and the dingy pipe +she had been smoking protruded from the open bosom of her gown. + +“Where have you been during all this busy afternoon, Joseph?” she asked, +still standing. + +“To hell!” + +“Your missionaries have taught me that people only go to hell from +choice, Joseph; that is, if there is any worse hell anywhere than we +are in all the time,—which I love the Great Spirit too well to believe. +It seems to me we are compelled to take the punishment we bring upon +ourselves here and now.” + +“You haven’t any right to think, you loathsome, disgusting—” + +“Stop, Joseph Addicks! This is, you say, a white man’s country now. Will +you prove it by behaving yourself like a gentleman? I didn’t live for +four years in a white man’s country for nothing.” + +He arose and left the table without a word. His wife had seen him in +moods like this before. + +“Come, John; come, Annie; take your seats at table. You must be half +famished.” + +Four or five smaller children as dusky as herself were playing on the +earthen floor; and, leaning helplessly against a pyramid of flour sacks, +lashed in Indian style to its birchen cradle, was a pappoose of three +months, defencelessly enduring an attack of mosquitoes on its face and +eyes. + +“My father was a fool for sending me to college,” thought Joseph Ranger, +who, like many others that go wrong, was ready to blame everything and +everybody except himself. “The university should have stopped that hazing +before it began, so I couldn’t have had that fracas.” + +“Why didn’t you eat your dinner, Joseph?” asked his wife, after she had +fed the children. + +“Because I hate this accursed life too heartily to have any appetite for +food.” + +“Haven’t I always urged you to go with us back to civilization, Joseph?” + +“With you for a wife? You don’t know what you are talking about.” + +Then—but it was not the first time since Wahnetta had become his property +by purchase—he fired himself up with the vile whiskey his company held +in stock, and, taking advantage of the English common law, at that time +an acknowledged authority in every State and Territory in the Union, +he provided himself with a stick, no thicker than his thumb, and beat +Wahnetta, his wife, long and brutally. + + * * * * * + +Captain Ranger had allowed his anger to cool before the sun went down. To +his credit be it spoken, he was very much ashamed of himself. “I was like +an enraged, unreasoning animal,” he exclaimed aloud. “I might at least +have repulsed Joe with kindness. I will write to my father and mother and +tell them that my brother who was lost is alive and is found. But I’ll +say nothing about the domestic side of his history. It would only grieve +them all, and they couldn’t help matters. It is none of my business, +anyhow.” + +But he could not sleep. The memory of his and Joseph’s boyhood days +reproached him, and he thought lovingly, in spite of himself, of the +younger brother of whom he had been so proud. Many incidents of their +childhood, long forgotten, passed before him with startling vividness. + +“Joe saved my life once,” he said, half audibly. “I would have been +drowned as sure as fate, when I broke through the ice that day, if he +hadn’t saved me at the risk of his own life. Dear boy! I’ll saddle Sukie +and go back to see him in the morning.” With this resolution settled in +his mind, he fell asleep; but his sleep was fitful. Sometimes the sad, +sweet face of his gentle Annie would bend over him, awakening him with a +start. A conviction settled more and more strongly upon his mind that he +had cruelly wronged his brother, and he would be allowed no rest till he +should atone. + +Once, long before morning, he saw himself face to face with a raging +buffalo bull. It was without eyes, and gazed at him through sightless +sockets, and shook its formidable head at him with as much certainty of +aim as though its thick and darkened skull were ablaze with light. The +beast held the only vantage-ground,—an open plain,—and at his back rose a +sheer and inaccessible mountain, up which there was no chance of escape. + + + + +XXIII + +_THE SQUAW ASSERTS HER RIGHTS_ + + +The morning found the post-trader with a raging headache. For several +minutes after awakening to consciousness he remained motionless, not +realizing time or place. + +“Oh, mother! my head, my head!” he exclaimed, as he locked his fingers +above his throbbing temples. Never before since his marriage had he +uttered a cry of pain without bringing Wahnetta to his side. Now no one +noticed his groaning. He raised himself upon his elbow and gazed through +the open door of his sleeping apartment upon the broad and dusty plain. +The sun was already an hour high. Numerous campers had struck their +tents, and the teams were moving toward the farther West. He turned +his gaze within the tent and regarded Wahnetta with a look and feeling +of disgust. She had prepared his breakfast while he slept, and had fed +their ravenous brood,—all save the baby in its Indian basket, which was +whining pitifully as it blinked its eyes in a helpless attempt to drive +away the flies. + +“Why don’t you keep your young one quiet?” roared her husband, savagely. + +“I’ve been doing the best I could,” said the woman, meekly. “I’ve gotten +all the children settled outside in the shade, studying their lessons, +except this poor little pappoose, and I’ll ’tend to his wants as soon as +I have disposed of the worst baby in the lot,—and that’s you.” + +“What in thunder has come over you, woman?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Have you had breakfast?” + +“Food would choke me, Joseph Addicks! See what you did last night!” She +threw back her heavy mass of torn and tangled hair, exposing an ugly +bruise on her temple. “If it were not for these children, I’d leave you +and strike out for myself. But as I cannot get away from them, I will +stay by them, as many a woman in all countries is obliged to do under +like circumstances till she either dies or can run away. But I tell you +right here and now that I will never take another blow from you or any +other man.” + +“I’d like to see you help yourself.” + +“I’ll help myself by laying you dead at my feet! No man who respects +himself will marry a woman not his equal, or if she is of an inferior +race. I didn’t know this when I was a foolish young girl, but I +understand it now. In marrying an Indian girl you did not elevate her one +atom, but you degraded us both. I now tell you to your teeth that I hate +you, and you can’t help it.” + +“I never would have married you if I had known that I was not an outlaw. +I thought myself a murderer till yesterday. I know better now. I am sorry +I beat you, though. I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been in a drunken +frenzy. I’m in a better temper this morning; but oh, my head, my head!” + +“Let it ache! So does mine, but I can’t lie abed and groan. I am +compelled to look after the family’s needs, sick or well.” + +Then, womanlike, though the poor little pappoose fretted pitifully in +its Indian basket, his wife brought cold water and towels and bathed his +throbbing forehead. + +“I’m better now,” he said, as his temples cooled. “Will you forgive me +for beating you last night, Wahnetta?” + +She looked at him in astonishment. Never before, though he had often +bestowed indignities upon her that he would not have inflicted upon a +favorite dog or horse, had he addressed her thus, or shown any sign of +repentance. + +“If I had kept my promise, Wahnetta, as I should have done, I would +have taken you as a bride to London or Montreal and replaced you in the +world of civilization, in which you were educated by your fond, mistaken +father. But I couldn’t do it, because of my daily dread of the hangman’s +rope. I do not wonder that you despise me. I did not realize that I had +become that thing that every self-respecting man of the West abhors,—a +‘squaw-man’!” + +“Don’t you dare to say ‘squaw’ to me, Joseph Addicks! It is an epithet no +white man uses except in contempt. When we were married I was your equal +in education, your superior in personal appearance, and your match in +ambition. I now see that I was far ahead of you in moral character, for +I was never a fugitive from what the world calls justice. But why didn’t +you confide all this to me long ago?” + +He laughed derisively. “I knew the treacherous Indian nature too well, +woman; and I wouldn’t trust you now if it were in your power to betray +me; but there is nothing now to betray.” + +“And I am no longer afraid of you, Joseph Addicks.” + +“My name is not Addicks. My brother passed through here yesterday. His +name is John Ranger, and I am his long-lost brother, Joseph. He is taking +his family to the Territory of Oregon.” + +He arose finally and made a tolerable breakfast, she, for the first time +since their marriage, taking her seat at the table beside him as he ate. + +“If you’d keep yourself clean and tidy, like a self-respecting white +woman, you wouldn’t appear so—so Injuny, and I wouldn’t be so very much +ashamed of you. I’m sick to death of this bondage, Wahnetta. I, too, was +a young and unsophisticated fool when we were married. What will you +take to let me out of it honorably? I want to do everything I can to +atone; but something must be done. I will not longer endure this mode of +existence.” + +“I have an idea, Joseph. My inheritance from my father arrived several +days ago. I hadn’t thought of claiming it for myself, but I will now. +Give me a letter of credit for the whole of it, with an outfit for +travelling, and I will go, with the children, to a village on the +Willamette River called Portland, in the Territory of Oregon. You know +Dr. McLoughlin well, and so do I. There’s a convent in Portland, where I +can place the girls, and a brothers’ school near by for the boys. I’ll +get a boarding-place, not too far away, for myself and the little tots +that are too young to be in school. I will soon recruit if I can get a +chance to rest up and dress myself as the white women in my position do. +You won’t know me in three months after I have had a chance to live in +keeping with my station.” + +She paused, panting because of her own audacity. Never before had she +ventured to give utterance to so long a speech in his presence. He saw a +ray of hope and pursued it eagerly. + +“I have a good wagon, and a fine four-mule team that is idle,” he said +musingly. “I guess we can manage to make the change.” + +“What will you do, Joseph? Can you stay here when we are gone?” + +“I shouldn’t think you’d care to consider me after all that’s happened, +Wahnetta.” + +“You cannot give me back my heart, my husband. I can never be happy +without you. But, savagely as I spoke a while ago, my heart is full of +love for you, and the thought of leaving you alone in this God-forsaken +wilderness brings back all the tenderness of the past.” + +“I can take care of myself, I reckon.” + +“Of course; if I can take care of myself and seven children, you ought to +be able to get along alone, or hire somebody to help you,” she exclaimed, +straightening her shoulders, and revealing long-lost or hidden traces +of her girlhood’s beauty in the light of an awakening hope. “I know the +tendency of my race, or any other, to hark back to primitive conditions +under adverse circumstances. The time has now come when the children must +have the social and educational advantages of a higher civilization, or +they’ll be Indians to the end of the chapter. As you will not permit me +to take them to the East, I am glad that I can take them to the farthest +West.” + +“How soon can you be ready to start?” + +“To-morrow, or as soon as the team is ready. We’ll pose as Indians till +we get to Oregon. We can camp in the Portland woods till an outfit of +clothing can be prepared in which you wouldn’t be ashamed to see your +wife and children appear before kings.” + +The next morning early, while the Ranger team was yet in camp, and its +Captain was not yet awake, an Indian woman, with an unkempt swarm of +dusky children, passed him on their westward way, unrecognized. + + * * * * * + +“Daddie’s in a raging fever!” cried Jean, arousing the Little Doctor. + +“We’ll fetch him out all right,” said the doctor, as the frightened +children shivered around the fire in the crisp morning air, silent and +awe-stricken. “I saw an Indian ‘sweat-house’ near the river-bank after +we had encamped last night. We’ll fumigate it, and give your father +a thorough steaming, children. Don’t be frightened. He’s caught the +mountain fever. Luckily, I have on hand a lot of crude brimstone. I +gathered it near Hell Gate.” + +“But we mustn’t use the sweat-house without the consent of the Indians,” +said Scotty. “Yonder comes a lot of them on horseback now. I’ll see them +and make terms.” + +The terms having been arranged satisfactorily, the Little Doctor +proceeded to make preparations for the reception of her patient. + +When the inner surface of the dugout had reached a white heat, the fire +was permitted to die, and the place was cleansed of coals and ashes. +It was then tested by a thermometer; and when cooled to the proper +temperature, the Captain, now almost incoherent from fever, was wrapped +in blankets and placed, feet foremost, within its depths, where he lay +with his head enveloped with cold, wet towels, leaving only a small +aperture at the mouth of the “infernal pit,” as he called it, for air. +Thus situated, and perspiring at every pore, he fell asleep. + +A delicious, restful languor followed his awakening, and he was aroused, +against his protest, to be removed by willing attendants to a closed +tent, where he was packed in cold, wet sheets, and left to rest for +another hour or more. + +“His heart has good action, and he’ll come out all right; but we can’t +break camp to-day,” said the Little Doctor. + +By evening the Captain found his fever conquered. But he was not strong +enough to ride back to his brother’s trading-post for the amicable +interview he had planned; so, like most of our “ships that pass in +the night,” his opportunity was gone; and as time wore on, his good +resolutions vanished also. + +The long-drawn monotony of the journey caused the entries in her journal +to become exceedingly monotonous to Jean, who often neglected a duty she +would have highly prized had she been able to foresee the value of the +record she was making under constant protest. + +On the tenth of July she wrote as follows: “We are now in Utah Territory, +which is the first organized part of Uncle Sam’s dominions we have set +foot upon since leaving the Missouri River. Our hunters to-day killed +an antelope and a brace of ‘fool’ hens, or sage-chickens, which our +half-famished crowd cooked and ate with relish. + +“What a way we human animals have of preying upon the brute creation, as +we falsely name the mild-eyed entities which we must slay and eat that +we may live! I have no heart to write. I can only think of the beautiful +eyes of that antelope we have killed and eaten, and of the sage-hens +that were not enough afraid of a boot that Yank threw at them to get out +of his way. And we called them ‘fools’ because they trusted us, who, as +compared to them, are knaves.” + +After crossing the Rocky Mountains through a huge and devious gap[2] by +ascents and descents so gradual that nothing but the changing trend of +the water-currents marked the point or points of demarcation, the train +reached a height overlooking the valley of the Great Salt Lake,—the +“Promised Land” of the Latter-Day Saints, who even in that early day had +made it, in many spots, to blossom as the rose. + +The almost intolerable heat of midday was followed at night by cold and +marrow-piercing winds, making both day and night uncomfortable. + +“No wonder the immigrants are ill, Mr. Burns,” said Mrs. McAlpin, one +evening, when, as she could not politely avoid him, she sought to control +the conversation. “Nothing saves any of us but the snow-laden air from +these grand old mountains. I have stood on the Himalayas, where the +Mahatmas are said to hold sway, I have beheld the shimmering beauty of +Egyptian skies, I have floated among the silent wonders of the Dead Sea; +but the majestic beauty of these Rocky Mountains transcends them all.” + +“I’ve just left a family of Mormons, where there is a bishop ill with the +fever. The faithful were trying to cure him by the ridiculous custom of +laying on of hands,” said Burns, who had sought her company, hoping to +“talk it out.” + +“Not necessarily ridiculous,” answered the lady. “If a faithful Catholic +crowd can change a little vial of mummy-dry blood into liquid form in +answer to faith and prayer, why can’t an equally faithful Mormon crowd +heal the sick through the same power of concentration, which is only +another name for faith?” and the Little Doctor hurried away. + + + + +XXIV + +_A MORMON WOMAN_ + + +Newly created Mormon settlements came occasionally into view, the long, +low, ashy-white adobe houses of the Latter-Day Saints proclaiming, by the +front doors to be counted in their dwellings, the number of wives each +patriarch possessed. + +One cold, blustering evening a lone woman, middle-aged, swarthy, sinewy, +and tall, came into the camp afoot. A bundle of bedding strapped to her +back gave her an uncanny appearance as she shrank into the shadows. A +reticule of generous dimensions depended from her neck in front and +reached below her waist-line, containing her little stock of clothing and +provisions. + +“I am making my way to the Northern Oregon country,” she said, meaning +the great expanse of territory which at that time embraced the present +States of Oregon, Washington, and Idaho, with a large slice of the +present State of Montana included. “President Young saw I was going +crazy,” she added, throwing aside her reticence after being warmed and +fed. “I wasn’t the least mite dangerous to have around, as I wasn’t +violent; but I cried and took on so, after I had to give my husband away +in marriage to another woman, that I scared the hull church into a fear +that I’d upset polygamy. So President Young said I might have a permit to +leave the country.” + +“Do you mind telling us all about it?” asked Sally O’Dowd. + +“It can all be summed up in one word,—polygamy,” she exclaimed, glancing +furtively around. “Are there any Mormons about?” + +“No, madam,” said the Captain. “The boss of this combination is a pagan, +and he wouldn’t hurt a Christian. You have no cause to be afraid. But +you’d better not tell us any secrets. The proper way to keep a secret is +to keep it to one’s self, unless you want to keep it going.” + +“I am a Mormon, good and true,” she began again, rising to her feet +and spreading her thin hands to the blaze; “but when my husband went +into polygamy, which it was his Christian duty to do, according to the +Scripture (and I’m not blaming him), the Devil got the upper hand of me, +and I couldn’t stand it. You see, they made me go to the Endowment House +and give my own husband away in marriage to another woman; and that, too, +after we had stood together at the altar, in the little church in my +father’s parish, ever so long before, and swore before God and a score +of witnesses that we would forsake all others and keep ourselves only to +each other as long as we both should live. Polygamy may be all right for +people who haven’t made such vows; but I know it was not right for us. +What do you think, Mr. Captain?” + +“I think that women have had their hearts cultivated at the expense of +their heads quite long enough,” was his emphatic response. + +“I thought the Mormons didn’t compel any woman to give her husband away +in marriage against her will,” said Jean. + +The woman uttered a sharp, rasping, staccato laugh that betokened +incipient insanity. + +“There are other ways to kill a dog besides choking him to death on +butter!” she cried, throwing her arms wildly about, and casting grotesque +shadows upon those sitting behind her. “They told me that as a good +Mormon I was bound to obey the mandates of the Church; that my eternal +salvation, and my husband’s also, depended upon obedience. And they said +it so often, and prayed over me so long and hard, that at last I said +I’d do it. Then they held me to my promise. But my heart would beat, and +the world would move; so in spite of what I did in the Endowment House, +I would go about and tell my woes to everybody that would listen. And I +was getting to be a scandal in Zion, so that by-and-by, when a lot of +Gentiles got to making a fuss about it,—they made it hot for polygamy +through my story,—the elders took it up. But they couldn’t tie my tongue, +for the Devil had hold of it, and he just kept it wagging. The cases of +Abraham and Jacob and David didn’t fit my case at all, for they hadn’t +made any such vows.” + +The woman, as if suddenly recollecting herself, stopped speaking, and +glared at her awe-stricken listeners with an insane gleam in her fiery +eyes. + +“Oh, my head, my head!” she cried, clasping her hands tightly over her +temples. “The Devil has caught me again!” + +“You’d better not talk any more to-night,” said the Little Doctor, +soothingly. “And you cannot go on till morning. I’ll make a warm, snug +bed for you in one of the wagons. After you’ve had a sound sleep and a +good breakfast, you can go on your way refreshed.” + +“But I’ve got to talk it out. You’re like all the rest! You want me to be +quiet, when the rocks and stones would cry out against me if I did!” + +“You’ll take a drink of our ‘Number Six,’ won’t you?” asked the Little +Doctor. “Here it is. I’ve mixed and sweetened it for you.” + +She grasped the decoction and gulped it eagerly. + +“Thanks,” she said, returning the cup. “I must be going now. I’ve stayed +too long already. The Danites will be after me. Do you think any of them +are in hearing now? President Young put me under their surveillance +before they’d let me start. He put his hands on my head and blessed me, +too. Talk about your popes! Why, Brigham Young can discount a ten-acre +field full of Apostolic successors, and be the father of a whole regiment +of American progeny in the bargain. I know you think I’m crazy, but +there’s plenty of method in my madness. I’m not half as crazy as I act +and talk.” + +“Will the Danites protect you till you reach the end of your journey?” +asked Jean. “Are you sure?” + +“Not if they catch me among Gentiles. President Young took precautions +to prevent me from talking to outsiders, he thought. I mustn’t be seen +here. But I must tell you before I go that his blessing came direct from +God. It filled my very marrow-bones with light. It was like phosphorus in +the dark, or diamonds in the sunlight. I felt like a bird! No man can do +these things that President Young is doing unless God be with him.” + +“Do you believe that Brigham Young is really inspired of God?” asked +Mary, incredulously. + +“It is by their fruits that we know them, miss. Zion has been greatly +blessed under the ministrations and guidance of President Young.” + +“Then why do you wish to escape from his kingdom?” asked Marjorie. + +“Because I was not good enough to endure polygamy; I was too great a +sinner. I couldn’t obey the gospel and keep my senses.” + +“Did the thought never strike you that the fault might be in the gospel, +instead of your heart or head?” asked Hal. + +“The High and Holy One of Israel cannot err,” she replied, shaking her +head, and again waving her long arms to and fro in the smoky air. “There +are disbelievers in this camp, and I cannot tarry. May Heaven guide and +protect you all, and bring you into the holy faith of the Latter-Day +Saints! O blessed Lord, direct these souls into Thy kingdom before it is +everlastingly too late!” + +She waved her arms over their heads once more, and turning suddenly, +vanished like a deer into the darkness. + +“That poor misguided creature has the spirit of a martyr,” said Captain +Ranger, after a painful silence. + +“It is a good deal easier for some folks to preach than to practise,” +exclaimed Sally O’Dowd. + +“There are kernels of truth in all ’ologies,” said Scotty. + +“As a man thinketh, so is he,” exclaimed Mary. + +“She is striving to save her immortal soul. All religions have their +origin in human selfishness,” remarked the Captain, dryly. + +“Better say they originate in human needs,” replied Jean; “but +selfishness is universal, all the same.” + +“Yes. Selfishness is a necessary attribute of human existence,” said the +Little Doctor, punching the dying fire into a blaze. “Don’t you think so, +Mr. Burns?” + +“I quite agree with you, madam. Selfishness belongs to human environment, +and is as much a part of us as hunger, thirst, love, or ambition. Nothing +is made in vain.” + +“Not even sin?” asked Mary. + +“Not even sin!” echoed Jean. “This would have been a very useless world +if there had been no wrongs to set right in it, and no suffering to +relieve. Nobody could appreciate heat if it were not for cold, or light +if there were no darkness. Hunger compels us to search for food; thirst +seeks satisfaction in drink, and ambition in the search for personal +advancement. It often unconsciously assists the weak by its efforts, when +it intends to help nothing but the personal selfishness that inspires it. +Everything, both good and evil, is a part of the eternal programme.” + +“Where did you imbibe such ideas as you often express on this subject?” +asked her father, a great pride in her springing afresh in his heart. + +“From the stars, I guess, or from the angels. Or maybe they were born +within me. I never could reconcile myself to the generally accepted idea +of gratitude. To thank God for blessings we enjoy that are not accessible +to others, to me is nothing else but blasphemy.” + +“Then you cannot say with the poet,— + + “‘Some hae meat, and canna eat, + And some would eat that want it; + But we hae meat, and we can eat, + Sae let the Lord be thankit!’” + +said Mrs. Benson, who had been looking on in silence. + +“Indeed I can’t!” exclaimed Jean. “But we’ve all heard just such prayers +and praises through all our lives.” + +“Nobody in normal health has any right to be thankful for anything unless +he earns it,” said the Captain; “and then he has nobody to thank but +himself.” + +“He ought to be thankful for health, at least,” suggested Marjorie. + +“If you’d follow your logic to its natural sequence, Captain, my +occupation would be gone,” laughed the Little Doctor. “It is as unnatural +and unscientific to be sick as to be hungry; therefore there should be no +doctors.” + +“I can see no analogy between your conclusions and my observations,” said +the Captain. + +“I can,” cried Jean. + +“Every error under the sun is mixed with good, or it couldn’t exist at +all,” said Scotty. “But the truth remains that the Universe with all that +it contains exemplifies the Divine Idea. God IS. + + “‘All are but parts of one stupendous whole, + Whose _mother_ Nature is, and God the soul.’ + +“You see, I’ve altered the thought a little, Mrs. McAlpin; but I look +to the shade of Pope for pardon. If he were with us to-day, he would +doubtless accept my amendment. We can’t know much about the mystery we +call God. It makes little difference to the humanity of the various +nations of the earth, all of whom must worship the Divine Idea, whether +it be called Vishnu, Chrishna, Isis, Allah, Jehovah—” + +“These learned disquisitions over things unknown make me very weary,” +yawned Jean. + +“And border on blasphemy,” added Mary. + +“We had better go to bed,” exclaimed the Captain, rising. “These +questions have taken a wide range, and we’ve all followed that poor +Mormon devotee beyond her depth and our own.” + +“But such discussions relieve the monotony of travel and sometimes lead +to independent thought,” said Lengthy, who had sat squat upon his heels +and haunches, a silent listener. + +“God be with our Mormon sister,” said Scotty, rising and adjusting his +crutches. “Let us hope for her a safe journey to some friendly spot where +polygamy ceases from troubling, and the saints are at rest!” + +“That’s from the Bible,” cried Hal. + +“Nobody can conceive of a better method of expressing an idea than that +modelled after the language of the Bible,” was the ready retort. “If I +were as pronounced an agnostic as our Captain pretends to be, which I am +not, I’d read my Bible daily, if for no other reason than to improve +my vocabulary. Read it, Hal; study its precepts; imitate its language; +revere its antiquity; emulate the example of its good men; shun the sins +of its Davids and Solomons; fill your mind with the wisdom of its Isaiahs +and Deborahs; and, above all, obey its Ten Commandments and follow the +teachings of the Sermon on the Mount and the Golden Rule.” + +“I’ll see spooks to-night!” cried Jean. + + * * * * * + +As these chronicles will have no further dealings with the Mormon +refugee, it is well to add, in closing the incident, that twenty years +after the episode had passed and was almost forgotten, some of the +members of the long disbanded Ranger train, who were passing through +eastern Oregon, on their way to the mines of northern Idaho, found +her keeping a “Travellers’ Rest” in the bunchgrass country, where, as +cook, chambermaid, waiter, and general scullion, she was supporting her +repentant consort, who dutifully received the cash given by her guests in +exchange for such food for man and beast as her unique hostelry afforded. + + + + +XXV + +_JEAN LOSES HER WAY_ + + +A stanch but frail-looking ferry-boat waited to carry the Ranger train +across Green River. + +Jean, who, after her mother’s death, had developed a strong propensity +for daily hours of solitude, looked longingly at the desolate scenery +while her father’s train was awaiting its turn at the ferry, and, noting +the great table-rock that still overlooks the river, climbed unaided to +its top, where she became so deeply absorbed in contemplating the wild, +weird character of the scenery about her that she did not see that the +afternoon was waning, until the sun was down. + +“The Psalmist wondered at the mystery of the heavens, but I marvel at +the mysteries of earth,” she said. “Tell me, ye rugged rocks, and you, +ye waters of the desert, the secret of existence, if you can. Am I alone +with Thee, O God? Or are these rough-ribbed rocks, like me, instinct with +life?” + +“You’d better hurry, young lady, or you’ll miss the last trip of the +ferry-boat for the night,” cried a voice that seemed to come from beneath +her feet. Thoroughly frightened, she hastened to retrace her steps. How +she regained the river-bank she could never recollect; but when she stood +panting at the water’s edge, and beheld through the gloaming the last +of her father’s wagons ascending the opposite steep, it was past the +twilight hour, and one by one the stars came out amid the circling blue +of the bending sky. The roar of the waters was deafening. + +“Can I do anything for you, miss?” + +It was the same voice that had reached her from beneath the rock. She +looked up and beheld a tall, sunburned young man, bowing and lifting a +broad sombrero, who seemed as much embarrassed over the novel situation +as herself. + +“I am glad to see the face of a white man, sir. I was frightened half out +of my senses till I saw you.” + +“And are you not frightened now?” + +“Yes, a little bit. There are too many Indians stalking about to allow me +to feel exactly comfortable. But I shall rely upon you for protection, +sir.” + +“I suppose other trains will be along presently. They will encamp on this +side of the river for the night, so you will have company.” + +“We are away ahead of the other trains, sir. We took a cut-off in the +mountains.” + +“But you are afraid of the Indians?” + +“No, sir; not now, because—” She stopped as she looked into his kindly +face and caught the amused gleam of a pair of piercing eyes. + +“Because—why?” + +“Because you talk and act like a gentleman, sir. I am not afraid of a +gentleman.” She paused again, surprised at her own composure. Her eyes +fell, and a deep flush overspread her features, as the thought flashed +through her mind that she was utterly in the power of this stranger. + +“Can you ferry me across the river to-night, sir? My daddie will pay you +well for your trouble.” + +“I could not attempt it. We never risk running the ferry after sundown. +Guess we can make you comfortable on this side till morning.” + +“But there is no house where I can stop, and I haven’t any money. But +that’s nothing new for girls. They never have money.” + +“Oh, yes, they do, often. In the old country, where I came from, girls +often inherit money; and some of them own very large estates.” + +“But only by courtesy, sir.” + +He smiled at her frank simplicity. “You are sure of a safe night’s +lodging and a speedy return to the custody of the man you call daddie. +What ever possessed you to bestow upon him such a name?” + +“It was merely a notion, and is peculiar to myself in our family. But, +sir, what ever shall I do? Daddie will be frightened out of his wits; and +so will Mame and Marjorie and Hal!” and Jean began to weep convulsively. + +“There, there, don’t cry! There is nothing to be afraid of. I have a home +in the bank yonder. It isn’t a palace,—only a cave, or dugout, in the +side of the rock,—but it is clean and dry and warm. You’ll be as securely +protected there as in your father’s camp. I could do no better, under the +circumstances, for my mother or my Queen.” + +“Are you English, sir?” + +“I am proud to answer, Yes.” + +“You don’t look like the subject of a woman ruler.” + +“Why not?” + +“Because you seem like a sovereign in your own right.” + +“So I am, in America.” + +“I mean to be a sovereign American, myself, some day.” + +He laughed and shook his head. + +“I hope you are never going to become one of those discontented women +whom I’ve heard of in America, who are engaged in a perpetual quarrel +with their Creator because they were not born men.” + +“Have you seen such women in America, sir?” + +“No; but I have read some newspapers that made the charge.” + +“Do you believe everything that you read in the papers? Daddie don’t.” + +“I can’t say that I do.” + +“God understands what He is about when He creates a girl, sir; and God +didn’t create us to be the vassals of anybody. All we ask is a chance to +do our best in everything, ourselves being the judges as to what that +best shall be.” + +“How old are you?” + +“Almost sixteen.” + +“You act with the charm of a child, but you talk like a grown-up woman. +Are all the girls of your family equally clever?” + +“God never made two trees, or even two leaves of a tree, exactly alike. +You couldn’t expect two persons to be alike.” + +The stranger, conscious of a peculiar interest in this new and original +character, felt a tumultuous sensation in the region of his heart. + +“I am hungry, sir. But as I haven’t any money, I must ask you to trust me +till to-morrow.” + +He was leading her toward his dugout as they talked, or rather as he +listened. He had a school-day remembrance of a pair of brown eyes like +Jean’s. He had worshipped those eyes from a distance, for their possessor +was a nobleman’s daughter with whom he had never exchanged sentiments, +and she had never bestowed a thought upon him. And here was this artless, +untaught, but wonderfully intelligent maiden, in a travel-soiled blue +calico dress, and sunbonnet to match, who seemed to him possessed of +potentialities so far in advance of any promise ever given by the object +of his earlier dreams that he spurned the thought of comparing the two as +he dwelt upon her words. His heart continued its wild tattoo, and he felt +as if walking on air. + +“Here! This way, Siwash,” he called to his Indian servant, as he paused +in front of his lodgings and tendered her a seat outside. “As you see, I +have company. Get up the very best meal the place affords. This guest and +I are to dine together.” + +The Indian grunted assent; and the simple meal of pemmican, black coffee, +army biscuit, and baked beans fresh from the covering of hot ashes in +which they had been smothered till done to a turn, which formed the +ferryman’s usual bill of fare, was supplemented by a dessert of tea-cakes +and preserved ginger, the whole arranged on a small table covered with a +white oilcloth and furnished with tin dishes and steel cutlery. + +“I trust you will excuse the accompaniments of a higher civilization, +little miss. You will find the fare plain but palatable.” + +“It is fine,” cried Jean, as she ate with the zest that a life in the +open air alone can give. “Nobody need ask for better.” + +“Will you favor me with your past history?” asked her host, after the +repast was finished. + +“There isn’t much to tell, sir. My daddie got the farthest West fever +a good while ago; but he never sold out his farm and sawmill till last +March. Then he got ready, and we started across the continent. God +saw that the journey was too hard for my dear mother, so He took her +to heaven from the Black Hills. And now, sir, will you tell me about +yourself? Were you born in London?” + +“Why do you think I was born in London?” + +“Because you remind me of my great-grandmother. She was born in London. +We call her Grannie.” + +The Indian servant had heaped some fagots of sagewood upon the hearth, +filling the little room with a pungent and not unpleasant odor, and +diffusing a delightful warmth and glow through the air, to which the +light of a pair of candles gave an eerie charm. + +“To be plain with you, I grew weary of life at college, so I ran away and +went to sea. I was a headstrong boy, and gave my mother a whole lot of +trouble.” + +He ceased speaking and bowed his head upon his hands, his elbows upon +the table. Jean saw that his fingers were long and shapely, his head was +large and well-balanced, and his abundant hair was brown and bright and +slightly curled. + +“Were you never sorry, sir?” + +“Having put my hand to the plough, or rather helm, I couldn’t afford to +turn back—or at least I thought I couldn’t—till I had made my fortune.” + +“Did you make your fortune, sir?” + +“Not till—” He checked the word that was in his heart. “I first went to +Montreal, where I fell in with a company of Hudson Bay traders, with +whom I went to the Great Northern Lakes. I soon made, and lost, several +fortunes. I have always intended to return to my mother, but the years +have come and gone; and now, at the age of twenty-four, you find me, as +you see, with another fortune to make. But it seems an uphill struggle.” + +“Do you write regularly to your mother, sir?” + +“I am sorry to be compelled to answer no; but I promise you to do better +hereafter. And now, as the evening wanes, and I must leave you to the +privileges of my castle for the night, will you tell me your name?” + +“Certainly. It is Ranger,—Jean Robinson Ranger. And you are Mr.—?” + +“Ashleigh; Ashton Ashleigh, of Ashton Place, London, England.” + +“May I write to your mother from my Oregon home, when I get there, and +tell her all I know about you?” + +“Isn’t that an odd request, Miss Ranger?” + +Jean blushed to the tips of her ears. + +“Nobody ever called me Miss Ranger before,” she said, to hide her +confusion. “My sister Mary is the Miss Ranger of our family. Yes, I did +make an unusual request; but I thought of your mother pining for news of +her son, and fancied she might be glad to hear about him, even from a +stranger. But I see that it would hardly be proper for me to write; so +please do it yourself.” + +“Write to her by all means, Miss Ranger, as I assure you I surely will. +And now,” he added, rising, “I hear your Indian maid tapping outside, +and it is time to say good-night. I trust you will sleep well and have +pleasant dreams.” + +“Good-night, Mr. Ashleigh. I thank you ever so much for all your +kindness.” + + + + +XXVI + +_LE-LE, THE INDIAN GIRL_ + + +“Nika klosh cloochman!” clucked the Indian girl. + +Jean looked at her inquiringly. + +“Nika wake cumtux Siwah wa-wa?” asked the dusky maiden, offering her hand. + +“She says she is a good Indian girl, and asks if you understand her,” +said Siwash, who was leisurely putting the room to rights. “She’s my +little sister; heap good. Ugh! Nika speak jargon?” + +“No, Siwash.” + +But the maiden’s manner, though coy, was assuring, and Jean clasped her +hand eagerly. She was a graceful, nimble, and pretty creature; and Jean +thought with a sigh of regret of the ugly transformation awaiting her +under the cares and burdens of maturity and maternity, when, no longer +like “the wild gazelle, with its nimble feet,” she would resemble other +elderly Indian women. + +“What is your name, little girl?” she asked, as the maiden dropped +gracefully upon the hearth at her feet. + +“Nika wake cumtux Boston wa-wa.” + +“She says she doesn’t understand you,” grunted Siwash. + +“Ah-to-ke-nika a-it sewar.” + +“She says she has a good heart.” + +“Why doesn’t she speak her name?” + +The girl crouched low on the hearth and spread her shapely brown fingers +before the dying embers. + +“Nika Le-Le. Nika caid.” + +“She says her name is Le-Le, and she is a slave.” + +“Your sister? and a slave?” + +“I, too, was a slave,” said Siwash, “but I bought my freedom; and when +I get ten horses of my own, I will buy Le-Le’s. Could you help us? Your +father is good.” + +“A good heart isn’t always accompanied by a full purse,” thought Jean. + +“Who imagines that he has a property interest in your sister?” she asked +aloud. + +“Our chief, Tyee of the Nootkas. He captured both of us in a war with our +people, the Seattles, many, many moons ago.” + +“Ugh! Way-siyah! Whulge!” cried the girl, writhing like a captured eel. + +“Mac-kam-mah-shish, copa-nika?” + +“She asks if you cannot buy her.” + +“Nowitka! Mika! Closh potlatch hy-u chickamin?” + +“God knows I wish I could buy her,” said Jean. + +No painter could have done justice to the varying expressions that +alternately lighted and clouded the Madonna-like face of Le-Le, as she +strained every nerve to comprehend the conversation. And when at last +every vestige of her awakening hope had settled into a conviction of +failure, she buried her face in her hands, and, bending forward, shook +her black abundant hair over her face and body to the floor, and uttered +a piercing wail, making Jean’s blood curdle. + +“Le-Le’s cold!” cried the girl, crouching lower, till the embers singed +the ends of her straying locks. + +“Don’t cry, Le-Le dear. You have come to spend the night with me,” +exclaimed Jean, seizing her gently by the arm. + +“Nika wake cumtux,” cried the girl. + +“You have come to sleep,” pointing to the bed in the corner. + +“Nowitka! sleep! Nika cumtux.” + +“She understands,” said Jean, rising and turning to Siwash. “Good-night.” + +Jean was too full of contending emotions for sleep. She lingered long +upon the hearth. “I could stay here always,” she exclaimed in a low +voice, but loud enough to awaken the wary maiden from her slumbers on the +bed. But the mutual vocabulary of the twain did not admit of satisfactory +conversation, and the Indian girl sank back into unconsciousness. + +As she sat there thinking, a pair of kindly eyes seemed watching her +every movement with a tender devotion that made her heart beat wildly. “I +wish I’d never teased or laughed at Mame,” she sighed, as the Reverend +Thomas Rogers flitted past her inner vision. “What is Life but Love? And +who and what is Love but God? And what is God but the wonderful Mystery +that is both Life and Love?” + +Le-Le was away in dreamland, on the enchanted shores of Whulge,—the +Indian name for the magnificent body of water known to the civilized +world as Puget Sound. + +“This is holy ground,” cried Jean, so softly to herself that none but +Cupid heard. “These lowly walls will be a sacred memory to me through all +the rest of my life. But life will mean worse than nothing to me without +my one hero. Must I go away to-morrow? Oh, my God! can I ever live again, +away from this lodge in the wilderness? Guard and guide my love, O Spirit +of Life, and shield him with Thine everlasting arms!” + +Then, recollecting that she had not prayed, as usual, for the dear ones +in camp, she lovingly invoked divine protection for each and all, and was +soon in a sound, refreshing sleep. + + * * * * * + +“Yes, daddie dear, I’m safe and sound,” she cried, as she awoke to +consciousness, to find that the sun was shining and her father’s familiar +voice was calling her name in vigorous tones at the door. + +Jean hastily donned her clothing, which, simple as it was, excited the +envy of Le-Le. “Mika klosh, cultus potlatch?” she said inquiringly, as +she fondled a blue-and-white neck-ribbon, which was not over clean. + +“Cultus potlatch?” she asked again. + +Although Jean was not certain as to the maiden’s meaning, she gave her +the ribbon and tried to think her excusable. + +“Did you want it? Was that what you meant?” + +“Nowitka! Cultus potlatch! Hy-as klosh!” + +Jean tied the ribbon in a double bow-knot around the girl’s tawny +neck, and Le-Le, studying its effect in the little mirror on the wall, +exclaimed with a low chuckle, “Hi-yu klosh!” + + * * * * * + +“Oh, daddie darling,” exclaimed Jean, opening the door and springing to +his embrace, “did you think your historian was lost?” + +“Yes; or worse!” replied her father, his anger displacing anxiety as +soon as he saw that she was safe. “This isn’t the first time you’ve lost +yourself on this trip. If it happens again, I’ll—” + +“Don’t chide or punish the young lady, please!” interposed her obliging +host. “If you had seen how badly frightened and anxious she was last +night when she found herself left alone among strangers, you’d forgive +her without a word.” + +“That’s so, daddie,” sobbed Jean. + +“I surrendered my country-seat to her, and sent for this little Indian +maiden to keep her company.” + +There was a touch of humor in his tone, augmented by a kindly smile, +which sent the hot blood into the truant’s face and made her heart beat +hard. + +“Won’t you thank the gentleman, daddie? I might have been murdered but +for him.” + +“Of course I thank the gentleman; but that doesn’t lessen your offence. +You deserve a good thrashing!” + +“Which I’ll never get, daddie dear!” Then turning to her host, she added, +“Daddie never whips us, but he threatens us sometimes.” + +“I think I owe you a little explanation, Captain,” said the host. “I +might have risked taking your daughter across the river in a rowboat last +night if it had been safe to trust her on the other side after dark. +There are Indians camped along the way; and, though they are peaceful +enough when they are compelled to be, they are not trustworthy under all +circumstances. But my servant, Siwash, has breakfast ready and waiting. I +can’t allow you to go on till you have broken your fast.” + +The host conducted his guests into the dugout to a table loaded with +a bountiful supply of coffee, fish, venison, hot biscuit, beans, and +wapatoes,—the last two dishes being deftly exhumed from the depths of a +bed of ashes, where they had been cooked to perfection during the night. + +“Your servant is an artist in his business,” said the Captain, in praise +of the food. + +“Yes, Captain. I found him a slave, and, seeing he was superior to most +of his class, I purchased him for what you would consider a trifle. Then, +as time wore on, I encouraged him to buy his freedom from me. He is now +trying to purchase his sister; but he finds it slow work, as her value +increases as she gets older and better able to dig camas and tan buffalo +hides.” + +“It is awful to enslave the Indians!” cried Jean. “The Government ought +to stop it!” + +“Slavery among the Indians is no worse than among the negroes,” said her +host, with an admiring smile. + +“Women are not responsible for slavery, sir,” said Jean. + +“But women are very ardent defenders of slavery wherever it exists, my +daughter,” added her father, gravely. + +“That’s because they themselves are servants without wages, daddie. +Mother used to say that the worst slave-drivers she ever saw down South +were the overseers who were slaves themselves. Women are not angels, but +they are doing the best they can without political power.” + +“I don’t know but you are right, Miss Ranger. Women ought to have power. +My sovereign is a woman, and we have no slavery in England.” + +“Thank you for giving me the best of the argument, Mr. Ashleigh. But I +see that daddie is impatient, and we must be going.” + +“I hope you’ll pardon me for referring to a proposition you made last +evening, although you may have changed your mind, Miss Ranger. You +proposed writing to my mother. Will you do it?” + +“Ask daddie.” + +“I have no objection, of course,” said her father, “if it is understood +that I shall see the letters.” + +“Of course,” responded Jean. + +“May I have the pleasure of corresponding with your daughter, sir?” + +“Yes, if I can see the correspondence.” + +This was a greater concession than Jean had dared to hope for. + +“Thank you, Captain Ranger. I am sure my mother will be delighted with +the young lady’s letters. She has awakened my dormant sense of filial +duty and inspired me with a determination to return to it. I shall not +neglect my mother again.” + +“Come, Jean! It is high time we were off!” + +As her father spoke, the possible termination to this peculiar meeting +gave him a heartache. + +The last good-byes were spoken, and Captain Ranger heaved a sigh of +relief. “It will be out of sight, out of mind, with both of ’em in less +than a month!” he said, _sotto voce_. + + + + +XXVII + +_JEAN TRANSFORMED_ + + +“Where did you spend the night, Jean?” asked Mary. + +“In heaven,” answered Jean, her cheeks glowing. + +“Nonsense.” + +“I mean exactly what I say, Mame. I lodged with an Indian princess, and +ate my meals with a member of the British aristocracy. The princess +couldn’t speak English, but her brother acted as interpreter, so we got +on all right. She is a slave of an old chief of the Seattles. I wish I +had the money; I’d buy her, and send her back to her people.” + +“You might as well wish you owned the moon!” + +“I own the earth,—as much of it as I need. Everybody does.” + +“Then the most of us get cheated out of our patrimony,” laughed Sally +O’Dowd. + +“I wish you could all have had a chance to look in on me and my princess +last night; we were as snug as two bugs in a rug. The crickets sang on +the hearth, just as they used to do of nights in the old home. The wind +roared like a storm at sea, and the rush of the river was grand. I can +shut my eyes and live it all over again.” + +“You’ve gone stark mad!” laughed Hal. + +“As mad as a March hare,” said Sally O’Dowd. “I know the symptoms from +sad experience.” + +“You ought to be repenting in sackcloth and ashes. Why are you not +sorry?” asked Mary. + +“Because in losing myself I found my fate.” + +“Was it an Indian brave in a breech-cloth, with a bow and arrow, a +shirt-collar, and a pair of spurs?” asked Hal. + +The roar of laughter that greeted this query made Jean fairly frantic. +“You’re worse than a lot of savages yourselves,” she cried. “If I had my +way, I’d go back to that lodge in the wilderness and stay there!” + +Jean climbed into the wagon, buried her face in her hands, and abandoned +herself to a deep, absorbing reverie. “Oh, mother dear,” she said softly, +“if you could speak, you would sympathize with me, I am sure. If I only +had your love and sympathy, I wouldn’t care what anybody else might think +or say,—not even daddie. A new light and a new life have come into my +soul. Though a cruel fate may separate us through this life, we shall +always be one. But God made us for each other, and we shall surely meet +again.” + + * * * * * + +There was no longer any game to be had for the shooting; the little extra +food the company could purchase from the Indians, or from the few white +borderers at infrequent trading-posts, was held at almost prohibitive +prices. Dead cattle continued to abound at the roadside, filling the +air with an intolerable stench through every hour of the day and night. +No camping-spot could be found where the surroundings were not thus +polluted. Captain Ranger’s teams were giving out from sheer exhaustion, +induced by starvation rather than overwork, and two or more of his weaker +oxen were dying daily. + +“I’ll break the horrible monotony of this diary,” said Jean at last, “or +I’ll die trying.” And for many days her jottings were confined to minute, +and sometimes glowing, descriptions of snow-capped mountains, bald hills, +tree-studded lesser heights, and vast and desolate wastes of sand and +sage and rocks. Sterile valleys, verdant banks of little rivers, mighty +streams, and running brooks received attention, in their turn, from her +pen, the whole making a record surprisingly akin to the journals kept +by Lewis and Clark, and left on record half a century earlier, of the +existence of which she had no knowledge. There was one theme of which her +father enforced daily mention,—a regular account of the scarcity of grass +and game and wood and water. + +A murder by the roadside, and the consequent trial, conviction, and +execution of the murderer by a “provisional government” temporarily +organized for the purpose received a painstaking record, as did also a +difficulty with some thieving and beggarly Indians, whose hostility was +awakened by the rashness of one of a trio of bachelors, who were encamped +one night near the Ranger wagons. Captain Ranger made the Indians a +pacifying speech, but only by the aid of some trifling present among the +women of the tribe, and a gift of a pair of blankets to their chieftain, +was the impending danger averted. A double guard was placed outside that +night; and, for several nights following, a corral was made of the wagons +in the shape of a hollow square, into which the cattle were driven to +rest and sleep. + +The now famous Soda Springs, known to the commercial world as Idanha, +next caught the coloring of Jean’s pen. The different geysers rising +from the tops of the gutter-sided mounds of soda-stone were carefully +and graphically described. The crater of a long-extinct volcano received +special mention. The bad water of alkali-infected streams and swamps, +left by slowly evaporating pools and ponds, through which cattle and +wagons labored with the greatest difficulty; the dreary wastes of +sagebrush, sand, and rock, through which everybody who was able to walk +at all was compelled to trudge on foot; the devastations of prairie +fires; the endless wastes of stunted sage and greasewood; the struggling +aspens on the margins of tiny streams,—all met graphic and detailed +delineation, such as nobody can appreciate to the full who to-day +traverses these vast and wondrous wilds in a railway coach, or gazes upon +them from a Pullman car. + + * * * * * + +“Captain Ranger,” said Sally O’Dowd one evening, “do you notice that Jean +is growing strikingly beautiful?” + +They were halting for the night after a day’s hard drive; and the +jaded oxen, weak and sick from the combined effects of hard labor, +cruel whippings, and an insufficient supply of grass and water, were +necessarily the chief objects of his attention and solicitude. A broken +wagon-tongue added to his perplexities, as good timber for repairs +was not available; and the mileage of the day’s travel had been much +shortened by the necessity of stopping to mend the break, or, as the +Little Doctor not inaptly said, “to reduce the compound fracture of a +most important part of the wagon’s anatomy.” + +“All my girls are handsome,” said the Captain, as he tested the strength +of a splice on the broken tongue by jumping upon it with both feet. + +“But Jean has been transformed, Captain. The change has been growing +upon her daily since the date of that Green River episode. The child is +hopelessly infatuated with that young Englishman.” + +“Much good it’ll do her,” he exclaimed, mopping his brow with a soiled +bandanna. “It is painfully evident that three of my girls will soon be +women. If their mother were here, it wouldn’t be so hard to manage them. +No, Sally, I’ve noticed no particular change in Jean.” + +“Because you are too busy for observation, sir. She hasn’t been a +particle like herself of late.” + +The Captain hurried away to his work, muttering, “Nonsense!” + +Jean had seated herself on the most distant wagon-tongue, her battered, +ink-bespattered journal in her lap, her pen in one hand, her inkstand +in the other, her knitted brows and glowing face expressing deep +concentration of thought and feeling. + +Captain Ranger, having finished his work of repairs, dropped wearily upon +an axle-tree, and, for the first time in several days, prompted doubtless +by the words of Sally O’Dowd, took a long and searching look at Jean. + +“Yes, indeed; Sally is right,” he soliloquized. “Jean is developing a +wonderfully beautiful style of womanhood. What a pity it is that she +cannot have her mother at the very time when she needs her most!” + +Pangs of anxiety akin to jealousy shot through his heart as he studied +her features; her downcast eyes were hidden by the heavy lashes as she +bent over her work. “She doesn’t resemble her mother as Mary does, but +she must be the almost exact counterpart of what my mother was at her +age,” he mused, as he noted for the first time the ripening lips, the +rosy and yet transparent hue of her cheeks, and the sunny sheen of +her hair. He was surprised that he had not before observed the soft, +exquisite contour of her face and neck, the full rounded bust, and the +shapely development of her feet and hands. + +As he sat watching the lights and shadows of thought and feeling that +played upon her features, the remembrance of the girlhood of her mother, +whose arduous married years had all been spent in his service, arose +before him with startling power. “Dear, patient, tender, self-sacrificing +Annie!” he exclaimed, as he arose from his rocking seat and strode away +in the gloaming. “I never half appreciated your worth until I lost you +for ever!” + +“No, not for ever,” softly sung a still, small voice in the depths of his +inner consciousness. “Do not reproach yourself. All eternity is yet to +be.” + +Jean felt, rather than saw, the pressure of his eyes, and half divined +his thoughts. She felt the telltale blood as it rushed unbidden to her +cheeks, and was seized with a great longing to throw herself into his +arms and breathe out the full secret of her great awakening in his ears; +but something in his manner repelled her advances, and she withdrew more +than ever into herself. + +“O Love!” she cried in a tone so low and sweet that none but a messenger +from the Unseen might hear, “how ungovernable art thou, and how +incomprehensible! The worldly-wise may decry thee; the misanthropic may +deride thee; the vulgar may make of thy existence an unholy jest; the +selfish and ignorant may trample upon thee; human laws may crush thee; +but thou remainest still a thing of life, to fill thy votaries with a +holy joy and endow them with the very attributes of God. An imperishable +entity art thou, O Love! Thou art interblended with every fibre of my +being now, and I accept thee as a sweet fulfilment of my earthly destiny.” + +Of course Jean was young and fond and inexperienced and foolish; and +these chronicles would offer her rhapsodies as the utterances of no +worldly-wise oracle. But her thoughts were fresh and pure; and who shall +say they did not emanate from the very fountain of life itself, whose +presence she could sense but could not understand? + +She wandered off toward the rushing, maddening torrent of Snake River, +whose music had for her, in these moods of introspection, but one +interpretation. + +“Daddie may denounce, Hal and Mame may tease, and Marjorie,—yes, and all +the world deride me,” she said, as she sat upon a bowlder and abandoned +herself to reverie; “but henceforth there shall be nothing in this world +for me to cherish but Love and its handmaiden, Duty.” + +Snake River, full at this point of jutting rocky islands, through which +the foaming, roaring waters rushed like a thousand mill-races on parade, +dashed madly against its banks beneath her feet, and rushing on again, +roared and laughed and shrieked and sang. Lichens clung to the uplifted +rocks, which, hoary with age and massive in proportions, held vigil in +the midst of the eternal grandeur. Mountains clambered over mountains in +the dimly lighted distance, and reaching to the red horizon, overlooked +the Pacific seas. + +“The antelope and elk are gone,” she thought, “and we are lone watchers +amid the eternal vastness. But the sage-hen, the lizard, the owl, and the +jaybird linger; and yonder, among the everlasting rocks, are the homes of +the Indian, the rattlesnake, the badger, and the wolf.” + +Rustling footsteps startled her. “Why, it’s daddie!” she exclaimed, her +heart beating audibly. “I thought you were an Indian or a bear!” + +“You oughtn’t to go off alone, my daughter. There is some hidden danger +threatening us; I feel, but cannot divine it. Something is going wrong +somewhere or somehow. Let’s hurry back to camp.” + +“You’re the last person on earth I’d suspect of giving way to a morbid +fancy, daddie dear. You must be very tired.” + +“It isn’t that, my daughter. I am sad because you have allowed your heart +to stray, and I do need you so much—so much!” + +She answered not a word. + + + + +XXVIII + +_THE STAMPEDE_ + + +The next morning brought unexpected delays. The repairs about the camp +and wagons consumed more time than had been anticipated, and it was +ten o’clock before the cattle, which had been allowed to stray farther +from camp than usual, in search of the dried and scanty herbage that +alone staved off starvation, were driven into camp and hurried down to +the river-bank to drink. The swiftness, foam, and sudden chill of the +water, its depth and roaring, confused and frightened the half-sick and +half-starved animals; and one, a patriarchal bull, the master and leader +of the herd, who had often before made trouble, gave vent to a deep, +sonorous bellow like the roar of an ancient aurochs. Then, with nose in +air, he struck out across the stream, the herd following. A small, rocky +cape crept out into the water on the opposite bank, affording the only +visible landing-place; and up this the panic-stricken creatures scrambled +in a mad stampede, which the helpless occupants of the camp surveyed with +the calmness of despair. + +“I had no idea that the poor creatures had enough life left in them to +run a dozen rods on level ground,” said Captain Ranger, after a grim +silence. “Boys,” he added in a husky voice, as he swallowed a great lump +in his throat, “are any of you able to swim Snake River?” + +“I can do it,” answered John Brownson, an obliging young teamster, who +had joined the company early in the journey and had made himself useful +on many trying occasions. + +“And I too,” said John Jordan, another favorite of road and camp. The two +intrepid volunteers shook hands with their anxious Captain and plunged +boldly into the roaring, swirling, deafening torrent, through which +Jordan swam with ease, his head now bobbing out of sight and now rising +above the foaming current, to disappear again and again, till at last he +was seen to emerge from the water on the opposite steep and ascend the +almost sheer acclivity leading to the table-land above. It was a brave +and daring feat, but it proved fruitless. The poor, panic-stricken cattle +failed to recognize as a friend the stark white apparition, entirely +bereft of clothing. It was all in vain that he called the leader of the +herd by name; and when the frightened creature turned and charged him, +and there was no shelter but some patriarchal sagebrush trees, he took +refuge behind the biggest of them till the aurochs changed his mind and +turned to follow the stampeding herd. + +The panic continued. The stampede was irresistible. The cattle were +lost, and most of them were never heard of more, though it is said that +Flossie, the companion and patient of Jean during the hours of her vigil +on that never-to-be-forgotten night in the Black Hills,—Flossie, the +faithful, enduring, and kindly-eyed milch cow whose calf had been killed +on the road,—reappeared long afterwards in the sagebrush wilds of Baker +County, Oregon, with quite a following of her children, grandchildren, +and great-great-grandchildren, all but herself as wild as so many deer. +Flossie herself was recognized, they say, by the Ranger brand; and her +hide, with the letters J. R. still visible behind the shoulder-blade, is +to-day a valued relic of departed years in the mansion of a prominent +actor in the drama of that eventful summer. + +But what of Brownson? All day the hapless watchers of the camp had +strained their eyes and ears for sight or sound of him, in vain. + +“He must have been caught with cramps, or been dashed against the rocks +by the current, for I saw him drown,” said Jordan, at sundown, as he +rejoined the helpless watchers near the wagons. + +Meanwhile, the men and women of the camp had not been idle. The lightest +wagon-box the train afforded was selected and pressed into service for +a ferry-boat; and while the men made oars, rowlocks, and rudder as best +they could with the materials at hand, the women skilfully caulked the +seams of the wagon-bed with an improvised substitute for oakum, under +the supervision of the Little Doctor, making it tolerably water-tight. +The wagon-box was then replaced on wheels and hauled upstream about +half-a-dozen miles to a little valley where the river was wide, the banks +low, and the water comparatively shoal and calm. + +It was conjectured by Captain Ranger that the entire force of men in +the train might be able, by a concerted effort, to assist the watcher +on the upland in his brave attempt to arrest the stampede and secure +the cattle’s return. But their united efforts were unavailing; and long +before they returned, disheartened, apprehensive, and weary, the helpless +watchers at the camp saw the bruised body of Captain Ranger’s favorite +mare rolling, tumbling, bumping, and thumping through the roaring waters +and among the jagged rocks, near the very spot where Brownson had been +drowned. + +Noble, faithful, obedient Sukie! In her attempt to swim the river with +her devoted master, who was seated in the stern of the novel boat leading +her by the halter and encouraging her with kindly words, her strength +failed utterly; and when she turned upon her side and Captain Ranger let +go his hold upon the halter, she uttered a dying scream, rolled over, and +was gone. + +“If there isn’t any horse heaven, the creative Force has been derelict in +duty,” sadly exclaimed the master, as he watched the lifeless body of his +beloved and faithful servant floating down the stream. + +Through the silent watches of the awful night that followed, John Ranger +pondered, planned, and waited. + +His three daughters and three younger children, Sally O’Dowd and her +three babies, and Susannah and George Washington, all occupied the family +wagon, around which he stalked through the silent hours as one in a dream. + +“A formidable array of dependent ones,” he said to himself over and over +again. “And what is to become of my Annie’s darlings? Was it for this +that she started with me on this terrible journey?” + +There was no audible answer to his anxious queries save the roaring of +the river as it crashed its way between the rocks that formed its grim +and tortuous channel. + +Weary at last of walking, he crept into his tent beside Hal, who had +been dead to the world from the moment he touched his bed, so sweet is +the deep forgetfulness of childhood when “tired Nature’s sweet restorer, +balmy sleep,” is preparing it for the further endurance of an exacting +and ambitious life. But Captain Ranger could not sleep. He arose and +faced again the silent horrors of the situation. + +The stars twinkled overhead in their usual triumph over disturbing +forces; and, slowly fading into the coming twilight, rode the gibbous +moon. + +In his helplessness the lonely watcher lifted up his voice and prayed. + +“I’ve never felt much worry over original sin, O Lord!” he cried, +standing with hands uplifted in the chilly air, “but you know I’ve +generally been honest. I’ve tried hard to do my duty according to my +lights. I didn’t mean to bring my Annie and her babies out here in the +wilderness to die; but you understood the conditions, and because you +understood, you took my wife away. I rebelled at first, but you helped me +to bear it for her sake; and for this, for the first time, I thank you. +And now, if you have the love for her children for which she always gave +you credit, I am sure that you’ll guide me safely out of this present +trouble. And if you do, O Lord, I’ll serve you as long as I live in +whatever way you lead. Amen.” + +“I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous +forsaken, nor his seed begging bread!” + +“Who spoke to me?” he asked, aloud. “Where did that voice come from? I +could have sworn it was Annie! No; Annie is dead!” + +In a flurry of excitement he peered in all directions, listening eagerly. +But in his soul there slowly crept a quiet peace, and with it a sense +of security and elation which he could not comprehend; neither could he +doubt its reality. + +Before him passed, in mental review, the strenuous days of his boyhood, +awakening youth, and early manhood. The memory of his mother arose before +him, inexpressibly sweet and tender. He thought lovingly of his father, +strong in the religious faith of which he had often made a jest. His +gentle Annie seemed so near that he could almost reach her. But closer +to him than any other seemed the presence of his brother Joseph. What a +promising lad he was, and with what joy had the whole family striven to +bestow upon him the educational advantages to which none of the others +had dared to aspire! + +Then passed before him, like scenes in a panorama, the awful pecuniary +straits that followed, when the beloved brother fell under the ban of the +law. + +Then came in review his unexpected meeting with that brother in the +wilderness. “Forgive my pride, brutality, and selfishness, O Lord! and by +all that’s holy, I’ll make it right with Joe!” + +And who shall say that this unique appeal to the great Source of Life +was less acceptable to the Infinite than the studied petitions of gowned +prelates? whose often conflicting appeals to Jehovah, if answered +literally, would plunge the world into confusion and chaos under the +diverse demands of the children of men. + +His prayer ended, the chilled and worried wanderer returned to his bed +and readdressed himself to sleep, this time with such success that +when he awoke the sun was riding high in the heavens, and he heard the +familiar voice of a train-master, whom he had left in his rear by taking +the Green River cut-off, and who had now overtaken him. + +“Hello, Captain!” exclaimed the new arrival, striking the wall of the +sleeper’s tent with the butt of his heavy ox-whip. “What’s all this I’ve +been hearing? Didn’t you get back any of your stampeded cattle?” + +“Nary a hoof,” replied the Captain. “I tell you we’re in a mighty bad +fix, Harlan.” + +“How are you going to get out?” + +“Don’t know yet. It’s a ground-hog case, though, I’m bound to make it +somehow. Got any cattle to sell?” + +“Possibly. Might spare two yoke and an odd steer. Got any money?” + +“A few dollars. But I don’t want to get into Oregon dead broke. Can’t you +trust a fellow till we reach the settlements?” + +“I could if we weren’t running short o’ grub. This journey has cost like +the dickens from the start; and it won’t get any cheaper on the home +stretch. Every fellow you strike wants money. It wasn’t so in the States.” + +“We can swap accommodations if we like, Harlan. I have several bags of +jerked buffalo meat.” His voice faltered, as he remembered that this meat +had been prepared by the order of his vanished wife. “We laid in a lot of +flour and other stuff at our last Utah trading-post; so we’re not short.” + +An old-fashioned game of barter and dicker was soon concluded; and +Captain Ranger set his men to work, rearranging the wagons and making +ready to move on. + + + + +XXIX + +_IN THE LAND OF DROUTH_ + + +All the wagons except the “saloon,” or family vehicle, were ruthlessly +stripped of their various appurtenances; the running gear of those +that had seemed to stand the wear and travel with the least injury +were selected to hold the absolute necessaries of the remainder of the +journey. Many articles of utility were compelled to find a lodgment in +the family wagon, causing Sally O’Dowd to ruefully survey the limited +space for the little flock who were too young in years to walk regularly. + +“We’ll see what can be done,” said the Captain, thoughtfully. “I’ve +left the saloon wagon to the last, hoping somebody would come along who +could spare us a few more steers. We’ve thrown away everything we can do +without. But we’ll get the cattle.” + +“It’s lucky we’ve got the money the teamsters paid us to get back after +they deserted us,” said Jean. The Captain’s face brightened. + +“Why, surely!” he cried. “I had forgotten all about the financial end of +that incident. You have a business head on you, my girl!” + +“Here it is,” cried Marjorie. “It is in our great-grandmother’s silver +spectacle-case. Jean put it there.” + +“Sure enough,” said her father. “Your great-grandfather carried that +tarnished and battered spectacle-case all through the Revolutionary War. +It is indeed a lucky find.” + +In less than an hour another train of dilapidated wagons came along, +accompanied by half-a-dozen loose oxen and a discouraged cow. + +Then for the first time the faces of Mrs. Benson and Mrs. McAlpin +brightened. During all the hurry of the day they had wandered aimlessly +about, steadfastly refusing to accept any assistance until the Ranger +family should first be provided with oxen. + +“Now, as we can get cattle enough to move one of our wagons, it is our +time to make preparations for a start,” said the Little Doctor. + +“Did you think for a minute that you’d be abandoned to your fate?” asked +Captain Ranger. + +“We didn’t allow ourselves to think at all; we just waited and trusted.” + +In less than an hour what was left of the Ranger outfit was in motion. +And a sorry-looking outfit it was indeed. + +One of Mrs. McAlpin’s wagons was abandoned after she had discarded +everything of appreciable weight that could be spared. But there +are exceptions to every rule, and the Little Doctor, watching +her opportunity, managed with the aid of Scotty to stow away the +long-secreted spinning-wheel and baby’s cradle which had been Mrs. +Ranger’s property. + +“If we can complete our journey at all, we can carry these things,” the +Little Doctor said to Jean. “We are getting near the Columbia River, as +we can see by the topography of the country; and there’s a mission at +The Dalles, where we can get more help if we need it, I am sure. Mamma +and I will ride our horses as long as they are able to carry us. We have +provisions enough to feed our two teamsters and ourselves till we reach a +settlement.” + +One woman at a time was detailed to ride in the family wagon and take +care of the babies; all the rest walked, stopping to ride only when the +frequent streams that were too deep to wade were to be crossed; at which +times the wearied oxen were compelled to do the double duty of pulling +the loads and carrying the footsore pedestrians on their backs. + +The weather was now intensely hot during the long hours of sunshine. +The sandy wastes radiated the blistering heat under which the vast +sageplains lay staring at the unmerciful sun in apathetic stillness, +like a Lilliputian forest under a state of arrested development. But the +nights were chilly, and the storms of wind and dust that came up with the +going down of the sun were trying in the extreme. The men of the party no +longer had tents or wagon-covers for shelter, and were obliged to sleep +on the lee side of friendly rocks, beside which they awoke, sometimes, to +find themselves uncomfortably near a den of rattlesnakes or the decaying +carcass of an animal. + +At every spot where a little grass was found, the cattle were unhitched +from the wagons and turned out in pairs, under the yoke, to feed. +Every stray bit of wood, every discarded ox-yoke or ox-bow, and not +infrequently the entire woodworks of an abandoned wagon, were split into +firewood and carried along among the baggage for camping purposes. + +Unknown guides, in whom the prolonged hardships of the plains had not +destroyed the spirit of human kindness, left frequent notices on the +rocks by the wayside, giving valuable information in regard to springs +and streams, but for which there would have been terrible suffering at +times from thirst. + +The cattle were too weak and their loads too heavy to permit long hours +of travel, and their progress was necessarily slow. + +The beds of small streams had gradually dried under the fierce sunshine, +and it became necessary to keep as near as possible to the banks of +the Snake River, from which, however, the way often deviated for days +together because of intervening rocks, gulches, sand, and sheer bluffs. + +On the third day of August Jean made entry as follows:— + +“The fiery weather of the past fortnight has moderated somewhat; but +the roads are, as usual, rocky and dusty, with many stretches of sand, +through which the poor, weak cattle pull the wagons, which, though +lightened by the reduction of our loads, are far too heavy for their +strength, which decreases daily. + +“Our road, during the afternoon of to-day, lay close to the almost dry +bed of a rocky-bottomed creek, beside which we camped for the night, +without food for our stock, and almost without water. I wonder what the +poor creatures think of us for bringing them out here in the wilderness, +face to face with such a fate? + +“Some of our teamsters have been growing quarrelsome of late. Two men who +fell in with us shortly after our loss of cattle and have been following +us ever since and begging food, suddenly left the train yesterday; since +their departure some of our men are growing insubordinate. + +“Their grievance arises from the inability of the cattle to haul them +when not on duty as drivers, they assuming that they made no bargain +with daddie to do any extra walking. Our teamster Yank, the aristocratic +son of Virginia, who claims to be an F.F.V., climbed on a wagon-tongue +early in the day, and compelled the oxen to pull his weight through the +rocks and sand, the added strain upon their neck yokes making their lot +doubly hard. Daddie is holding a conference with the fellow now. He said +before we halted for the night that he hoped the dissatisfied ones would +leave of their own accord, as otherwise he expected trouble. He announced +to-night that there would be no more riding on wagon-tongues; and +although we await the result of the conference with some anxiety, daddie +says he isn’t worried, since the dissatisfied fellows must stay with the +train or starve. + +“August 4. We travelled seventeen miles to-day, having halted for two +hours to feast the cattle on a bed of dry bunchgrass, fortunately +discovered by Scotty in a ravine overlooked by trains ahead. It was a +great comfort to see the hungry animals fill themselves with the dry but +nutritious grass, and drink their fill from a trench made in the bed of +the dry creek. + +“Three miles’ further travel brought us to a bend in the creek, where we +succeeded in digging again for water. + +“August 5. We are in better spirits than at any time since our loss of +cattle. All traces of mutiny have disappeared, and even Yank trudges over +the road without protest. The animals, too, are stepping briskly. + +“We find nothing at all for the cattle to eat to-day. The road continues +rough and rocky, and abounds in chuck-holes which the narrow track +will not permit the wheels to avoid. The tires are all loose on the +wagon-wheels, and it seems a miracle that the wheels do not fall to +pieces. + +“After we halted for the night on the banks of the Snake River, once more +our men were compelled to drive the cattle down the stream for over a +mile to find an opening between the bluffs through which they could reach +water. And the men had to carry back a limited supply in their canteens +to relieve the distress at camp. We are in plain and provoking sight of +a foaming waterfall on the opposite bank, but as thoroughly out of reach +of it as if it were in the mountains of the moon. It bursts from a ledge +of rocks, and descends to the river with a roar that at this distance +is sweetly musical. Some day, in the years to come, some enterprising +individual will preëmpt that spring, and make a fortune by selling the +pure water to his less fortunate fellow-men. + +“August 6. At ten o’clock to-day we were refreshed by a welcome shower. + +“Oh, the blessed summer rain! How it cooled the parching air and arid +earth, and revived the drooping spirits of poor dear daddie, who is +growing hollow-eyed and thin, like the cattle! + +“We find no game, and nothing for the stock to eat but some willows.” + + * * * * * + +“Yonder,” said Captain Ranger, in an excited tone, “are the falls of +Salmon River. Make a note of them, Jean!” + +The dilapidated wagons were halted on a great plateau overlooking a rapid +river, spanned by a mighty ledge of rocks, over which a great torrent +of foamy-white water rolled and surged, glistening in the sunshine with +great schools of female salmon in quest of spawning-ground, followed by +the male contingent, fierce of aspect and in fighting mood, ready to +destroy one another or anything else that might impede their progress. + +Indians were camped in great numbers below the bluffs, the women drying +the fish for winter use, and the men bartering the produce of their +skill with lance and spear for such articles of food and apparel as the +depleted stores of the wanderers could spare. + +“August 7. We travelled eighteen miles to-day. At ten o’clock we found a +little plat of dry bunchgrass, and halted for an hour to allow the stock +to graze. It was well we did, for to-night we find no grass at all. The +river is over a mile from camp, and we are compelled to carry water all +that distance for domestic use. We don’t use very much.” + +For many miles the road continued through a rocky canyon, where the way +was so perilous that the locked wagon-wheels had to be held in place by +men on the upper side of the grade to prevent the wagons from tumbling +down the bluffs into the raging current far below. + +The entries in Jean’s journal were interrupted at this time by a serious +siege of toothache; and for this reason we find, under date of August +10 and 11, in Captain Ranger’s painstaking chirography, the following +entries:— + +“We travelled about eight miles and again came to Snake River. The +weather has been insufferably hot; and, as our weak and famished cattle +were unable to go on, we were compelled to halt and await the coming of a +breeze. + +“The general face of the country is barren in the extreme. No vegetation +is in sight except the ever abounding sagebrush. Gnarled, old, dwarfed, +and shaggy, this seemingly boundless waste of sage subsists without +apparent moisture; and for no conceivable purpose it lives on and on +forever, staring stolidly at the sun by day and keeping vigil with the +moon and stars by night.” + +On the 12th of August Jean made the following entry: “We reached the +banks of the river every few miles to-day, and camped near it at night. +We find here no grass, game, or fuel; but, thank God, there is plenty of +water. + +“After resting the cattle till sundown, daddie gave orders to yoke up and +move ahead to a plat of grass that he had heard of, about six miles to +the westward, and half a mile to the left of the main travelled road. We +were all packed, ready to start, when Shorty and Limpy came into camp, +bringing about half of the cattle, and reported all the others missing. +So we are compelled to await the morning with such forebodings as no pen +can portray; mine at least will not make the attempt. + +“August 13. The missing cattle were found and brought in at an early hour +this morning; and after a hurried breakfast we started for the promised +feeding-grounds, where we found good grass and water, but no fuel. We +halted for a couple of hours, and then came on seven miles farther, when +we once more reached Snake River. + +“The dust throughout the day has been almost unbearable. It is as fine as +the finest flour, and, being impregnated with alkali, is very irritating +to nostrils, throats, and lungs. + +“August 14. This has been the hardest day yet upon the cattle,—poor +starved and wretched creatures! And I might add, poor alkalied and +used-up people! + +“Not a person in our company is well. We are a fretful, impatient, and +anxious lot, and no wonder. And yet our journeyings even now have their +amusing side. Susannah sings like a nightingale, and ‘Geo’die Wah,’ as +her lisping coon calls himself, leads the chorus. Scotty quotes poetry +by the yard, and the Little Doctor seeks diversion in every incident. +Mrs. Benson continues amiable and obliging, showing a side to her nature +wholly unlike the waspish way she had when we first knew her. The men +often clear away the sagebrush from a level plat of ground after their +chores are finished for the night, and hold dancing carnivals among +themselves (daddie draws the line at dancing, so we don’t participate). +Sawed-off makes tolerable music on a fairly good violin. The humble +jotter of these chronicles finds her chief diversion in the fact that we +are every day drawing nearer to the Oregon City Post-office.” + + + + +XXX + +_BOBBIE GOES TO HIS MOTHER_ + + +Jean’s aching tooth suffered a relapse, and the suppuration that ensued +made her seriously ill. + +On the 14th of August her father again made an entry:— + +“Five of our escort have left us, taking with them a wagon-bed left by +the wayside by somebody whose cattle have died or strayed. They made a +clumsy boat of the square-bottomed thing; and with this frail craft, +which they successfully launched in the tortuous waters of the Snake, +they expect to find safe navigation to its confluence with the Columbia. +Although it was a relief to get rid of some of them, chiefly because +they thought they knew so much more about my business than I was able to +learn, I am apprehensive of results solely on their account. Snake River +doesn’t look to me like a safe stream to be trusted. But it was a relief +to see them go, because we are yet many hundreds of miles from our goal, +and our supplies of food and means of transportation are getting more +precarious daily. + +“August 15. Lost another ox by drowning. + +“August 16. Weather insufferably hot. Lost an ox to-day from eating a +poisonous herb. At this rate we shall soon be left with one wagon. The +cattle must hustle for food after every day’s pull, making it very hard +to keep life in their poor skeleton bodies.” + +On the evening of the 18th Jean resumed her writing, which ran in part as +follows:— + +“The long and dreary road is rough and hilly, and the yielding sand is +deep. We found to-day at noon a patch of dry grass, and stopped to graze +our famishing cattle. But we neglected, by some mischance, to fill our +water-casks in the morning, so we had a dry luncheon in the hot sand, +under the blistering sunshine. Our shoes have all given out from constant +walking, and we are reduced to moccasins, which we get by barter among +the Indian women. But the deerskin things afford us no protection from +the still abounding cacti, which seem to thrive best where there is the +least moisture. + +“We are encamped once more on the banks of the Snake. It was quite dark +when a halt was ordered. + +“August 19. Glory to God in the highest! We are once more within sight of +some trees that are not sagebrush. They are off to the westward, several +miles away, and their stately presence marks the course of a stream we +cannot see. + +“August 20. The stream proved to be the Owyhee,—a lukewarm, clear, and +rapid little river with a pebbly bottom. The air is so foul from the +stench of decaying cattle, the water of the little river is so warm, and +the heat so intolerable that sickness and death must soon ensue if the +conditions do not change. It is no wonder that we see many graves by the +roadside. Most of them are the last resting-places of mothers who have +mercifully fallen asleep and been buried, often with their babes in their +arms. + +“August 21. Old Fort Boisé lies opposite our camp, away beyond and +across Snake River, looming in the distance like a mediæval fortress +from the midst of a gray, dry moat. Our printed guide, a little pamphlet +written by General Palmer in the forties, tells us that this fort was +built by the Hudson Bay Company for shelter and storage, and as a means +of protection from the Indians, with whom the traders did a thriving +business when the century was young. It is now fallen into decay, and is +doubtless the abode of bats and birds and creeping things. + +“The men who left our company on the 16th inst., in a boat made of a +wagon-bed, rejoined us to-day, having had all the navigation on the Snake +they seemed to care for. They were a woe-begone and God-and-man-forsaken +set; and their chief fear was that they would not be permitted to come +into our train again on the old footing. Daddie—dear, big-hearted, +hospitable man—took them in, though they deserved a different fate; +but we think they’ll be content to let the best that can be had alone +hereafter. + +“August 23. After a long, hot, and arduous journey of over thirty miles, +and consuming two days of the most trying experience possible, we reached +Malheur River, another tributary of the Snake. But we failed to find +any food for the cattle, and were compelled to pull out again the next +morning before dawn, headed for what appeared to be a stream of water, as +we judged from a fringe of willows. But when we reached the bed of the +stream it was dry as a bone. We were compelled to stop, though, as it was +then high noon, and it was reported twelve miles to the next water. So +a part of our force was detailed to dig a well in the creek bottom for +water for domestic use, and the rest were sent back to the Malheur to +water the stock, as soon as they had eaten their fill of the dry grass, +which to us is more precious than gold, or anything else just now but +water. + +“On the 24th we left this camp and travelled down the dry bed of the +creek for several miles, through a valley that had evidently been missed +by the trains ahead, as the grass was fine and abundant. After leaving +this valley, we travelled over a blind trail through a hot, dusty ravine +till ten o’clock at night, when we reached some sulphur springs and +encamped, feeling cross, half sick, and disgusted with all the world. The +air is heavy with the fumes of sulphur, and Limpy says we are less than +half a mile from hell.” + +On the 25th of August Jean’s journal again gave evidence of Captain +Ranger’s chirography and style. His characteristic narrative follows: +“To-day we made eight miles, which brought us to a deep and rocky canyon +debouching into the Snake. This is to be our last encounter with this +tortuous, treacherous, and in every way terrible serpent, of whose +presence we long ago had much more than enough. + +“Three miles farther brought us to Burnt River,—a small, rapid, and +crooked stream, with a sandy delta at its disproportionately extended +mouth. Here the country changes its entire topography. The bold and +abrupt foot-hills are covered to their tops with an abundant coat of +seed-bearing bunchgrass; and numerous juniper-trees which somehow in +the long ago gained a footing among the sloping shale and sand, lend a +peculiar beauty to the scene.” + + * * * * * + +“Mr. Burns, I’m going to die before long.” + +These were the words of little Bobbie, the darling of the family and of +the entire company, and were spoken to Scotty on that memorable day in +the Black Hills when preparations were in progress for the burial of his +mother. + +The blow came suddenly. The child had been overjoyed at the prospect +of reaching the end of the journey at an early day. The sight of Burnt +River filled him with pleasing anticipations. He was never more playful, +quaint, and original than when his father stood him on his shoulder to +view the last they should see of the Snake River. + +“Where is it going now, papa?” he asked artlessly. “Is it always hungry? +Is that what makes it in such a hurry? What does it eat? And where does +it sleep o’ nights? It’s a sure enough snake, isn’t it?” + +At midnight, when the weary party were sound asleep, Mary, who was lying +near him, was wakened by an ominous cough, which rapidly developed into +an acute attack of croup. + + * * * * * + +“It was a stubborn case, and quite beyond my poor skill,” said the Little +Doctor, as they all stood weeping around the still and beautiful form of +the precious dead. + +“What do you imagine caused the child to predict his untimely taking off, +Mr. Burns?” asked Mrs. McAlpin, as they watched alone. + +“I suppose it was merely a child’s fancy,—a coincidence, probably.” + +“And I suppose it was a revelation. Many important lessons may be learned +from the artless utterances of a child.” + +For many weeks Mrs. McAlpin had studiously avoided conversation on any +subject with the one man on earth whom she believed to be her counterpart. + +“Wait till that human imperfection called the Law has made me legally +free,” was her invariable command whenever her suitor showed symptoms of +impatience. + +But to-night, as they knelt together in the presence of what the world +calls Death, he seized her hand, and it was not withdrawn. + +“Kneeling in this presence, may I have my answer, Daphne?” + +The dim light of a sputtering tallow candle shed a faint glow across the +white sheet under which the still form of Bobbie lay in dreamless sleep. + +She returned the pressure of his hand in silence. But when he would have +caught her in a close embrace, she gently withdrew and whispered: “We +will take our first kiss at the altar, darling.” + +“I am happy now, and I can wait. God bless you!” he whispered; and as +others were about entering the tent, he arose from his knees and went out +silently among the stars. + +The morning came at last. Amid the tearful silence of the company +the train moved on for a couple of miles and halted at the foot of a +mountain to consign the mortal remains of the little soul to their last +resting-place. High up on the mountain-side, on a natural terrace, the +grave was made under a spreading juniper-tree, in whose branches the wild +birds chant his requiem as the years roll on, and the eternal breezes +sing. + + * * * * * + +The next morning, August 29, found the face of Nature covered everywhere +with a thick coating of hoar-frost. Ice had formed during the night in +the water-pails, an eighth of an inch in thickness, and an inspiriting +sensation of chilliness filled the air. But as the sun rode high in the +brassy heavens, the day grew intensely hot. On and on and up and up the +ailing cattle labored; and on and on and up and up the dispirited company +toiled, footsore and weary, ragged and dirty. But hope was not dead; for +was not the goal of their ambition now almost in sight? + +The mountains of Powder River were next crossed, and the weary pilgrims +emerged upon an open plain over which the pygmy sagebrush of the desert +ran riot. Here a quarter of a century later an enterprising city +was destined to arise, in the midst of abounding mines and burdened +wheatfields, wherein the irrigated lands would drop fatness and the +stockman grow rich among the cattle of a thousand hills. + +“This valley,” wrote Jean, under date of September 1, “is beautiful +to look upon; but it is considered worthless, as it is too dry for +cultivation, and there is no way to rid the land of the ever-obtruding +sage. Daddie says it will never be made to sprout white beans.” + +The ranchers, stock-raisers, mine-owners, merchants, artisans, mechanics, +speculators, newspaper men, politicians, and successful schemers in every +walk of life can well afford to forgive Daniel Webster, John Ranger, +and every other false prophet who in his day harped on the same string, +in view of the continuous fields of wheat, oats, barley, rye, vetch, +hops, and fruits of all kinds peculiar to the temperate zone which this +wonderfully fertile valley now produces under the impulse of irrigation, +not to mention the mines of gold and silver, precious stones, and baser +metals with which the hills and mountains are fabulously rich. + +The descent of the Ranger company into the now famous Grande Ronde +valley was most perilous. It was made long after nightfall, through a +precipitous and rocky defile, where a slip of the wagon-wheel or the +misstep of an ox would have plunged the adventurous teams, wagons, men, +women, children, and all, over sheer bluffs. + +Camp was pitched in the edge of the beautiful valley, then a reservation +belonging to the Nez Percé Indians. Rye-grass was growing as high as the +top of the head of a man on horseback; and at one end of the valley, +where now is a famous resort for health and pleasure, a number of hot +springs were outlined by great columns of steam, which, rising beneath +the arid air, hung low over the foot-hills, and, hanging lower yet in the +vale below, spread itself like an enormous fleece over a lake of seething +water. + + + + +XXXI + +_THROUGH THE OREGON MOUNTAINS_ + + +After moving across the Grande Ronde valley through a veritable Eden +of untamed verdure, and crossing the Grande Ronde River by ford, our +travellers began the ascent of the Blue Mountains. + +The air was cool and delicious. The cattle, much refreshed by their +luscious feed in the bountiful and beautiful valley, moved more briskly +than had been their wont, and were soon in the midst of the grand old +forest trees, which, at that time untouched by the woodman’s ax, stood +in all their native grandeur upon the grass-grown slopes. In the midst +of one of these groves of stately whispering pines the company halted +for the night near a sparkling spring, with scenery all around them so +enchanting that Jean exclaimed in her journal, “Oh, this beautiful world! +how big it is compared to the pygmy mortals who roam over its surface; +and yet how little it is compared to the countless stars that gaze upon +us from above this ‘boundless contiguity of shade’!” + +For several days she had written little. Her thoughts wandered to the +Green River experience that had awakened within her being a new life, +from which, for her at least, there was to be no ending. She could not +write, so she strolled aimlessly away to a mossy rock in a starlit +ravine, at the foot of which a rivulet was singing. + +“Why can’t I see you, mother dear?” she asked. “And you, Bobbie, can’t +you say a word to your sister Jean?” + +For a long time she sat thus, lost in reverie, while the eternal silence +around her was broken only by the low cadence of the whispering pines. + +Suddenly there came into her inner consciousness a call, unspoken yet +heard, “Jean!” + +She closed her eyes and saw, as plainly as with physical vision, Ashton +Ashleigh’s border home; and he was gazing hard at Le-Le, who was kneeling +at his feet in beseeching attitude. + +“Jean!” + +Gradually, as the demon Doubt aroused her senses, a wild, unreasoning +jealousy crept into her heart. She turned her face to the eastward and +sent out to him an answering call, “Ashleigh!” + +She listened eagerly; but no response was felt or heard, and no mental +vision reappeared. With her heart like lead, she returned to the wagon +and crept into bed. + +When she awoke the sun was shining, and she could not recall the vision +that had distressed her. Had her soul visited the abode of her heart’s +idol? Who knows? and who can tell? + + * * * * * + +On and on the teams kept crawling, until on the 6th of September the +summit of the Blue Mountains was passed, and the wearied travellers gazed +for the first time upon the Cascade Mountains, lying to the westward in +the purple distance; and in their midst arose, supported by a continuous +chain of undulating, tree-crowned, lesser heights, the majestic +proportions of Mount Hood, the patriarch of the solitudes, his hoary head +uplifted in the shimmering air, and at his feet a drapery of mist. + +The Umatilla River left the gorges through which it had fought its +way, and glided peacefully through a sagebrush plain toward the great +Columbia. But no settlements were yet to be seen. No navigation had yet +been started on the broad bosom of the upper Columbia. The rock-ribbed +Dalles frowned far below in the misty distance; and no dream of a +fleet of palatial river craft, with portage railways around otherwise +impassable gorges, had yet taken practical shape. The Cascade locks had +not entered the liveliest imagination, and a transcontinental railroad +was considered an engineering impossibility, existing only in the mind of +an impractical theorist or incurable crank. + +A vast and practically level plain or upland lay between the Blue and the +Cascade mountains. The Whitman settlement had already made the existence +of the infant city of Walla Walla possible. Wallula and Umatilla were +not, and the site of Pendleton was an unbroken plain. + +But game was plenty and grass was good. Choke-cherries and salmon-berries +grew thickly among the deciduous groves that bordered the Umatilla River; +and but for the sad bereavements in the Ranger family, which time alone +could heal, the company would have been in exuberant spirits. + +At Willow Creek station, which is now a veritable oasis in the desert, +the party found a trading-post, where some fresh potatoes and onions made +a welcome change in the diet. + +On the 13th of September Jean wrote: “Old friends and relatives, tried +and true, have come to meet us from the Willamette valley, and their +unexpected coming fills us with gratitude unspeakable.” + +After stopping merely to exchange greetings and gather what meagre +tidings they could obtain from each end of the long and tedious road, the +jaded immigrants pushed onward through the heat and dust till nightfall, +when they came to a small stream, where they were compelled to halt for +the night on account of the water, though the grass was poor and the +cattle fared badly. + +The relief party reported the Willamette valley as the “Garden of Eden,” +and gave glowing accounts of the soil, climate, scenery, and plenty with +which the western part of the great Oregon country abounded. Even the +dumb animals seemed to understand and take courage; for they stepped more +briskly under the yoke and chewed the cud to a later hour than had been +their wont. + +Guided by the advice of the relief party, the train was again put in +motion at midnight. + +“It is fully twenty miles to the next camping-ground where there are wood +and water,” said a kindly recruit who had recently been over the road. It +was a forced march, but the animals were well repaid for making it, as +they found good water and a tolerable supply of grass. + +“September 16. We are encamped near the mouth of the Des Chutes River,” +wrote Jean. “It is a clear, swift, and considerable stream which empties +its waters into the Columbia. + +“I know to-night just how Balboa must have felt when he discovered the +Pacific Ocean. For have I not set eyes upon the lordly Columbia, the +mighty river of the West, which + + “‘Hears no sound save its own dashings’?” + +The Des Chutes was safely forded by the teams, under the direction of an +Indian guide, and the women and children were taken across it in a canoe. + +The wild and broken desolation of the plains now gave way to vast +alluvial uplands,—dry, owing to the season, but giving promise of great +prosperity for future husbandmen. Numerous gulches intersected the +otherwise unbroken level, upon which the teams would often come without +warning; therefore travel was difficult and progress slow. + +“If the season were not so far advanced, I’d like to stop over at The +Dalles and visit the mission,” said Captain Ranger; “but a storm is +threatening, and it will never do to risk such an experience in the +Cascade Mountains.” + +“Quite right you air!” exclaimed a mountaineer, who visited the train +avowedly in search of a wife. None of the women or girls saw fit to +accept the negotiations proposed; but his advice as to a coming storm was +good. The train, in seeking to slip through the mountains by the way of +Barlow’s Gap,—a road made passable for teams by the indefatigable labors +of an honored pioneer, whose name it perpetuates,—was halted just in time +to prevent a disastrous ending. + +Captain Ranger’s worn and famishing cattle were reinforced at Barlow’s +Gap by two yokes of fat oxen sent to the rescue by an immigrant of +1850,—a grand and enterprising preacher of the gospel, who, all unknown, +even to himself, was a striking example of a working parson, imbued with +the practical idea of what constitutes a “Church of the Big Licks.” +Not that he was pugnacious, but he was philanthropic and practical and +enterprising; and many are the beneficiaries of his industry and skill +who have long survived his ministry, and date their material progress in +Oregon, as well as their spiritual welfare, to this practical promoter of +an every-day religion. + +Provisions were by this time running short, and the necessity of +reaching the settlements was imperative; but there was no appeal from +the borderer’s experience, and the impatient wayfarers were compelled to +remain in camp for four consecutive days and nights, while the excited +heavens warred among the serrated steeps, as + + “From rock to rock leaped the live thunder.” + +The storm, which condensed its forces into a deluge of rain at both the +eastern and western bases of the Cascade Mountains, had raged as snow in +the forest-studded heights; and this, melting rapidly under the sunny +skies which succeeded the heavy precipitation, made Barlow’s Gap so +slippery that the teamsters had to exercise the utmost care in guiding +the oxen and to keep their own feet. + +Provisions ran lower every day, and finally gave out entirely; and one +jolly wayfarer, who had for many weeks professed to be enjoying the +prospect of a ten-days’ famine, grew so ravenous when compelled to face +the reality at the foot of Laurel Hill, that he begged piteously for some +coffee-grounds to ease the cravings of his stomach. + +The next morning the three girls crossed the raging torrent of the +glacial river Sandy by jumping from rock to rock over the roaring and +perilous current, and gathered a bountiful supply of salal-berries for +the children; but it was almost night before the half-starved men (who +would not eat the purple fruit) were met by a packer, who brought beef +and flour; and as soon as a fire could be kindled, a meal was made ready. + +On the 27th of September the company descended the last long and rocky +steep, and halted with a shout at the foot of the mountains on the famous +Foster Ranch, where fresh vegetables, milk, cream, and butter were +added to the beef and flour on which they had been glad to subsist when +necessary. + +On the thirtieth day of the month they reached Oregon City, and were +royally welcomed by Dr. John McLoughlin,—the renowned, revered, and +idolized hero of Old Oregon. + + + + +XXXII + +_LETTERS FROM HOME_ + + +Oregon City, in the autumn of 1852 and for more than a decade thereafter, +consisted chiefly of a single narrow street bordering the Willamette +River and lying under the sheer bluffs of lichen-clad basaltic rock +that overlook the Falls of the Willamette, valued at that time only +as a fishing site for the wily Indian and a strenuous leaping-place +for schools of salmon. But future enterprise was destined to utilize +the stupendous water-power for the convenience of man in the city of +Portland, a dozen miles below. In this one narrow street the Ranger +company halted to read letters from the States. These letters, many +of them now nearly six months old, brought to them the first tidings +from the old home. The latest was dated August 1, and was from +Grandfather Ranger, announcing the transition of “Grannie,” the beloved +great-grandmother, whose demise was described with much detail:— + +“She was in usual health up to the last day of her sojourn in the body,” +he wrote, “and retained her faculties to the last. She had walked to +Lijah’s and back during the day, with no companion but Rover, who deemed +her his especial charge from the time he took up his abode with us. But +she complained of being tired on her return, and ate less dinner than +usual. While your mother and I were sitting at the table, we heard a +peculiar gasp and gurgle from Grannie’s chair in the next room, and we +hastened to her side; but she never spoke again, except in whispered +messages of love to us all. + +“We laid her precious remains in the family lot, in the dear, peaceful, +leafy burying-ground of Glen Eden, and returned to our lonely home, +and put away her empty chair. On the last morning of her earth-life, +as she sat at breakfast with us, she said, ‘I saw Joseph in my dreams +last night. I heard him speak as plainly as if he had been in this room. +He had a troubled look, but he said: “Tell mother I have written.”’ We +thought little of it at the time; but to-day we had a letter from him, +saying he is alive and well. He spoke of having seen you, John, but he +said you had quarrelled with him, or rather at him, and had left him in a +fit of anger. He did not say why you had quarrelled. But, oh, John, how +could you do it? We know he must have given you cause, but you should, +for our sakes, have risen above it. My old heart is heavy with sorrow. +And your dear, patient mother, who has prayed so long and earnestly for +this meeting between you two,—to think when her prayer is answered at +last that you would add to it such a sting! No matter which one of you is +the more to blame, you, my son, as the elder brother, should be the first +to make concessions. I know your gentle Annie joins me in this appeal. +She seems strangely near me as I write; and I can almost hear her say: +‘To err is human; to forgive divine.’ Give her and all the children our +messages of love and sympathy.” + +The strong man wept convulsively. No tidings of his wife’s transition had +yet been despatched to the folks at home; nor could letters reach them +now for a month to come. There was no overland mail, and all “through” +letters sought transit _via_ Panama. + +A long postscript was added, over which father and children shed tears in +unison. It said: “The dog, Rover, returned at nightfall on the memorable +day of your departure, weary, wet, and bedraggled. He would take no +notice of me, your mother, or Grannie, although we all tried to pet and +console him. But he went straight to your deserted doorstep, where he lay +for a long time moaning like a man in pain. Grannie regularly carried him +food, but he refused to eat for many days, and his wailing and howling +could be heard at all hours of the night. But finally your mother won +him over, and he now makes his home with us, and seems quite happy and +contented. We all thought he would want to leave us and go back to the +old house when Lijah took possession of it, but he didn’t. He just clung +all the closer to us old folks in the cottage; and it would have done +your soul good to see the faithful watch he kept over dear old Grannie +to the last day of her life. He was conspicuous among the chief mourners +at the burial, and lingered alone beside the grave long after we all had +returned to our homes.” + +Jean, recalling her father’s words on that far-away ferry-boat, where +she had last seen the faithful animal watching and wailing from the +river-bank, said, as she looked up from reading her own letters: “Daddie, +don’t you think now that a dog has a soul?” And her father answered +huskily: “I don’t see why he hasn’t as good a right to a soul as I have.” + +“Here, Mame,” said Jean, “is a letter from Cousin Annie Robinson. Listen. +She says: ‘Please break it gently to Cousin Mame that her _beau ideal_ of +a man, the Reverend Thomas Rogers, took to himself a wife before she had +been gone a week. And who should it have been but that detestable Agnes +Winter, who used to say such spiteful things about Mame? She won’t be as +happy after a while as she is now, but she’ll know a whole lot more. Who +could have believed that so saintly a sinner as the Reverend Thomas would +prove so fickle? I hope Mame will see him with our eyes after this. He +isn’t worthy of her passing thought.’” + +Mary, whose dreams for long and weary months had been of a package of +letters from the preacher that never came at all, faced suddenly the +first great crisis in her life; and stilling, with a strong effort of the +will, the tumultuous beatings of her heart, she walked rapidly on, ahead +of the teams, from starting-time until nightfall, fighting her first +great battle with herself alone, and gaining the mastery at last without +human aid or sympathy. + +The immigrants, having concluded their purchases, toiled up the narrow +grade to the table-land above the bluffs, and pursued their way through +the stately evergreen forests and level plains of the Willamette valley +to the homes of relatives, who awaited their coming with joy that was +changed to mourning when they learned for the first time of the death of +Mrs. Ranger. + +After a few days of much-needed rest among the hospitable pioneers who +had preceded them by two years and were now installed on a beautiful and +valuable donation claim, the immigrant party decided to remain in each +other’s vicinity, and removed for the purpose to a beautiful vista of +vacant land under the friendly shadow of the Cascade Mountains, with a +westward outlook across the Willamette valley to the Coast Range, which +alone intervened to shut from sight the surging billows of the Pacific +Ocean. + +It was here that the genius and education of Scotty, who will hereafter +be designated by his lawful name, proved of inestimable value. Supplied +only with a rope and a carpenter’s square, he led a private surveying +party through the woods and prairies, locating their claims with such +accuracy that the government survey, which was made years after, fully +approved his work. + +“You may not be a success at driving oxen or taking care of steers at +night,” said Captain Ranger, “but you are an artist with a rope and a +square.” + +“Didn’t I tell you he’d be worth his weight in gold when he reached +a place where he could have a chance to use his brains?” asked Mrs. +McAlpin, who took as kindly and intelligently to her surroundings as if +to the manner born. + +“Women have a way of divination that I won’t attempt to analyze,” was the +laughing reply. + +The donation claim of each settler, the acreage of which had by this time +been cut into halves by Act of Congress, was still of ample proportions, +being a mile long and half a mile wide, and was so surveyed as to allow +four families or claimants to settle on extreme corners of their land at +points where four corners met. + +“This will enable each claimant to build a cabin on his own claim, so he +can reside upon and cultivate his own land, as required by the law, and +at the same time have neighbors within call in case of accident or other +need,” said Mr. Burns. + +“What a grand and glorious prospect!” exclaimed Captain Ranger, standing +on an eminence where his new house was to go up, and gazing abroad over +the wide expanse of the Willamette valley, in which the winding river +was gleaming through the openings in the forest; “but I can sense one +drawback to your scheme, Mr. Burns.” + +“What is it?” + +“Some of us will be getting married before long and doubling our +opportunity for holding government lands; and as each must reside upon +and cultivate his claim and his wife’s, it will make it a little awkward, +won’t it?” + +“Not if the contracting parties exercise a little ordinary business +ability and discretion, sir. They have but to locate their claims with a +view to matrimony and settle their own bargains to suit themselves.” + +But the Captain, who had dealt with the domestic infelicities of his +neighbors too often to look upon all such bargains as imbued with +old-time stability, had his doubts. + +“If an engaged couple should tire of their bargain, and their change of +sentiment should fail to fit the agreement,—what then?” + +“It would be a blessing for them to discover their mistake in time to +forestall the divorce court,” was the ready reply. + +“Mr. Burns is right,” said Mrs. McAlpin. “Two-thirds of the unhappy +marriages we hear about are the result of haste and lack of +understanding. A couple will marry, and when it is too late to recede +from the bargain they want to break it. I don’t mind telling you, Captain +Ranger, that Mr. Burns and I expect to marry each other some day, and our +claims were chosen accordingly; but we’ll wait until the law frees me +from a bargain which I repudiated in spirit before it was consummated. +And we’ll not marry then if we conclude we are making a mistake.” + +“I am glad to hear you make so open and frank a statement in the presence +of so competent a witness,” exclaimed Mrs. Benson, who still carried an +important note in her pocket, frayed and travel-soiled, but none the less +precious from being scarcely legible. + +“I think it is a shame to make a commercial bargain of a matrimonial +agreement,” exclaimed Mary Ranger. + +“And so do I!” echoed Jean. + +Nevertheless, when the boundaries of the several donation claims were +established, and the different allotments were assigned to the proper +claimants, it was noticed that, in addition to the Captain’s own quota of +virgin acres, an extra claim was reserved adjacent to that of each of his +daughters, Mary and Jean, and one next to that of Sally O’Dowd. + + * * * * * + +“Equality before the law is a fundamental idea in the government of the +United States of America,” the Captain explained at the Land Office; “and +I am glad to see it practically applied to the property rights of the +pioneer women of Oregon. It is a good beginning, and none can see the +end.” + +“Sally O’Dowd isn’t a free woman, and she can’t get married, thank +goodness!” cried Jean, as she and her sisters talked the matter over +together between themselves alone. + +“That’s so,” echoed Mary. “Sally has a husband living, and so there is no +danger of our losing father.” + +“Let’s not be too certain,” cried Jean. “If you’d kept your eyes open for +the last month, as I have, you wouldn’t be surprised at anything. Sally’s +case was up on appeal when she left the States, but it has doubtless gone +by default. She has the custody of her children, and that was all she +asked of Sam O’Dowd.” + +“Then Sally is a free woman,” said Marjorie. + +“No woman is free when she is married,” retorted Jean. “The laws of men +do not recognize the individuality of a married woman. I, for instance, +am Jean Ranger to-day, but if I should marry to-morrow, I’d be—” + +“Nothing but a nonentity named Mrs. Ashton Ashleigh,” interrupted Mary. +“Women delight in surrendering their names in marriage to the man they +love.” + +“You’re right,” cried Jean, her eyes blazing. “I’d surrender to-morrow if +Ashton would come to claim his own. But it would be a partnership, and +not a one-sided agreement.” + +“That’s what every woman thinks when she puts her neck in the noose,” +laughed Marjorie; “but when the man comes along who is able to capture +her heart, she is ready to make the venture.” + +“That’s because the fundamental principle of matrimony is correct,” +retorted Jean. + +“Dat’s so, honey,” said Susannah. “Women is jist like pigs. When one +of ’em burns his nose in a trough o’ hot mash, dey’ll all hurry to +’vestigate an’ git de same sperience.” + +“Of course you’ll get some land,” said Jean. + +“I’ve done axed de Cap’n ’bout it, an’ he’s looked up de law. He says I +can’t take up no lan’ ’cos I’m nothin’ but a niggah. De laws o’ Oregon +are ag’in it; so are de laws o’ de gen’ral gov’ment. A free country’s a +great blessin’ to women an’ niggahs! It’s a great blessin’ to be bawn in +a free country; ain’t it, Geo’die Wah?” + +The coon, who had grown and flourished under his six months’ regimen of +flapjacks and bacon, shook his bright brown curls and grinned, displaying +an even set of polished ivories. + +“I couldn’t git married if I wanted to,” added the negress, “’cos the law +is sot ag’in mixed matches; but da’hs no law nowhar ag’in coons”; and she +ended hers harangue with a characteristic “Yah! yah! yah!” + +“Then, if you can’t marry, you can always work for wages, Susannah; +and you’ll be better off than Mrs. McAlpin,”—she was coming to join +the group,—“who is going to be married soon, if I can read the stars +correctly,” laughed Marjorie. + +“No, Marjorie; I cannot even talk of marriage with the man whom God +created for me, and me only. I am not even a grass widow. I cannot +legally file upon a claim because I am the victim of a marriage I cannot +honor. And the law cannot set me free because the party of the second +part objects.” + +“What’s that you were saying to the Ranger girls, Daphne?” asked Mrs. +Benson, who had been engaged in assisting Captain Ranger and Mr. Burns to +plan the two sets of log houses that were to be erected a mile apart, and +to be so arranged as to form separate abodes for four families. + +“Nothing, mamma, only I was bewailing my fate.” + +“Come with me, Daphne; I have something to show you,” said Mrs. Benson, +in a low tone. + +“Listen to this letter,” said the mother, as soon as they were seated +among the trees. “The time has come for you to know its contents:— + + “MY DEAR MRS. BENSON,—You have been a brave, devoted mother to + an unhappily environed daughter. I have long known that you + and I were made for each other. We became mismatched through + adherence to false customs. Daphne does not love me, and has + never willingly accepted our union, as you have painful reason + to know. You love me! Pardon this abrupt announcement. You have + never told me so, but I have known the truth for years. To have + this opportunity to tell you that I reciprocate, is at present + my only joy. + + “I will meet you in the wilds of Oregon. Daphne’s latest + erratic movements to escape me have all along been known. To + follow you I became a wanderer in these Western wilds. I will + take measures to set your beautiful daughter free. A couple + whom God hath _not_ joined together it is man’s duty to put + asunder. Keep your own counsel till such time as you are strong + enough to take your life and destiny into your own hands, and + declare yourself accountable primarily to yourself and God for + your own actions. + + “I will be in Portland, Oregon, by November first. We shall + surely meet again. + + “Faithfully, through time and for eternity, your devoted but + never yet accredited counterpart, + + “DONALD MCPHERSON.” + +The daughter clasped her mother’s hand and fervently exclaimed, “Thank +God!” + +Mrs. Benson wept. + +“It will never do for you and me to meet again after this revelation,” +said the daughter, after a long silence. “I will take up my permanent +abode in this new country, and you can rejoin Donald in New York or +Philadelphia, _via_ the city of Panama. But you must go to Portland now. +We will not set idle tongues to wagging here. It is fortunate indeed that +Donald took his mother’s name as a part of his last inheritance.” + + + + +XXXIII + +_LOVE FINDS A WAY_ + + +“You needn’t select any lands for me, Captain,” said Mrs. Benson. “I +have decided to go to Portland to-morrow with the team that’s going down +for supplies. I shall not return. But my daughter will remain and take a +claim. She has decided to turn rancher, but I do not like the life.” + +“Isn’t this a rather sudden change in your programme, Mrs. Benson?” + +“Not at all. I didn’t intend to remain when I came here. I wouldn’t have +come any farther than Oregon City, but I wanted to get a view of the +future home of Daphne; and now, as she has chosen for herself and has +a fair prospect of happiness ahead, I am ready to look out for myself. +I shall stop awhile in Portland, and be ready to take the next steamer +for San Francisco. I will go to New York by way of the Isthmus, and will +spend the evening of my days in Paris or London.” + +“I’m sure I wish you well, Mrs. Benson.” + +“Thank you, Captain. My heart is too full for words! I know you will +always be a friend to my dear daughter.” + +“You surely do not mean to go where you can never see your daughter +again!” + +“Yes, Captain. Do you recall that tall and bronzed and handsome man of +whom you bought the buffalo robe you gave to your wife a short time +before her death?” + +“You mean Donald McPherson?” + +“Yes, sir. The fates have settled it. He is to be my husband, and Daphne +and I must part.” + +“You have my best wishes for success and happiness,” said the Captain, +earnestly, as he offered his hand. + +“There is some peculiar mystery about all this!” he exclaimed to himself +the next day, as Mrs. Benson climbed into the wagon and started off to +meet her fate. “But it’s the way of women. They are as fickle as the +wind.” He thought bitterly of his own budding and now blighted hopes. + +“Don’t grieve for her, Daphne,” said Mr. Burns, in a husky voice, as the +wagon disappeared. “She was kind to me when I was crippled and cross, +and I shall never forget her watchfulness and care for me under the most +trying conditions. She is your mother, too, and that of itself is enough +to inspire my everlasting gratitude. I have no respect for the man who +fails to appreciate the woman to whom he is indebted for his wife.” + +“It is well for the three of us that we have learned our lesson, Rollin. +We are all young yet, and all eternity is before us.” + +“Yes, Daphne! Eternity is both before and behind us. We are henceforth to +be all in all to each other, as I believe we have been in the past, my +darling.” + +“No, Mr. Burns, do not ‘darling’ me yet. We must await the tardy action +of that human imperfection called the law before I can honorably become +your ‘darling.’” + +Nevertheless, being human, she feigned not to notice the prolonged +pressure of his hand at parting, nor did she refrain from answering his +eager and tender gaze with a look that quickened every pulse and sent a +thrill of gladness to his heart. + + * * * * * + +At the primitive hotel in the primitive little city of Portland, Mrs. +Benson met an Indian woman, the mother of many children, who was +introduced to her as Mrs. Addicks. The woman was richly and stylishly +gowned and seemed much at home among the guests. Her mien and carriage +were queenly, as she moved about the little parlor, exchanging a word +here and there among the loiterers, with whom she seemed a general +favorite. + +“Haven’t I met you somewhere before?” asked Mrs. Benson, with whom, in +truth, she had exchanged greetings on the plains under circumstances +quite different from the present, as one, at least, had cause to remember. + +“I do not recall a former meeting, madam. But you might have met me on +the plains. I was on my way to Portland when you saw me, if you saw me +at all. A frontier trading-post is no proper place to bring up a lot of +Indian half-breeds. I came here to educate my children.” + +“Then your husband is a white man?” + +“Yes.” + +“I beg your pardon, but you do not speak and act like the other Indians I +have met.” + +“I am a chieftain’s daughter, and I was educated in London. You spoke of +travelling in the Ranger train. Mr. Ranger is my husband’s brother.” + +“Does Captain Ranger know of this?” + +“I neither know nor care! One thing is certain. I shall do my best to +train and educate my children in such a way that he will be proud some +day to own them as relatives. I have the girls in school at the Academy +of the Sacred Heart. The boys are at the Brothers’ School.” + +“Do you know Dr. McLoughlin?” + +“Yes, and my husband knows him well. I saw him as the children and I +passed through Oregon City. He was very kind, and bade me be of good +cheer. He has an Indian wife himself, as you know. But he did not ask me +in to see her, so we did not meet.” + + * * * * * + +As Donald McPherson had not yet arrived in Portland, Mrs. Benson had +ample leisure for letter-writing. + +“My dear Daphne,” she wrote, “a letter from Mr. McPherson awaited me, +as I expected. He had sent it forward by a courier from the plains, in +care of one of Dr. McLoughlin’s agents. I need not repeat its contents. +Suffice it to say, that I am serene and calm. God has been very merciful +to us all. Within the letter was a letter of credit, upon which I am now +able to draw ample funds. I will place on deposit, subject to your order, +all the money you will need. Do not hesitate to accept it. It is mine, +to do with as I choose; and this is my choice of methods to expend the +portion I have assigned to you. + +“I have decided not to meet him till after you are a free woman, Daphne. +I know you and Donald will guard our secret carefully; but I have doubts +about Jean Ranger. She brought me that unsealed note, and, as you know, +she is such a precocious little witch she might have read it before +giving it into my possession. Could you, in some way, get at the truth of +this without letting her see just what you are after?” + +To which Mrs. McAlpin replied: “I will not do Jean the injustice to +imagine for a moment that she would read a private note that was +intrusted to her care and honor. Tell Donald that I will honor him as my +step-father, but I will never see his face again. He was very patient +with me during all the trying years when the Juggernaut of public +opinion, combined with the inquisition of the law, kept us in bondage; +and I thank him for his patience with all my heart. I am as painfully +aware of the unconventionality of our proceedings as yourself, dear +mamma, but as what the public doesn’t know doesn’t disturb that composite +being in the least, we’ll keep our own counsel and be happy. + +“My donation claim lies parallel to Sally O’Dowd’s. Captain Ranger’s +claim adjoins hers on the south,—a plan that implies foreknowledge, if +not foreordination. + +“Mr. Burns and Albert Evans, our faithful teamster, have selected their +land adjacent to mine. Evans has chosen a double allotment, having in +prospect a wife who is a mere child, belonging to a neighbor about three +miles away. I am disgusted with the venality of the transaction, which +the child’s father regards with satisfaction, and the mother with tears.” + +A few days later, Mrs. Benson wrote to Captain Ranger, as follows:— + +“I have met here an interesting and highly educated Indian woman, who +says she is the wife of the post-trader you met in Utah. She says that +trader is your brother Joseph, whom for many years you mourned as dead. +She is here to educate her boys at the Brothers’ School, and her girls at +the Academy of the Sacred Heart. + +“When we saw her on the plains, she looked nothing but an ordinary +squaw. Now she and the children are well and fashionably dressed, and +as presentable in every way as any family in this primitive hostelry; +and that is saying a good deal, for there are ladies here of high rank +and breeding from the Eastern cities, and also from over the seas. Mrs. +Ranger (she still answers to the name of Addicks) was educated in London, +she says, where, as the daughter of an Indian chieftain of the land of +the Dakotas, she was admitted into the most aristocratic circles. After +completing her education she returned to her native haunts and met your +brother, who made her his wife. She seems to have plenty of money; her +children are bright and intelligent,—the girls especially so, they being, +she says, more like their father than the boys; and for this, as you +know, there is a physiological reason.” + +“I’ll see that woman the very first time I go to Portland,” said the +Captain, aloud, as he folded the letter deliberately. + +“What woman?” asked Sally O’Dowd. + +“Nobody in particular,” he answered, thrusting the letter hurriedly into +his pocket, and looking confused and foolish as he returned to his work. + +The labor of felling, hewing, hauling, and finally raising into houses +the timbers for the big log buildings which were to afford homes for the +half-dozen or more families who had, by common consent, adopted a sort of +corporate method for residing upon and cultivating their claims, told +heavily upon the men, who, already depleted in strength by much hardship, +were poorly equipped for their tasks. But there was no shirking of duties +nor complaint over backaches, and the borderers’ homes arose like magic. + +“How do you like the appearance of the new buildings?” asked Captain +Ranger, addressing Sally O’Dowd. + +“Why should you ask me?” was the curt response. + +Surprised at her reply but disposed to be communicative, he added: “If +all goes well, I’ll have a sawmill up yonder in the timber by this time +next year.” + +“That’s none of my business,” she retorted testily. + +He looked at her for a moment in blank astonishment. “Why isn’t it your +business?” he asked, at length. “Haven’t we agreed to first get you free +from a bad bargain, and after that take up our line of march together? +And won’t your belongings then be mine, and mine yours?” + +“What about that other woman you are going to Portland to see? Do you +take me for an idiot, Squire?” + +He looked her in the face for an instant, nonplussed. Then as the reason +for her change of manner dawned upon him, he threw back his head and +laughed heartily. + +“So that’s what the matter with us, is it?” he exclaimed, approaching her +with a proffered caress. “We’ve been a trifle jealous, haven’t we?” + +“Behave yourself, sir!” elbowing him away. “Go to Portland and see that +other woman. No doubt a party by the name of Benson is expecting you.” + +He guffawed again, making her angrier still. + +“Come, Sally; let’s have no more nonsense,” he said, after his laughter +had ceased, motioning her to a seat beside him on the doorway. + +She stood irresolute. + +“Very well, if you prefer to do so, you can sit a-standing, like the +Dutchman’s hen. I’ve been keeping a letter that’s been burning my pocket +for three days waiting for an opportunity to show it to you, Mrs. +O’Dowd; but you’ve been so shy I couldn’t touch you with a forty-foot +pole.” + +“What do you suppose I care for your letters from that other woman?” +she asked, dropping into the space in the doorway, all eagerness and +attention, in spite of her disclaimer. + +“Read it yourself, Sally. It is from my brother-in-law, Lije Robinson.” + +“The latest sensation is the suicide of Sam O’Dowd,” the letter went on +to say, after the usual preliminaries of the border scribe. + +“No!” cried the widow, now such _de facto_, rising to her feet and +turning deathly pale. “Sam wouldn’t commit suicide. He’d be afraid to +meet his Maker.” + +“But he did it, Sally. Read on.” + +“He left a confession, saying it was remorse that drove him to it, +and extolling his wife as a model woman, whom he had wronged beyond +reparation in every way imaginable. + +“His mother is wellnigh crazy. The home the two of them had wrested from +his wife and her mother, in which the old woman had allotted to spend her +days, goes back to Sally now, as, by his confession, his mother has no +right to it.” + +“Poor Sam!” cried the widow, dropping again into the proffered space in +the doorway. “He had his faults, but he wasn’t all bad. This letter and +his confession prove it. I shall try hard to think that he atoned for his +greatest crime by his voluntary death. But I’d be sorry myself to meet +the reception that he’ll get in heaven!” + +“Why, Sally? What do you mean?” + +“Nothing. Let the dead past bury its dead.” + +Captain Ranger, who, in first proposing matrimony, had stated earnestly +that his heart was still with Annie, gazed tenderly at the weeping woman, +who arose and stood before him in a mute yet beseeching attitude, while +a warm love for her sprang spontaneously within him. + +“Come, Sally dear,” he pleaded; “sit down by me again, and let us talk it +out.” + +She obeyed mechanically, her frame convulsed with weeping. + +“I can never talk again about a platonic union,” he said feelingly. “I +know that Annie would sanction our marriage now if she could speak to us; +and I believe with all my heart that she knows of our proposed relations, +and that she will, under the peculiar circumstances, also approve.” + +Ah, John Ranger! Materialist as you used always to proclaim yourself, you +cannot, in the deepest recesses of your soul, rebel against the faith +that is “the evidence of things not seen.” What have you done with your +agnosticism? + +“Captain,” said Sally, in a subdued tone, “I have seen the day when +I would have followed Sam O’Dowd to the ends of the earth if he had +commanded. I could and would have lived on the acorns of the forest +rather than have failed to be his wife. Do not ask me to love you now. I +cannot be your wife.” + +“Are we not engaged?” he asked, astonished. + +“Yes; conditionally. But I cannot think about it now. If I can ever bring +myself to think it right for me to be your wife, I will not hesitate to +tell you so. But not now, Captain; not now.” + +She arose abruptly, and was gone. + + + + +XXXIV + +_HAPPY JACK INTRODUCES HIMSELF_ + + +“Here,” said Jean, the next morning, approaching her father, who was hard +at work by sunrise, “are the letters I promised to write to Mr. Ashleigh +and his mother. You stipulated that you should see them, as you will +remember.” + +His head and heart were aching. “I don’t care a rap for your nonsense,” +he exclaimed. “Nothing’ll ever come of it. The fellow has never written +to you.” + +“That’s so!” thought Jean, strolling off aimlessly into the woods. +“Daddie gave him our address as Oregon City. Oh, my God! can it be +possible that my other self has been married (or the same as married) to +Le-Le, the Indian slave?” + +Giant trees rose often to the height of three hundred feet,—one hundred +and fifty feet from the ground without a limb,—and so straight that no +hand-made colonnade could equal them for grace and symmetry. As Jean +stood under these stately monarchs of the soil and listened to the soft +sighing of the wind among their evergreen leaves, she heard the roar of +rushing water. She clambered through a labyrinth of deciduous undergrowth +till she came to a horseshoe bend at the head of a gulch, over which the +water foamed and tumbled till lost from sight amid the tangled ferns and +foliage. + +“Halloa!” cried a voice from an unseen source. + +She looked in the direction whence the call seemed to proceed, and +beheld, standing on the opposite bluff, a typical young backwoodsman, +tall and shapely. + +She returned the salutation by waving her sunbonnet, which she had been +swinging aimlessly by its strings, exposing her face and head to the +caress of the balm-laden air. + +A minute later, and the stranger was by her side. She noticed that he +carried in a careless way a long, old-fashioned rifle; that a pipe was in +his mouth, and a pistol of the “pepper-box” variety protruded from the +leg of his boot. + +“Are you the Ranger gal what got left at Green River?” + +She turned ghastly pale at mention of the locality where her thoughts +were centred, but made no audible reply. + +“My name is Henry Jackman,—better known as Happy Jack,” he said, as he +dropped the butt-end of his rifle to the ground with a thud, and stood +waiting for her to speak. + +“I’ve heard of you before,” said Jean; “you are the man who’s been +talking sawmill to my daddie.” + +“That’s what!” + +“Then we may as well become acquainted. I am Jean Ranger, and I have an +older sister Mary and a younger one named Marjorie, besides my brother +Hal and two little sisters.” + +“I seed yer dad yisti’dy an’ we talked things over. Thar’s a fine +prospec’ hyer fur a sawmill.” + +“So I perceive.” + +“Yer dad an’ me’s goin’ to go snucks.” + +“I do not understand.” + +“I mean pardners. He’s got the sabé an’ I’ve got the rocks, so we can +make a go of it. The kentry’s settlin’ up powerful fast, an’ thar’ll be +lots o’ demand for lumber for bridges an’ barns an’ houses an’ fencin’ +an’ sich.” + +“I see. We had a lot of spavined, wind-broken old horses for our sawmill +power in the States, sir.” + +“Thar’s a water-power yander that beats hosses all to thunder, miss.” + +“So I see, sir.” + +“Thar’s millions o’ feet o’ logs in sight; an’ out yander in the +mountains is a place to build a flume, so we kin raf’ the logs down to a +lake that I found up thar in the woods. We’ll have a town here some day +an’ make things hum.” + +“Have you often met my daddie?” asked Jean. + +“I’m lookin’ fur him now, every minute. We’re goin’ to survey some +timber-land fur the mill-hands, farther up the crick. The curse o’ this +kentry is bachelders. Ah! here’s the Cap’n now. It’s lucky you’ve brought +along so many weemen folks, ole man; we’ll all be needin’ wives.” + +This concluding remark brought the hot blood of indignation to the +cheeks of Jean as she turned to meet her father, who was carrying an ax +and a gun, followed by Mr. Burns, equipped with a clothes-line and a +carpenter’s square. + +“What in thunder are you doing out here, Jean?” asked her father, taking +no notice of the stranger’s remark. “Don’t you know that the woods are +full of wild beasts?” + +“I’ve seen nothing wilder than your prospective ‘pardner,’” she answered +aside. “He seems harmless; but he’s an ignoramus and a boor.” + +“Very well, Jean. But ruin home now, and help the women folks. They have +a whole lot o’ work on hand, getting settled, and you do like to shirk.” + +“Thar’ll be lots more of it for ’em to do afore this timber is all sawed +up,” added the prospective “pardner.” “It takes a mountain o’ grub to +keep a lot o’ loggers in workin’ order. I’m mighty glad, Cap’n, that +you’ve got a lot a weemin folks; we’ll need ’em in our business.” + +“Yes,” retorted Jean. “They’re as handy to have in the house as a coffin +with the proper combination of letters on the plate!” + +Mr. Burns laughed; but Mr. Jackman dropped his lower jaw and looked the +picture of an exaggerated interrogation point. “What’s the gal drivin’ +at?” he asked under his breath; and her father said gravely, “Stop +talking nonsense, Jean.” + +It was mutually agreed upon that a logging-camp should be started at +once, and the ground prepared during the coming rainy season for the +foundation and erection of a combined sawmill, planer, and shingle-mill, +and that Captain Ranger should return, as early as practicable, to the +States, _via_ the Isthmus, to purchase the necessary machinery, which +could not at that time be procured on the Pacific Coast. + + * * * * * + +Soon thereafter Captain Ranger went to Portland to purchase the necessary +supplies for the winter’s use. Arriving there, he repaired, in his best +Sunday suit, to the primitive hotel, and inquired for Mrs. Addicks. + +The lady appeared, after long waiting, fastidiously gowned and so +thoroughly at ease that all his thought of the superior quality of the +white man’s blood departed as he saw her, and he stood in her presence in +embarrassed silence. + +“Won’t you be seated, Mr.—” + +“Ranger,” he said, fumbling his hat awkwardly and shambling into the +proffered chair. + +“To what am I indebted for this visit, Mr. Ranger?” + +“You will please excuse me, ma’am,” he said, crossing his legs clumsily, +“but I have come to see you on a little business that concerns us both. +Your husband is my brother.” + +“Then, sir, you can tell me something about his family. Do his parents +yet live?” + +“They were alive and well at last accounts; but it takes two months or +more for a letter to go and come. Our grandmother died recently.” + +“The dear old lady he calls ‘Grannie’?” + +“Yes.” + +“My husband will be grieved to hear of this. I must write to him at +once. Can you give me any particulars concerning her last days? Did she +remember Joseph?” + +“She had a dream of him, and said his mother would live to see him again.” + +“I used to wonder why my husband was so reticent about his family +affairs. I supposed when we were married that he would take me back to +live among his people. But he steadfastly refused to do it, and would not +even let me know their post-office address. But I know all about it now. +He left home under a cloud.” + +“But it was not nearly so bad as he thought. I set his mind at rest on +that score when we had that last interview. The poor fellow was in daily +dread of discovery and pursuit for more than a dozen years.” + +The woman arose and paced the floor in silence, the coppery hue of her +complexion enriched by the blood that rushed to her face. She paused +and stood before him, her hands folded over the back of a chair, as she +waited for him to speak again. + +“I did your husband a grievous wrong when I saw him at the post, madam. I +must confess that I had no idea that the Indian woman he told me that he +had married was—” + +She waved her hand in protest. “There, there, Mr. John; no flattery, if +you please. If you had seen me as I was that day, you would have felt +justified in spurning your brother’s wife. It was not my fault, though, +that he kept me like a common squaw. Your conduct is fully forgiven, +since it resulted in an open declaration of independence on my part. + +“There were a dozen young chieftains and half as many white men who +aspired to my hand and heart in my girlhood; but Joseph was a king among +them all. But we had not been married a month before I found that I +was doomed to the same treatment, as his wife, that other Indian wives +endure. So I lost heart, and accepted the situation as stolidly as my +father would have done if he had been doomed to perpetual slavery.” + +“Did Joseph always treat you badly after your marriage?” + +The woman shrugged her shoulders. + +“Hard times came to our tribe. The Hudson Bay Company’s business +languished. We had a succession of bitter cold winters, with dry, hot +summers following. The different tribes became involved in war. Then +famine came, and pestilence. We will draw a veil over what followed, Mr. +John. Joseph will never beat his wife again; I have sworn it! + +“The fluctuations of fortune brought us at last to the Utah trading-post, +where you saw Joseph. We were prosperous then, and might have lived like +white folks; but he seemed to prefer to keep me situated like an ordinary +squaw, so I gave him all he bargained for. But, ugh! I did detest the +life. Finally my father died and left me an ample inheritance, which is +mine absolutely. I will educate my children and take them to London, +where there is no prejudice against my people such as abounds in this +‘land of the free and home of the brave’!” + +“Do you think Joseph is able to repay a part of the money we lost on his +account?” + +“My husband will waste more money in a single night sometimes, at the +gambling-table, than he will expend on his family in a year. I think he +is quite able to pay his debts.” + +“How would you like to visit our people back in the old home?” + +“When our children reach the age of six or seven years, they begin to +outgrow the Indian style and complexion,” she said; “but I’ll not take +them among my husband’s people while they look like little pappooses.” + +“Why not take them out to my donation claim? My family will be glad to +welcome you.” + +“Couldn’t I take my nurse along?” + +“If you did, some fool would coax her to marry him, so he and she could +hold a double quota of land. Better leave her here with your little ones, +or set her to washing dishes.” + +“In either case our landlord would marry her himself, I fear. But I’ll +risk it.” + +The older girls were out of school for a walk, in the company of their +brother John and a black-robed Sister, and thus were permitted at this +juncture to enter their mother’s presence for an introduction to their +uncle. + +“John and Annie are Rangers, as you see, sir. My husband is very proud of +them.” + +“And well he might be,” thought the Captain, as he scanned them +critically. + + * * * * * + +The sun was sinking behind the Coast Range the next evening, throwing the +picturesque valley of the Willamette into deep shadows, and lighting up +the tops of the Cascade heights with tinges of rose and gold and purple, +when a carriage and pair were seen ascending the narrow grade leading +to the great log house occupied temporarily by all the families of the +Ranger colony. The unexpected arrival of the Captain created a sensation, +which was not at all abated when he vaulted to the ground, followed, +before he could turn to assist her, by a large, well-formed, and +faultlessly attired Indian woman, with a sheen of gold in her raven-hued +hair. + +“Mrs. O’Dowd,” said the Captain, offering his hand, “allow me to +introduce Mrs. Ranger Number Two,—my brother Joseph’s wife.” + + + + +XXXV + +_ASHLEIGH MAKES NEW PLANS_ + + +When Henry Jackman saw the wife of Joseph Ranger, whom he had known +at the trading-post in Utah as Mr. Addicks, and understood the full +significance of her arrival as a welcome visitor and relative of the +Ranger family, he shrugged his shoulders and walked away, exclaiming: +“I’m dummed!” + +“No wonder Uncle Joe was captured by that fine creature,” said Jean to +herself. “She must have been as handsome in her girlhood as Le-Le.” And +for the first time in her life she fainted away. + +When she awoke to consciousness, which was not till the next morning, +she was on the big white bed in the spare chamber, whither she had been +carried by loving friends and treated through all the watches of the +night by the Little Doctor with the untiring faithfulness of a devoted +friend. + +“Take that Indian away! I cannot bear the sight of her,” cried Jean, as +her copper-colored aunt approached her, proffering kindly offices. + +“She must be humored in her whims till she has had time to recover, +Mrs. Ranger,” said Mrs. McAlpin, aside. “There’s a love story and a +disappointment behind all this. Her antipathy is not against you, but +another Indian princess whom she thinks she has cause to remember.” + +“I didn’t come here to make wounds, but to heal them,” faltered Mrs. +Ranger, as, with an indistinct conception of the trouble, she left the +room, followed by Sally O’Dowd. + +“I want you to know that you have healed my wounds,” said Sally. “I was +miserably and unreasonably jealous of—I didn’t know of whom—for a whole +week before you came to us. I shall never be such a simpleton again.” + +“My wise brother says you and he have concluded to marry each other, Mrs. +O’Dowd.” + +“We were engaged for a short time, but when I overheard him talking to +himself about going to Portland ‘to see a woman,’ and he wouldn’t take me +into his confidence about her, I got angry and jealous, and treated him +shabbily.” + +They found the Captain, of whom they went in quest, in his favorite seat +on the front doorstep. + +“I don’t see why you and Joseph cannot go together to visit your parents +this winter,” said Mrs. Ranger, coming at once to the point. “Your +partner can have ample time while you are away to get the foundations +ready for the mill and other buildings. I will write to Joseph this very +night and urge it if you say so.” + +The Captain looked inquiringly at Mrs. O’Dowd. + +“I quite agree with your brother’s wife,” she said, extending her hand. +“I was an idiot to act toward you as I did.” + +“With your permission, I will write at once to Joseph, explaining +everything and urging him to come to the ranch at once. The courier goes +out to-night, so there is no time to lose.” + +“Yes,” said Sally, whose eyes were blazing with a new joy, “it is just as +Wahnetta says. You can be spared better this winter than later. Will you +go if Joseph consents to accompany you?” + +“And leave you behind?” + +“It would be very humiliating to your family and embarrassing to both of +us for me to return as your wife to the old home of your Annie, John.” + +“But you’ll marry me before I start?” + +“No, John,” she said, the tears welling to her eyes; “we owe to your +Annie’s people a tender regard for their feelings. If we were to be +married before you visit them, they could never be reconciled to me.” + +“I must consult my partner,” said the Captain. “He may not want me to +leave at this time. The fellow is terribly unreasonable at times.” + +“Is that ‘fellow,’ as you call him, your master?” asked Mary, who was +passing, on her way to the milk-house. “He’s been hanging around the +house ever since sun-up, waiting for a chance to see Jean. He’s depending +on the three of us to keep the boarding-house, and he wants to marry +Jean, to stop her wages.” + +“Excuse me, ladies; I must see my partner at once,” said the Captain, as +he hurried away. + +It required much persuasive argument to secure the consent of Happy Jack +to Mrs. Joseph’s proposition; but he yielded at length, as men are wont +to do when women to whom they are not married combine to carry a point. + +The outgoing courier was to leave Oregon City at sunset, and it was +necessary to write many letters for the overland mail, destined for Salt +Lake and the few intervening points along the route. + +Among the missives was one from Jean to Ashton Ashleigh, containing only +a few sentences:— + +“I have loved you more than life, but I have awaited tidings from you +till hope is dead. I wrote a letter for your mother, but it was not sent +to her because I had not heard from you. You will understand. I am deeply +wounded, but I shall not die. I shall do my duty and be honest with +myself, no matter what others may do or be. + +“A man who styles himself Happy Jack has come among us, who wants to +make me his wife. He is forming a partnership with daddie in the sawmill +business; and he insinuates that you have married Le-Le. Does this +explain your silence?” + + * * * * * + +A fortnight passed, and Ashton Ashleigh read this letter by the +flickering light of a smoking kerosene lamp. Siwash lay on a buffalo robe +in a corner, reading; and near him sat Le-Le, making a cunningly wrought +moccasin. + +The wind outside was rising. The ice-laden chains and pulleys of the +idle ferry-boat resounded to its attack like a thousand-stringed Æolian +harp. Suddenly, under a louder and more furious blast than any that had +preceded it, the ice-incrusted cables snapped asunder, and the frozen +boat crashed through the ice blockade, her timbers breaking as if made of +withes. + +Ashleigh opened the door and peered out into the moonlight. White clouds +rolled over and over one another, and the stark white landscape seemed +alive with flurrying snow. + +“Good-bye, Green River Ferry,” he said. “This is a fitting finale to my +cherished hopes. Oh, Jean! my bonnie Jean! To think that the end should +be like this!” + + * * * * * + +“The ferry-boat is gone, Le-Le,” he said the next morning. “Your ransom +price has been paid, and you are, as you know, a slave no longer. I am +going away. Take good care of Le-Le, Siwash, my boy; and take good care +of yourself also.” + +The girl’s English vocabulary was too meagre to admit of much +expostulation in speech, but her wailing was blood-curdling as she knelt +at his feet, alternately embracing his knees and tearing her hair. + +“I have made a terrible mistake, poor girl,” he cried, tearing himself +away, “but I meant only to be kind. It was my dream to set you free and +take you with me to—to—her. But now I see that it will be impossible!” + +Le-Le, still wailing, prepared his breakfast. Siwash brought his mules to +the door, in stolid obedience to orders, his face as expressionless as +flint. + +“The white man’s heart is hard, like the hoof of the buffalo,” he said +to Le-Le in her native tongue. “You mistook his kindness for love. But +never mind. You’ll get over it.” + + * * * * * + +Two days of steady travel through the solitudes brought Ashleigh to the +lodgings of the post-trader, Joseph Ranger, alias Addicks. + +“Your wife,” John had written to his brother, “has come to visit us at +the Ranch of the Whispering Firs, as my girls have named our donation +claims, to hold which we have pooled our issues, and have filed upon them +as individuals. My family are charmed with her. Do join us here at once. +Take a donation claim near to one or more of ours. Forget bygones. And, +best of all, go with me this winter, by the Isthmus route, to the dear +old home. Do say yes, Joe, and we may all be happy yet.” + +“Halloa!” cried Ashleigh, as he alighted at the post. + +“Well,” cried Joseph Ranger, as he opened his canvas door; “it’s +Ashleigh. Come right in! You’re the very man I wanted to see.” + +A savory odor of hot biscuits and frying ham greeted the nostrils of the +benumbed and hungry wayfarer. + +“This supper smells good, Mr. Addicks.” + +“Mr. Addicks no more, if you please, Mr. Ashleigh. My name is +Ranger,—Joseph Ranger. I have found myself, and I shall be known by my +real name hereafter. But help yourself to pot-luck. And please excuse me. +I have just begun to read a letter from the coast. The courier hasn’t +been gone five minutes.” + +After Ashleigh had finished his meal his host thrust the letter in his +face and said, “What do you think of that?” + +“What do you propose to do?” asked Ashleigh, after carefully considering +the missive. + +“Why, go to Oregon, of course. What else could a fellow do? But I don’t +know what in the dickens to do with my stuff.” + +“You can leave me in charge, if you like. You can invoice at your lowest +selling-price, and I’ll make what profit I can on the venture and close +it out in the spring; that is, if you do not care to return next year.” + +“The good Lord has taken pity on me at last,” cried the delighted host. +“My luck has begun to turn.” + + + + +XXXVI + +_HAPPY JACK IS SURPRISED_ + + +“You don’t seem to like the idea of my going to the States this winter, +after all,” said Captain Ranger to his partner, who had been for several +days exhibiting a degree of ill temper not assuring to a man of peaceful +inclinations. + +“Not by a darn sight. Business is business. Them weemen folks o’ yourn is +as independent as so many hogs on ice. They are goin’ back on me about +the cookin’ for the men. But say! I won’t object to your goin’ no more, +if you’ll make Jean marry me afore you start. I could manage her all +right if she was my wife; an’ then I could set the pace for the rest of +’em.” + +The Captain paused a moment, in doubt whether to give the fellow the toe +of his boot or wipe the ground with his whole body. “My daughters are +to be their own choosers,” he said. “I have already engaged a crew of +loggers to work while I am absent. If the winter is open, we can have +everything shipshape by the time the machinery arrives.” + +“Stay, daddie,” cried Jean, who, with Mary, had come up unobserved by +their father. She was ghastly pale and strangely tremulous. “Mame and I +have something important to say to you both before you part.” + +“What is it, gals? Don’t hesitate to speak right out.” + +“We—that is, Jean and I and Sally O’Dowd—have been talking things over; +and we have concluded that we had better settle our side of this business +proposition before matters go any further,” said Mary, speaking with +unusual decision. “As you, father, have arranged to have a partner, and +as—to use his own words—‘business is business,’ I want to say that I will +be your cook at the partnership mess-house, but only at a reasonable +salary. If you had no partner, the work would be all in the family, and +we could settle its dividend among ourselves.” + +“I have engaged a dozen pupils and will open a little school in a few +days,” interrupted Jean, who had not heard the partner’s proposition in +regard to herself, and therefore spoke without embarrassment. “But I +shall have plenty of time to keep the books of the concern after school +hours, and I will see that everything is done on business principles.” + +“The deuce you will!” thought the partner. Then aloud: “I was intendin’ +to keep the books myself.” + +“Are you a practical book-keeper?” asked Jean. + +“No; that is, not edzactly. But I kin keep most any set o’ transactions +in my head. I never in my born days hearn tell of any woman or gal that +could keep books. An’ I never knowed any woman to git a salary.” + +“That was because you never knew the Ranger family,” laughed Marjorie. + +“It is arranged that Hal is to have employment in the mill at a salary,” +said Mary, “and he is very proud of the opportunity. We girls are all as +willing to work as he is. But we do not believe at all in the custom of +servitude without salary, to which all married women, and most of the +single ones, are subject.” + +“Is that the way you look at it, Miss Jean?” asked her would-be suitor. + +“Daddie has always taught us that the highest type of humanity is built +on the self-dependence of the individual. Haven’t you, daddie?” + +“My daughters are right, Mr. Jackman. I have trained them to the idea +of self-government. I am glad indeed to see them taking hold of these +principles firmly.” + +The partner turned away crestfallen. When he was fairly out of hearing, +he took off his hat and exclaimed: “I’ll be gol darned! What is the +weemin comin’ to?” + + * * * * * + +“I have engaged Susannah to live at my house,” said the Little Doctor, +addressing the Captain as he sauntered toward a spreading fir near the +front doorsteps, where the family were holding a consultation with Mrs. +Joseph Ranger prior to her departure. + +“Then who will assist Mrs. O’Dowd while I am away?” asked the Captain. +“She’ll surely need both company and assistance at the Ranch of the +Whispering Firs as badly as you will need it at the Four Corners.” + +“Don’t worry about me, Captain,” said Sally. “I can manage the whole +place without the help of anybody.” + +“Thank you, Mrs. O’Dowd. You are a thoroughly unselfish woman.” + +“Pardon me, daddie,” said Jean, as soon as she could address him +privately. “You make a great mistake if you imagine Sally O’Dowd isn’t as +selfish as the rest of us. The Little Doctor was quite taken aback by a +remark to the contrary that you made a while ago.” + +“I’m sure I meant no offence, Jean. But I confess that I am disappointed +in both the Little Doctor and Susannah. They ought not to leave me in an +extremity like the present when I have been so kind to them.” + +“Everything we attempt is actuated by selfishness, daddie.” + +“I can’t agree with you, Jean.” + +“Oh, yes, you can! You took the Little Doctor under your wing away back +in the States, because you could only hope by that means to get some help +that you needed out o’ Scotty. You smuggled Dugs out o’ Missouri because +it pleased you to please your wife. I am going to teach a little school +from a purely selfish motive.” + +“Was it selfishness that prompted you to fall in love with your +unfaithful Green River hero, Jean?” + +She turned deathly pale. “Yes, daddie dear. I thought I was going to +be happy; and that was selfishness, of course. But I’m getting my +punishment.” + +“If selfishness is a natural attribute of humanity, we ought not to decry +it, but should seek to control and guide it, Jean.” + +“That is right, daddie. We have a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit +of happiness. But we also need toughening. I am getting my share of +toughening.” + +“Do you object to my marrying Sally O’Dowd?” + +“That is your affair, daddie; but there is no accounting for tastes.” + +“Do you think your angel-mother would approve the step, my child?” + +“Ah!” cried Jean, her face brightening, “there is one love that never +dies,—the love of a mother for her child. It is the same sort of +unselfish love that prompted the Son of Man to lay down His life for +the redemption of the race; it is the same love that prompted my mother +to risk and lose her life in the wilderness. You will please yourself +by marrying Sally O’Dowd. We children will pay her allegiance as our +father’s wife, chiefly because we know on which side our bread is +buttered. But we will not call her mother; nor do we believe you would +ask it.” + +“I couldn’t think of taking the step, my child, unless I thought your +mother would approve it, if she could know. But I am very sure she +doesn’t know.” + +“You do not want to believe she knows, daddie. It is always easier to +believe or disbelieve anything when the wish is father to the thought.” + +“Well, Jean, it will not do to be loitering here. Yonder come the logging +crew. There’ll be a lot of hungry men to feed. Some of them are educated +men, quite equal in intelligence and culture to Mr. Burns. Don’t go to +losing your heart.” + +“Don’t speak of hearts to me, daddie dear; mine is dead and buried. But +you have no idea how cruelly it was wrung.” + +“There, there, daughter, don’t worry! There are as good fish in the sea +as any that have ever been caught.” + + * * * * * + +There was no time for loitering. There was an extra lodge to be built +in the wilderness for the crew of loggers, and a long dining-shed to be +added; the rails had to be made and fences built; the ground had to be +cleared and broken for the spring’s planting; and much rude furniture +for the homes had yet to be manufactured. The building of a skid road +was another pressing need; and, taken all together, the Captain did not +wonder that his partner should take his departure seriously. + +That the partner was not lacking in executive ability was evident. + +“I tell you, gals, that partner of mine is a corker for business,” said +the Captain. + +“He may be, daddie,” said Jean, “but that is all he’s good for. If +there’s a chance to murder the Queen’s English, he’ll do it. He afflicts +me with nausea whenever he speaks.” + +“But if you had a man like him for a husband, you would never lack means +for the indulgence of the selfish philanthropies you and I have been +talking about. You know you promised your grandfather that you would +assist him as soon as you could earn some money.” + +“That’s so, daddie; but I must earn it honestly. And I’d be getting it +through the worst kind of fraudulent practice if I married Happy Jack. +Besides, he will be too stingy for anything after he’s married.” + +“Don’t be too hard on him, Jean. He’s got good credentials.” + +“And so had Sam O’Dowd. No, daddie, I won’t have any money unless I +can get it honestly. As soon as I can earn some cash by teaching, I’ll +send it to the dear old grandfolks. They capped the climax of their +selfishness in jeopardizing the property and happiness of all concerned +to gratify their selfish pride in Uncle Joe.” + +“Your theories and practices don’t tally, Jean,” laughed her father as he +turned, and, with a tender good-bye aside for Sally O’Dowd and an open +and hearty adieu to the children, he seated himself in the buggy beside +his sister-in-law and drove rapidly away. + +“I wonder how many years must elapse before the roads to Portland are as +snugly finished and kept in as good repair as they are to-day from one +suburb of London town to another?” asked Mrs. Joseph, merely to break an +embarrassing silence. + +“In another fifty years the people’ll be awake to the need, mebbe. It +takes a hundred years to make a new country habitable.” + +“My people always want their hunting-grounds to remain wild,” said Mrs. +Joseph. “I used to like the most primitive modes of life in my childhood; +but I learned a better way in London.” + +“Did you learn to like the Indian life again, Wahnetta?” + +“Never, sir. But I stooped to conquer, and I have succeeded. But I never +could have done the best that was in me, for myself and Joseph, to say +nothing of the children, if my father hadn’t made me, instead of my +husband, his legatee. It takes money to do things.” + + + + +XXXVII + +_NEWS FOR JEAN_ + + +The second meeting between the Ranger brothers was much more embarrassing +than cordial. Each at sight of the other recalled their last encounter. +They shook hands hesitatingly, and after an awkward pause sat down +together on the front porch of the primitive hotel. + +Joseph, who had been awaiting the arrival of his wife and the Captain for +a couple of days, was displeased because his Wahnetta had not been within +call from the moment of his advent, as long habit had led him to expect. +That she met him now with the air of a friend and an equal, and after a +pleasant greeting on her part discreetly left the brothers to themselves +while she went in quest of her babies, was a display of good breeding +and motherly solicitude which Joseph Ranger would have commended in any +woman not his wife. But his will had so long been her only law that her +greeting, in connection with his embarrassment at meeting his brother, +put him in a very unamiable frame of mind. + +“I concluded that you had gone back on your agreement, John,” he growled, +after a painful silence. + +“Oh, did you? Since when have you made a new record for punctuality, Joe?” + +“Since the arrival of the last courier at the trading-post, who brought +me your letter.” + +“What did you think of my proposition?” + +“I accepted it at once, or I would not have been here. Who is Wahnetta +going out driving with, I wonder?” + +“I called the cab for a drive with the children a little before you came, +sir,” said the nurse. + +“Oh!” + +“You ought to be very proud of your wife, Joe.” + +“I am beginning to be. Yet you never can tell what the Indian nature will +attempt. She seems to be all right when she lives with white people, but +she’d lapse at once into barbarism again if she got a chance. They all do +it. It is in the blood.” + +“She doesn’t seems to want that sort of a chance, Joe.” + +“An Indian is like a wild coyote, John.” + +“But you have caught a tame one, Joe. She is above the average, even +of white women. Give her the chance she craves. Stand by her like a +gentleman. She is as thoroughly civilized as any of us.” + +“Did you see her at the trading-post last summer?” + +“No; but why do you ask?” + +“Because you would have beheld her in her native element. You may +capture and tame a coyote, but when you turn him loose among his natural +environments, you can’t distinguish him in a short time from the wildest +wolf of the pack.” + +“That being the case, there is strong need for keeping your wife in her +adopted home, among your own people.” + +John was thawing toward his brother at a rapid rate; and Joseph, the +erring but encouraged and repenting brother, felt a pang of remorse as +he arose to welcome his wife and children upon their return from their +drive, resolving in his heart that he would never again allow himself to +regret the vows he had taken upon himself in his early manhood. + +The paper was awaiting the Captain at his table the next morning, with +the announcement that the sailing of the ocean steamer was to be delayed +for a couple of days on account of an accident to her propeller. + +“Then we’ll have time for a spin out to the Ranch of the Whispering Firs, +eh, Joe?” he asked, as his brother, accompanied by Wahnetta, who was +resplendent in a crimson cashmere robe, over which her black mantilla +was carelessly thrown, took his seat at his elbow at breakfast. + +“I thought I’d like to take a spin through this embryo city,” was the +quiet response. + +“But I want you to see the lay of the land. I’m hoping to make you a +partner in the ranch and sawmill business. You won’t want to buy a pig in +a poke.” + +A visit to Joseph’s sons and daughters at school was first in order. Then +a carriage was called, and the entire party was conducted around and over +stumps, logs, and devious primitive roadways to the heights. + +“Why anybody wants to go to the Old World for scenery, when he can enjoy +such a prospect as this right at his very door, is one of the mysteries +of modern existence,” said Wahnetta. “Away to the north by east of us, +in the home of my people, there is a land so different from this that it +might be a part of another planet, yet it is passing beautiful. Directly +to the north is the traditional Whulge, or Puget Sound, where the enemies +of my people live, who, like my own, are dying out. This mighty land is a +giant baby; wait half a century, and she will be a full-grown giantess.” + +It was three o’clock when they returned to the hotel, but a fresh team +from the one livery stable the metropolis of Oregon Territory was able to +boast was placed at the disposal of the brothers, who spanned a distance +of thirty miles in three hours. A light rain had fallen in the early +morning, and the face of Nature was as pure as ether. Resplendent green +abounded in the valley, lighted here and there by gleams of the gliding +Willamette, on whose silvery current little white steamers were seen at +intervals, flitting to and fro like swans. In many spots in the valley, +and everywhere on the mountain-sides, stood rows on rows of forest firs, +and beyond these, coming frequently into view as the road wound in and +out among the trees, arose the snow-crowned monarch of the Cascades, +majestic Mount Hood, whose slowly dying glaciers discharged their silt +into the milk-white waters of the Sandy. + +“What do you think of it all?” asked the elder brother, after a long +silence, in which each had been feasting his eyes upon the beauty of the +scene and filling his lungs with the exhilarating air. + +“I’m thinking of the glories that await the later comers into this +beautiful land, after the pioneers have worn their bodies out in their +struggles with the native wilderness. I’ve been shutting my eyes and +seeing coal mines, iron mines, gold mines, oil mines, silver mines, +farms, fisheries, mills, factories, orchards, gardens, everything! I’ve +lived in Utah and witnessed the marvels of irrigation there; but God does +the irrigating in this country, and He does it well.” + +“Did you see the fishes that swarmed in the Sandy, Joe?” + +“Yes; and I’ve seen salmon and sturgeon struggling up the Columbia, so +thick in the current that they looked like Illinois saw-logs. I think I +know how Moses felt when he had + + “‘Climbed to Pisgah’s top, + And viewed the landscape o’er.’” + +“Wait till we reach the Ranch of the Whispering Firs. Then you will see +something worthy of all your rhapsodies. There!” cried the Captain, as +they sighted the broad and slightly sloping plateau on which his new log +house was built. + +In front of it stood a towering fir-tree, like an ever-vigilant sentinel; +and behind it rose gigantic colonnades of evergreen forests. Foaming +waters surged and leaped through a ragged gulch; and tangled thickets of +hazel, alder, dogwood, and elder crowded the luxurious growth of ferns +that struggled for the mastery. “There!” he repeated, “what do you think +now?” + +“That I’d like to transport the entire family of Rangers, root and +branch, to the Ranch of the Whispering Firs. Suppose we take your old +sawmill off Lije’s hands and remove the whole thing to Oregon, John? It +would be a good way to relieve him of his elephant.” + +“The machinery is old and old-fashioned, Joe. We’d better buy everything +new, and the best of its kind.” + +“I was merely thinking of relieving Lije; that’s all.” + +As they made the last turn leading to the house, they were accosted +impatiently by the Captain’s junior partner. + +“At this rate, you won’t git started to the States afore Christmas, +Cap’n.” + +“This is my brother Joseph, Mr. Jackman. And this, Joseph, is my partner, +Mr. Jackman.” + +The two men glared at each other for a moment in silence. Jackman was the +first to speak,— + +“Well, I’m dummed!” + +“How came you to be known as Jackman? You posed as Hankins in Utah.” + +“An’ you was Joe Addicks, pard. Better not tell tales out o’ school. +That’s a game two can play at.” + +“There are no tales to tell on my part. I am masquerading no more. Can +you say as much?” + +“I’m just a-beginnin’, as it were.” + +“How in the name of Fate did you come across that chap, John?” asked +Joseph, as they alighted from the buggy. + +“He has taken a donation claim on the mountain-side which includes the +water-power for our mill site. At least, he says it does. Burns and I +haven’t had time to survey it yet.” + +“Better go slow with that fellow, John.” + +“What do you know about him, Joe?” + +“Nothing; only he’s been a noted crook and jail-breaker.” + +“Jean is to be our book-keeper. She’s been disappointed over that Green +River affair. Do you know what became of Ashleigh?” + +“I left him at my station in charge of my business. He’s as honest as the +day. But, by the way, why didn’t Jean answer the letter he sent out in +care of your Happy Jack?” + +“She received no letter. But what about Le-Le? Did he marry her?” + +“Did Ashleigh marry Le-Le? What a question! Who said he did?” + +“Jackman.” + +“Jean must know of all this. Will you break it to her, Joe?” + + * * * * * + +Night had come; and the autumn rains were gently enwrapping the Ranch of +the Whispering Firs in a sheet of mist when Joseph Ranger sought Jean in +her little schoolroom for a private conversation. + +The flickering light of a single kerosene lamp emitted a characteristic +odor. A rough table supported the lamp; and on a three-legged stool sat +the schoolma’am, trying to bring order out of the chaos of a score or +more of papers left by the children. + +“Ah!” she said, arising. “Come in, Uncle Joe. You won’t find our crude +beginnings very inviting, but we mustn’t despise the day of small things.” + +“You’re making a good beginning, Jean. But I have not come to talk about +your school. I have brought you some tidings from Mr. Ashleigh.” + +Jean turned pale and would have fallen if her uncle had not caught her in +his arms. + +“Here is a note which he gave me just as I was leaving for the West.” + +Jean retained her composure by a supreme effort of the will. + +“You were my dream,” the letter began; “I trusted and loved you as I can +never trust and love another. And the end is to be your marriage with +a fellow you call Happy Jack! Oh, Jean, my bonnie Jean! Why have you +been so fickle and so rash? I sent you a letter and a ring. It was my +great-great-grandmother’s ring, and a hereditary talisman. The messenger +was one Harry Hankins, a borderer and scout, who was going to Oregon +City. No, Jean; I did not marry Le-Le, but I did secure her ransom, and +I should before now have been on my way to you, but was awaiting your +letter. Good-bye, and may God guard and keep you! Think of me as your +heartbroken friend and lover.” + +“I never received one single word from him,” said Jean; “and I never saw +or heard of Harry Hankins.” + +“Oh, yes, you did, Jean. He is none other than your father’s partner.” + +“How can I reach Mr. Ashleigh with a letter? It must be sent at once.” + +“That will be impossible, Jean; there will be no courier going out for a +month yet. But we will take a letter to Portland, and leave it in care of +Wahnetta. She will see that it is forwarded at the first opportunity.” + + * * * * * + +Busily the work went forward. But Happy Jack was nowhere to be seen, and +the brothers were compelled to take their departure without making the +business settlement with him which they so much desired. + +“Never mind! We’ll freeze him out, or scare him out, if he shows up +here again,” said the Captain, as he and his brother turned their faces +Portland-ward. + + + + +XXXVIII + +_THE BROTHERS JOURNEY HOMEWARD TOGETHER_ + + +The steamer in which the Ranger brothers embarked for San Francisco was +an ancient and somewhat decrepit tub, as much unlike the floating palaces +that plough the Pacific Ocean to-day as the long railway trains with +their Pullman coaches, cushioned seats, and electric bells are unlike +the prairie schooners which belabored oxen hauled across deserts and +mountains when the oldest pioneer of to-day was young, and Captain Ranger +was in his prime. + +“We’re at the jumping-off place,” said the elder brother, when the +vessel stopped at Astoria. “There will never be a chance for the restive +American citizen to get any farther west than the eastern edge of the +Pacific Ocean. And yet who knows?” he added, after a pause. “Burns has +a theory in which, after all, there may be some logic. He says that the +entire planet will some day be under the management of an affiliated +government formed by a few great powers, who will organize an alliance to +control, and maybe protect, the weaker nationalities from one another. +Jean is enthusiastic over the theme.” + +“You seem to set great store by Jean.” + +“Oh, I don’t know. She’s about raking up a new engagement with that Green +River chap. If she does, she’ll marry soon, and get immersed in the cares +of a family, like all the rest of the girls. If so, she’ll never amount +to much.” + +“No great general can do as much for the world, no matter how many +nations he conquers, as the mother who rears a family of noble men +and women, John. I would rather be in some mothers’ shoes than in the +President’s.” + +“And so would I. But it is hard, when a man has raised a daughter of +great mental promise, to see her talents buried under the selfish +domination of some prig of a husband who has all the power though he +hasn’t half her sense.” + + * * * * * + +“Wait long enough,” said John, as they passed Tillamook Head and pursued +their undulating way southward; “wait long enough, and the genius of +American liberty and enterprise will settle yonder shores with a million +or more inhabitants. Railroads by the dozen will cross the continent in +time, sending out lateral branches in all directions, till the whole +country is gridironed with paths for the iron horse.” + +“But the mountains are in the way, John.” + +“They will be tunnelled or looped, Joe. New feats of engineering are +being developed constantly; and I should not be surprised to hear of the +discovery of some new force, or rather of the discovery of the utility +of some always existing force, which will revolutionize transportation +on the land and the sea. There are islands to the west of us, lots of +them. And who knows but they will become a part of the possessions of the +United States before the close of the century? I’d like to have Burns and +Jean and the Little Doctor here to help me talk it out.” + +“I can’t let my mind get away from me, as you do,” laughed Joseph, and +they changed the subject. + + * * * * * + +Days passed, and the timber lines of southern Oregon and northern +California gave way to the extensive treeless regions that border the +central and southern edges of the Golden State. Immense stretches of +barren, sandy wastes rose high in the arid heavens, revealing a region +of desolation that seemed good for nothing but range for savage beasts +and poisonous serpents. + +“It is now my turn to prophesy and philosophize,” said Joseph. “My +experience and observation in Utah, where irrigation has relieved the +barren soil of its drouth, has taught me that irrigation will develop +the latent power of the desert to sustain and perpetuate the race long +after the Mississippi basin has ceased to respond to the demands of the +husbandman and the vernal lands of the Willamette valley are worn out.” + +“But the Willamette valley and the entire northwest coast will always +beat the world with the fruits and cereals that thrive in the temperate +zone.” + +“‘Always’ is a good while, John. It is a pity that we can’t live always.” + +“Jean declares that we do.” + +“How came she to know so much?” + +“I cannot tell; but she has evolved a theory from her studies and +conclusions that seems plausible. At any rate, we cannot disprove it; and +as it comforts her and hurts nobody, I am glad she can enjoy it. But the +gong has sounded for dinner, and I am as hungry as a bear.” + + * * * * * + +“It is a glorious thing to be alive,” exclaimed the Captain, when they +spied the lights of the Farallones to the leeward, while on their left +rose Mare Island; and they knew that they were nearing the Golden Gate. +Four days of happy, languorous idleness on a glassy sea had been theirs +to enjoy. But each decided that he had had enough of leisure, and was +glad when Telegraph Hill, the towering head of the city of San Francisco, +was seen among its myriads of sand-dunes and rioting patches of native +weeds. + +“It is indeed a glorious thing to be alive!” said Joseph, as they were +being jostled in the streets of the city, where a babel of tongues kept +up a continuous clatter, as bewildering as it was unintelligible. + +The hotel in which the brothers found lodgings was a little superior +to the Portland hostelry, being larger; but the food was far from +satisfactory, and they found the sand-fleas and Benicia Bay mosquitoes +more voracious than welcome. The sights of the truly cosmopolitan +city were new and alluring; and once, but for the intervention of the +police, the verdant pair would have been fleeced by a smooth-tongued +swindler. They were directed by a big policeman to an immense hardware +establishment, where they found a complete up-to-date outfit for their +plant. They then continued their journey toward the Isthmus with a +feeling of anticipation to which their frequent conversations concerning +the legendary lore of the peculiar country for which they were bound +possessed a fascinating interest. + +“I have read of a lost continent, which is said to have existed in +a prehistoric age,” said the younger brother. “The Indians of the +Mandan district have many legends in regard to it. They say the Great +Spirit submerged the dry land in a fit of anger, thus separating the +so-called Old World from the so-called New, and driving the remnant of +the surviving inhabitants to the north as far as the Great Lakes, where +they speedily relapsed into the barbarism that ensues from isolation, +hardships, and necessity, until at last they perished from the face of +the earth.” + +“But what of the origin of the Indian race?” asked John. + +“Their legends tell us that their ancestors came originally from Russia, +by the way of Behring Strait, which in winter was closed by ice; that at +one time the ice gorges were suddenly broken up by a tremendous gale and +were never closed again. There were natives of the great Northland who +were caught on the south side of the gorge, and, being unable to return, +remained in what is now Alaska, whence they migrated, multiplied, and +spread till they covered what is now the United States of America.” + +“When we return to Oregon, you must not fail to start Burns on some of +these legends, Joe. The Widow McAlpin, whom he means to marry as soon as +she will consent, is as deeply interested in the origin of the Indians as +he is.” + +“But if we knew all about the immediate origin of the Indians, that +wouldn’t settle the question, John. Where did the Russians get their +start; and how did every island of the great oceans become inhabited?” + +“You are carrying me away beyond my depth, Joe. Burns has a theory that +different races of people are indigenous to all countries. He calls the +story of Adam and Eve a myth, or a sort of cabalistic tale. That reminds +me that Jean once completely nonplussed the Reverend Thomas Rogers by +asking who were the daughters of men whom the sons of God took as wives. +‘And where,’ she asked, ‘did Cain get his wife?’” + +“These speculations, which are by no means new, are as fruitless as they +are perplexing, John. We know no more about them than these donkeys do +that are floundering, with us on their backs, across this God-forsaken +Isthmus. Will there ever be a canal cut across it, I wonder?” + +“Guess we’d better talk about spring. That is something we can +understand.” + +“No, John. We can no more clearly comprehend the springtime, with its +many wondrous revelations, than we can comprehend anything else that is +unknowable. We know that sunshine, air, and moisture are necessary for +the sustenance of organic life; but we don’t know what life itself is. It +is as invisible to us, in all its wonderful activities, as God himself. +No; we know no more about the life that animates spring than we know +about the Atlantans. But we do know that travel is a great eye-opener; +and by showing us how little we know, or can learn, it helps to take away +much of our overweening self-conceit.” + +There being no delay at Acapulco, and but little at New Orleans, our +voyagers were soon aboard one of the palatial steamers that ploughed the +waters of the Mississippi in the days when steamboating on the river was +in the height of its glory. Floating palaces, with hearts of fire and +arteries of steam, were equipped in the most sumptuous style. The cuisine +of their tables was never excelled in any land. Trained servants were on +duty at every hand in all departments, and such river races as the pen of +Mark Twain has made immortal infused an alluring element of danger into +the daily life of the adventurous traveller. + +St. Louis was passed, and Cairo; and the voyage up the Illinois to Peoria +was speedily consummated. + +The brothers struck out afoot for the old home, which they came into +sight of at sundown. A light snow covered the ground, and a bitter wind +was blowing hard. + + * * * * * + +“Down, Rover, down! Don’t you know your master?” exclaimed the returned +wanderer, as the great mastiff sprang at him with a low, savage growl, +which changed at once to vehement proclamations of welcome as the +faithful creature recognized his friend. + +“Bless the dog! But be quiet! We want to surprise the old folks.” + +In the cosey sitting-room of the little cottage sat a prematurely aged +woman, plying her needle and softly crooning a plaintive lullaby. A +couple of tallow candles burned dimly on a little table, and a much-worn +work-basket sat at her left. In the opposite corner an old man sat, his +head bowed, as if sleeping. An open Bible had fallen from his hand. + +“There’s but one pair of stockings to mend to-night,” sighed the woman, +as she folded her finished work, her thoughts reverting to scenes long +vanished. + +The white-bearded man aroused himself at her words and spoke. + +“John is forty-three to-night,” he said huskily, his finger pointing to +the family record. + +“God be with him till we meet again!” was the sighing response as the +mother struggled to thread her needle by the flickering light. + +“Mary is a year younger than John; and Joseph came to us two years +later than Mary,” said the patriarch, his finger still pointing to the +cherished page. + +“Oh, father!” cried the wife, “do you think I shall ever hold my Joseph +in my arms again?” + +“God knows best,” was the sad reply. + +A cat purred contentedly at the woman’s feet, and crickets sang upon the +hearth. Outside, the wind sighed dolefully. + +“Wonder what’s the matter with Rover?” said the old man, rising to his +feet, after repeated efforts, and hobbling toward the door. “He’s acting +strangely to-night.” + +“Don’t open the door, father,” pleaded the wife. “The whole country is +infested with tramps and robbers. We’d better be cautious. I’m sure I saw +faces at the window a while ago.” + +“Rover knows what he’s about, wife. He never speaks like that to an +enemy. I will open the door.” + +It seemed to the men outside that the door was long in opening. “My +fingers are all thumbs!” they heard the old man exclaim, after a +fruitless effort to withdraw the bolt. + +“Good-evening!” exclaimed Joseph, in a husky voice. “We are a pair of +belated travellers, and seek a night’s lodging. Can we be accommodated?” + +“We’re not used to keeping travellers,” said the patriarch, “but it is +late, and another storm is brewing. Come right in. Wife can fix you a +shake-down somewhere, I reckon; and we always have a bite on hand to eat.” + +“We have two sons of our own out in the world somewhere, father,” said +the wife. “I will trust the Lord to do by them as we will do by these +strangers.” + +John Ranger threw back his heavy coat and hat and stood before the pair +erect and motionless. + +“Mother!” he exclaimed, after a moment’s waiting, as he caught her in his +arms, “don’t you know your boy?” + +“Why, bless my soul, it’s our John,—my firstborn baby boy!” faltered the +mother, as she resigned herself to his realistic “bear hug.” “I thought +you was in Oregon.” + +“So I was a few weeks ago; but I am here now! How are you, mother dear? +And you, father? I am so glad to see you again! How goes the world with +both of you?” + +“All right, son, considering. That is, it’s all right now you are here. +We can bear poverty and hardship now. Eh, wife?” + +“Yes, father. If the Lord sees fit to afflict us, we can now bear it +without complaining. Blessed be His holy name! But how did it happen, +John dear? I was thinking about you to-night as being far away on this, +your forty-third birthday.” + +“We do things in a hurry on the Pacific coast, mother mine. This is an +unexpected visit. But you are neglecting somebody.” + +“That is so,” exclaimed the old man. “What might your name be, stranger?” + +The tall man in the shadow took a faltering step forward and removed his +hat. + +“Don’t you know me, father?” + +“Good God! Can it be possible that this is Joseph?” + +“Don’t let him deceive us, John!” pleaded the mother. “I couldn’t live +and bear it!” + +“Yes, mother dear, it is indeed your Joseph,—your long-lost son,” cried +the prodigal. “Don’t you recognize me now?” + +John, who had released his mother, stood by in silence; while Joseph, +secure in his welcome, gathered his mother in his arms and exclaimed, +“It is now my turn to give you a bear hug. Take this, and this!” and he +clasped her with half-savage tenderness again and again. + +“Yes, mother!” cried the father, who, overcome by his emotions, dropped +feebly into his chair. Then, controlling his feelings by a strong effort +of the will, he added with a laugh, “Hadn’t we better kill the prodigal, +seeing the calf has come home?” + +At a late hour a frugal meal was spread, to which the weary home-comers +did enforced justice, the mother on one side of the table weeping and +laughing by turns, and the father on the other side endeavoring with +indifferent success to be dignified and calm. + +The brothers eyed each other askance as the supper proceeded, especially +noticing the absence of the many little luxuries for which the Ranger +tables had formerly been noted throughout the township. + +“Father and I don’t have much appetite, so we don’t lay in many extras +nowadays,” said the mother. + +“We’ve been having a hard time of it since you left us, John,” broke in +the father. “The fellow that bought the sawmill didn’t understand the +business, and he soon swamped it. So Lije had to take it off his hands, +and it left us mighty hard up. Lije has a big family, and the gals want +clothes and schoolin’, and Mary is poorly and needs medicines; so mother +and I do without lots of things we need. It was lucky for all hands, +though, that Annie sent back that deed to the Robinson old folks. They’re +independent now, in a small way. They have their own garden and cow and +fruit and poultry, and they made enough off of their truck-patch last +summer to pay their taxes and buy groceries. They don’t need many new +clothes. They have bought a sleigh and a horse, so they can go to meetin’ +Sundays; and next summer, Daddie Robinson says, he’ll be able to buy a +buggy.” + +“I meant to let you have that little place, father,” said John, trying in +vain to eat his food. “But Annie claimed it as her own; and Mary and Jean +insisted that she had a right to deed it to her own parents. If you had +such a little home now, could you be contented?” + +“Oh, John,” cried his mother, “if we only had a place as good! I never +covet what is my neighbor’s, but I do want to be independent.” + +“Can’t you pack your little effects and go with us to Oregon?” asked +Joseph, a great lump rising in his throat. + +The old man looked anxiously at his wife. The wife looked inquiringly at +her husband. + +“It will be just as father says,” said the wife, submissively. + +“An old man is like an old tree,” began the father, bowing his head upon +the table. “You can transplant a man or a tree, but you can’t make ’em +take root to do much good in new soil after they get old. With the young +it’s different. It’s out o’ sight, out o’ mind, with them. They can take +root anywhere if the conditions are favorable and they want to change.” + +“That’s right, father,” echoed the wife. “We’re too old to make a new +start in a new country. Besides, the expense of transplanting us to so +great a distance would go a long way toward taking care of us nearer +home. I’d like it mighty well if we could live near all our children +in our old days; but if it is better for them,—and I reckon it is,—the +sacrifices we must make to bear the separation mustn’t count. We ought to +be used to privation and poverty by this time.” + +“We have all heard of the Irishman’s way of feeding, or not feeding, his +horse!” exclaimed Joseph. “The plan seemed successful for a few days, +but just when the animal was supposed to be used to the treatment, the +ungrateful creature died.” + +“I could keep the wolf from the door a few years longer if it wasn’t for +my rheumatism,” said the father. “The after-clap of old hardships gets +the better of me now and then. I’m only able, much of the time, to potter +round the place and help your mother at odd jobs. I reckon she would miss +me if I should be called away, however.” + +“God grant that we may be called away together when we are wanted in +the land o’ the leal,” said the good wife, fervently; and her husband +responded with a hearty “Amen.” + +“You are not to be allowed to worry any more!” exclaimed Joseph, rising +to his feet and straightening himself to his full height. “I am not rich, +but I am amply able to place you above want; and, so help me God, I’ll +do it. I’ve been the stray sheep. I’ve wandered far from the fold, and +I’ve been a long time coming to my senses. But I have put the past behind +me, and, come what will, my dear father and mother shall be provided for +during the remainder of their lives.” + +“But you have a family, my son. Don’t make any promises that will +interfere with your obligations to your wife and children.” + +“I have some gold mines in Utah, mother dear, and an interest in several +trading-posts on the frontier. I will never neglect you again.” + +“Jean went away under a promise to assist us as soon as she could earn +some money of her own,” said the father; “but we can look for no help +from that quarter for some time to come. It isn’t right to expect it of +her, either. Oh, boys, if you could only know how it has stung us to be +treated as mendicants, after we have worn ourselves out in the service of +our children, you would appreciate our joy over this cheering news!” + +“Who is treating you as mendicants, mother, I should like to know?” +exclaimed the elder son. “Didn’t I leave you provided for when I started +for Oregon?” + +“You did your best to make provision for our needs, my son. We are +blaming nobody. Don’t allow yourself to feel unhappy. We are not +complaining of anything but Fate.” + +“But you ought to blame me,” cried Joseph. “It was I who brought all +these calamities upon my nearest and dearest. But God knows I do repent +in sackcloth and ashes.” + +“Oh, father, we can never be unhappy now! Our boy that was lost is found. +He that we mourned as dead is with us, alive and well. There is no +blood-guiltiness upon his head, and no shadow of murder or hatred in his +heart. The Lord be praised for all His tender mercies to the children of +men!” + +“Yes, yes, the Lord be praised!” echoed the father, fervently. “Surely, +after all the blessings that have been showered upon us this night, we +can take all the balance on trust.” + +“We have the promise, father: ‘Trust in the Lord and do good, and verily +thou shalt be fed.’” + + * * * * * + +“I’d give the world, if I had it, for the simple, child-like faith of our +father and mother,” said John, as soon as the brothers were alone. + +“And I’d give the world, if I had it, for a chance to live my life over, +that I might have an opportunity to atone for the suffering I have caused +you all.” + +“Dear Joe, you have suffered too.” + +He turned his face to the wall and relapsed into silence. And as he +secretly invoked the presence of his beloved dead, he saw himself in an +emigrant’s camp far away in the Black Hills. Again the tethered Flossie +lowed plaintively at the wagon-wheel, bemoaning the death of her calf; +again the still, white-robed form of his Annie appeared before his mental +vision. And the sorrowing husband fell asleep. + + + + +XXXIX + +_THE OLD HOMESTEAD_ + + +The gray dawn of a bleak December morning found the Ranger brothers +alternately stamping the snow from their feet on the front veranda of +the old homestead, and listening for the first sounds of awakening +within. The same denuded locust-boughs swept the lattice as of yore; and +it seemed but yesterday to John Ranger as he recalled the time he had +caught his gentle Annie in his arms on that momentous and well-remembered +evening, and made the startling announcement, “It’s all settled, mother. +Brother Lije has bought the farm, and we’ll be off in less than a month +for Oregon.” + +He turned to his brother, whose face was like marble as he stood in the +shadow of the wall, as silent as the Sphinx. + +“Who in thunder is coming here to rout a fellow out o’ bed at this time +of a Sunday morning?” growled Lije Robinson, as he opened the door an +inch or so and peeped out into the biting air. + +“It is I and another,” cried John Ranger, pushing the door wide open. For +a moment the brothers-in-law faced each other in silence. One was dumb +with many conflicting emotions, the other with simple wonder. + +“Your conscience must have troubled you,” said Lije, after an awkward +pause, “or you wouldn’t have come back. But come in! I’ll start up the +fire. Who’s this?” looking hard at Joseph, whose bronzed and bearded face +was more than half concealed by the upturned collar of his fur-lined +overcoat. + +“Don’t you know him, Lije?” + +“Naw, nor I don’t want to.” + +Meanwhile Mrs. Robinson had emerged from her room after a hurried toilet. + +“Sister Mollie!” + +“Brother John!” + +For half a minute not another word was spoken. + +“I never expected to set eyes on you again,” cried the sister at last, +as, half crying and half laughing, she held him at arm’s length for a +better view. “It seemed as if you had left the world when you went to +Oregon; and now you are back again,—the same old John.” + +“This is an age of progress, Mollie. The planet doesn’t seem so very big, +if you know how to get around it.” + +“Will you introduce the stranger, John?” asked his sister, in a welcoming +tone. + +“I’ve been waiting to see if he would be recognized. There is another +surprise in store for you, Mollie. Did you ever see this man before?” + +“Can it be possible,” she asked, her face deathly pale, “that this is my +brother Joseph?” + +“Yes, Mollie,” he cried, as he caught her in his arms, “I’m your +long-lost brother.” + +“Then I hope you’ve come prepared to pay your honest debts,” growled the +brother-in-law. “I’ve wrestled with that old mortgage till I’m demnition +tired!” + +“I hope you’ll permit me to atone as best I can, Lije. That’s what I’m +here for.” + +“Don’t be too hard on him, Lije!” pleaded the sister, as she helped the +prodigal to remove his overcoat. “You’re all right now, brother, aren’t +you?” + +“I will be as soon as I have settled some old scores with your bear of a +husband.” + +“Don’t mind Lije!” said his sister, aside. “His losses and obligations +have made him discouraged and cross. It wasn’t natural that he should +endure our hardships resignedly, as we did. Blood is thicker than water, +you know. Oh, Joseph, if I only could buy for our parents a nice little +farm, such as Annie deeded to her father and mother! There’s a ten-acre +farm adjoining theirs; I cannot sleep for thinking about it. But my +whole lifework has been devoted to Lije, and must count for nothing, so +far as father and mother are concerned. Father gave me a cow and calf +for a wedding present, as you will remember. They would have made me +comfortable long ago if I could have kept them and one-half of their +increase as mine.” + +“Yes, Mollie; and I acted the brute beast over that gift. I was a +bumptious boy then; and I encouraged Lije in the idea that he mustn’t +allow his wife to own property. I waxed eloquent, as I thought, over +coverture, and such other archaic injustice as merges the existence of a +wife into that of her husband. Men are more appreciative of women on the +Pacific coast than they are here; but there are laws and usages out there +yet that call loudly for a change, the Lord knows.” + +“I am not complaining of Lije, Joe. He has never offered me any bodily +injury in his life, and I’ve learned not to mind the explosions from his +mouth. I have everything I need for my own simple wants; but, no matter +how hard I struggle, I can never help my parents to a penny unless I +steal it”; and she laid her head on her brother’s shoulder and sobbed +aloud. + +“What’s the matter now?” growled her husband. “Can’t you stop your +bawling when you have company?” + +“Breakfast is ready,” said Annie Robinson, a tall and handsome girl, who +had been busy in the lean-to kitchen. + +“Annie, this is Uncle Joseph,” said her mother, smiling through her tears. + +“I don’t want to see him,” retorted the girl, rudely, turning to Uncle +John with extended hands and a smile of welcome, and saying in a +half-whisper, “What did you bring him here for?” + +“The hair of the dog is good for the bite sometimes, my girl. Your Uncle +Joseph is all right. He’ll atone for everything if we’ll give him half a +chance.” + +“You owe Joseph an apology for your rudeness, Annie; I am surprised at +you!” said her mother. Then, turning to Joseph: “Don’t mind Annie. She +is unhappy and cross because she could not go to boarding-school this +winter.” + +“If I didn’t deserve what I’m getting I wouldn’t stand it, sister; but +I’ve come to atone, and I must take my punishment.” + +The room was severely cold, and the hot breakfast filled the air with a +vapor that obscured the window-panes. The lighted candles, in their tall +receivers, reflected translucent halos, and lit the lithe figure of Annie +Robinson, who flitted silently between the table and the great black +stove, serving the food, and looking like a weird, uncanny shade. + +“The way of the transgressor is hard,” thought Joseph. “We must be ready +to take the back track to-morrow, John,” he said, rising from his chair, +and leaving his food almost untasted. “Whatever business you and Lije may +have between you must be agreed upon to-day. Where can I hire a horse and +sleigh?” + +“I’ve a cutter in the barn,” said Lije, beginning to relax a little as +his breakfast stirred his heart and warmed his spirits. “You’ll find +half-a-dozen old sawmill horses in the big shed back of the barn. They’re +spavined and ringboned, and one of ’em is knock-kneed; but you can take +your pick of the lot.” + +“Won’t you let me go along, Joe?” asked his brother, as they left the +house together. “Where are you going, anyhow?” + +“Of course you can go along if you are not needed here. I am going to +see about buying that ten-acre tract that Mollie told me about. If it +is suitable for the needs of our parents, I will see them installed in +a home of their own before another week passes. Why, John, I’d rather +murder our dear old father and mother in cold blood than leave them under +the heel of that parsimonious—” + +“Don’t be too hard on Lije, Joe. He’s had a whole lot to contend with +since the sawmill, the debts, and other double loads have been left on +his hands.” + +“And no wonder,” was the significant rejoinder. “He deserves his fate.” + +The sun arose in splendor, warming the air, and making the drive of +three or four miles keenly invigorating and enjoyable. They found the +little farm they had come to inspect in fair condition, though in need of +some modern improvements, of which the brothers took note. The land had +originally belonged to the senior Ranger, who had secured a title to the +half-section of which it was a part, directly from the government. + +“If father had been content with smaller land holdings, it might have +been better for him and all the rest of us,” said John. + +“There is danger that we may make the same mistake in Oregon,” replied +Joseph. + +“What a wealthy man father might have been, though, if he had held on to +all the land he acquired in this country in an early day!” added John. + +“But he’d be a happier man to-day on this ten-acre plat, with prosperous +small farmers all around him and all the improvements and conveniences +on the plat that it can be made to carry, than he would be with a whole +township on his shoulders under the burdens of taxation and a careless +tenantry.” + +“I don’t know but you are right,” echoed John; “it isn’t what we own, or +imagine that we own, in this world, but what we can utilize, that makes +up our real possessions. Oregon will surely suffer, in years to come, as +a result of the present system of land-grabbing. Most of the unhappiness +of the farmers’ wives results from isolation, which small farms would +remedy. This little home is a perfect gem. Mother will be delighted.” + +“And the Robinson old folks will have congenial neighbors. I can shut my +eyes and see father now, hobbling about the place with his cane, pulling +a weed here and a flower there, tending the horse and cow and garden, +planting his onions and potatoes in the dark of the moon, as of old, and +his cabbage and peas and beans when it is full.” + +“And think how mother will enjoy her poultry and posies! But we must do +something to relieve Lije of his burden of debt, or he’ll drive Mollie to +suicide.” + +“I feel under no obligation to Lije, God knows! But for Mollie’s sake, +I’ll see about helping him out.” + +“Do you still intend to leave for the coast to-morrow?” + +“No,” said Joseph. “I spoke hastily. This is Sunday. We can’t complete +our business to-day. I will see the agent and settle about this little +farm in the morning. After we get the old folks comfortable it will be +time to consider Lije. He must wait.” + +“I’ve been thinking all day,” said John, as they were journeying +homeward, “that the entire running machinery of the home should be +intrusted to women, who are the real home-makers. My Annie planned for +the support of her parents, and made them modestly independent by a +stroke of her pen. But she could not have done it if I had continued +obstinate about signing the deed; and I am very much afraid I could not +have been prevailed upon to do it if it hadn’t been for the persistence +of Jean. She gave me no peace till the conveyance was made. If women +possessed law-making power, these matters would in time be adjusted, and +both men and women would be the gainers in the long run. But both men +and women are as short-sighted as they are selfish. Solomon was right +when he said: ‘There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth; and there +is that withholdeth more than is meet, but it tendeth to poverty.’ It +is noticeable that men of the frontier are more inclined to be just with +their co-workers, the mothers, than the men of the older States.” + +“It’s all settled, mother,” exclaimed Joseph, as he alighted at the +cottage doorstep and threw the reins to John; “I’ve been to see that +little farm adjoining Pap Robinson’s, and I’ve made terms. The little +place is yours from now on, and I will not leave you till you are settled +in it.” + +“Your father will be so happy, son! He started to meeting a little while +ago. I stayed at home to have a nice, warm supper ready. It isn’t many +more meals I’ll get a chance to cook for my boys.” + +“You did your share in that line long ago, mother dear.” + +In the family reunion in the little cottage home that night there were no +intruders. John, Mary, and Joseph held sweet communion with their parents +alone. + +“Our Father in Heaven,” prayed the old man, before retiring, “we thank +Thee for all Thy tender mercies to us-ward. We realize Thy hand in our +chastening; and we behold Thy love in our sorrows, since, but for them, +we could not appreciate our joys. We thank Thee for John, for Mary, for +Joseph, and for this night’s reunion. We also thank Thee for our absent +dear ones, and for those whose bodies are under the snow, whose spirits +are with Thee. + +“Animate us all with the Christ spirit, O God; and grant that in Thine +own good time we all may meet again.” + +And the brothers echoed aloud the good father’s “Amen.” + + + + +XL + +_THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS_ + + +A year has passed, and the autumn of 1853 has arrived. It has been a +most strenuous twelve months on the Ranch of the Whispering Firs. Rapid +changes, unlooked-for vicissitudes, improvements upon the virgin soil, +annoying delays, and happy reunions have made the seasons fly. + +The house was now surrounded by a cultivated field, through the centre +of which a broad, tree-lined avenue wound upward from the grade below. +The cattle whose labor had saved the lives of the immigrants the previous +year were now sleek and fat. + +Behind the dwelling rose the foot-hills of the Cascade Mountains, their +sides and summits clothed with the majestic forest of pointed firs from +which the ranch had derived its name. Still higher up, and yet up, above +the serrated steeps, loomed hoary old Mount Hood, spreading his snowy +robes over the misty lesser heights, the top of his white turban hidden +among the clouds, his flowing beard resting upon the pointed crests of +the most distant trees. + +The music of machinery filled the air. The sawmill was at its best, +running day and night to supply the ever-increasing demand for lumber. +The original plant had already been greatly increased. + +“It is a glorious thing to be alive!” said Jean, pausing in the perusal +of a letter. “The air is as balmy as springtime. What a blessed change it +will be for Ashton, who has seen nothing but sagebrush, bald mountains, +jack-rabbits, sage-hens, Indians, immigrants, and cacti the summer long! +Oh, my darling, it is a whole year since our first meeting! + +“My last day in the schoolroom is over. I have enjoyed my work. Many of +the little tots are better for the training I have given them. But best +of all is the improvement the experience has brought to me. Every good +deed reacts upon the doer. Ashton will hardly realize the progress I have +made in education, physical appearance, and culture during the vanished +year”; and she smiled approvingly at her reflection in the little mirror. +“And to think that to-morrow is our wedding-day!” She resumed the reading +of her cherished missive. + +“It will interest you to know that the fellow Hankins, whose villany came +so near to wrecking our happiness, my beloved, has been sent to the Pen. +at Salt Lake for forgery. What a splendid man he might have been if he +had improved his opportunities! He still has a penitentiary term to serve +in New York, which, added to his twenty years in Utah, will take him into +the sere and yellow leaf.” + +“And I’d have allowed myself to marry that fellow, I fear, if you had +proved false to me, my Ashton,” exclaimed Jean, as she turned from her +musings to survey her _trousseau_, upon which she and Mary had spent much +time and skill. + +“Are you at leisure, sister?” asked Mary. + +“Of course I am always at leisure to see you, Mary. But what is the +matter? You are as red as a rose and bright as a diamond!” and she +fondled the sparkling gem upon her own finger lovingly. + +“Something sweet and momentous has happened, my dear. Wish me joy! Mr. +Buckingham and I are to make the fourth couple to join the matrimonial +combination at the fateful hour to-morrow.” + +“Isn’t this rather sudden, Mame? Won’t you be leaving Marjorie in +the lurch at the cook-house? And, above all, what will you do for a +_trousseau_?” + +“No, dear, this change is not sudden. As you know, we have been +engaged for over six months. But my _fiancé_, being under orders +from the government, has not been certain of a permanency before. We +will take Marjorie with us to Washington, and keep her in school. And +now as to _trousseau_. My white dimity dress is fresh and new, and so +is Marjorie’s. When we get to Washington, where Mr. Buckingham must +spend the winter under orders from the Land Department, he says we can +patronize the _modiste_ to our heart’s content. It was a fortunate +day for me when my husband that is to be was sent out to Oregon to +investigate alleged land frauds; and more fortunate still that he +discovered that fellow Hankins.” + +“I wish we’d known this a week ago, Mame. You might have had an +ivory-white, all-wool delaine, with lace and satin trimmings, just like +mine.” + +“My little sister, notwithstanding her reputation for strong-mindedness, +is a charming bit of femininity, after all,” laughed Mary, as she hurried +away. + + * * * * * + +The near approach of a creaking wagon caused the sisters to approach the +window. + +“As I live!” cried Jean, “it’s the Reverend Thomas Rogers coming up the +grade. And that is his little doll-faced wife. Wonder where they came +from, and what in creation they’re coming here for.” + +“You must go out to meet them, Jean,” said Mary. “I never want to see +them again; but we mustn’t be remiss in hospitality.” + +“He looks as if the world had gone hard with him, poor fellow,” laughed +Jean. “Don’t you wish you had to pull in double harness with the like of +him for the rest of your life?” + +“I would never have fancied him in the first place if I had had any +sense,” said Mary. “Wonder who paid their bills,” she cried with a +hysterical little laugh, as she watched the preacher’s wife while she +alighted over the wagon-wheel without any attention or assistance. + +“Yonder goes Mrs. O’Dowd to the rescue. Do you know, Mame, I think it is +a wise step for daddie to hitch up with Sally O’Dowd? He might go farther +and fare a whole lot worse.” + +Although the greeting the Rogers family received from the Ranger +household was not exactly in keeping with the open-hearted hospitality +of the border, it seemed to satisfy the preacher, who made himself as +agreeable as possible. + +“I went, Squire, to see your parents and Mrs. Ranger’s a few days before +I left the States,” said the preacher. “The dear old people were well +and prosperous and contented. They have imbibed a new theory about time +and distance. They talk learnedly about vibrations, a fourth dimension +in space, and other such nonsense; and they declare that there can be no +real separation of souls that are in perfect accord with one another. +Their new belief is making them as happy as birds. I would have no +objection to such speculations if they didn’t tend to undermine the +gospel. All such theories detract from the faith of our fathers.” + +“Not necessarily,” said Jean. “I think that we ought always to accept +truth for authority; but you want everybody to accept authority for +truth.” + +“I see it is the same little ‘doubting Thomas’ we used to have in the +Pleasant Prairie schoolhouse,” said the minister. + +“There is a whole lot of common-sense in Jean’s religion,” cried Hal; “I +mean to accept her manufacture of the article as straight goods, full +measure and a yard wide.” + +“These discussions are not profitable,” said Captain Ranger, dryly. + +“Your father and mother are certainly very happy in their theories; I +can say that much for them,” said Mrs. Rogers, who, from her nook in +the corner, had seldom ventured a word. “Their cottage was as neat as +a new pin. It was the springtime, and climbing roses were clambering +over the little porch. The old people seemed to lack for nothing but the +companionship of their children.” And the little woman, amazed at her own +loquacity, shrank back abashed. + +“God has been very kind and gracious to both of the good old couples,” +said the preacher, in a sonorous voice. + +“Some people have an unlimited supply of gall,” said Hal, aside to Mary, +alluding to the preacher and his wife. + +“I don’t see but they are all right,” was the smiling reply of the +rosy-cheeked maiden. “They have placed me under everlasting obligations, +I do assure you.” She arose to greet a handsome visitor, whom she proudly +introduced to them as “my affianced husband.” + +The preacher’s joy was unbounded when Captain Ranger invited him to +perform a quadruple marriage ceremony on the morrow,—an incident he +hailed as an augury of the further social and financial assistance of +which he felt so much in need that he began at once to solicit aid for +the erection of a church and parsonage. + +“For heaven’s sake, don’t begin to bother us about this innovation for +a week or two!” exclaimed the Captain. “I’ll see that you are fed and +housed for the present. As Jean will be leaving us, we shall need a +school-teacher. My wife will not want an outsider to use our house for +the school; so we must make a schoolhouse and meeting-house combined, and +let it suffice for the present.” + +The morning brought a scene of hurry, bustle, and happiness. Long +tables were spread upon the lawn, under the wide-spread branches of the +luxuriant fir-tree the woodman had spared when the land was cleared. +Flowers and ferns from the wildwood added glow and fragrance to the +loaded tables. Mary and Jean, rosy with expectation, flitted everywhere. + +“Did you ever in all your born days see such a wonderful man as my +daddie?” asked Jean, addressing Sally O’Dowd; and the happy woman +answered, “I never did.” + +Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Ranger, the latter resplendent in a satin gown of +latest fashion, were conspicuous assistants; and their children, all of +whom were gotten up for the occasion by their happy mother regardless of +expense, were the observed of all observers. These children, added to the +younger members of Captain Ranger’s brood, the three children of Mrs. +O’Dowd, and Susannah’s “coon,” made a formidable array of young Americans. + +At the appointed hour, Mrs. McAlpin, who had arrived early on horseback +to assist in the preparations, was joined by Mr. Burns, who brought to +her a sealed package, long overdue, concerning which they kept their +own counsel. But in anticipation of its arrival, they had allowed a +“personal” to appear in the local paper in due season, as follows: “Mrs. +Adele Benson, the handsome widow who spent a few days in this city after +crossing the plains last year, and whose widowed daughter, Mrs. Daphne +McAlpin, is soon to be the bride of our distinguished fellow-citizen, +Mr. Rollin Burns, recently astonished her friends in Oregon with the +announcement of her marriage in London to the Right Honorable Donald +McPherson, only son and heir of Lady Mary McPherson, whose extensive +estates are the pride and envy of High-Head on the Thames.” + + * * * * * + +The appointed hour had come, and the four brides expectant were beaming +and beautiful in their simple and becoming array. Mr. Burns and Mr. +Buckingham awaited the signal to descend with their brides. But where was +Ashton Ashleigh? + +Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed, and he did not come. The dinner was +spoiling, and Susannah was furious. + +“I allus ’lowed dah’d nothin’ come o’ dat co’tship!” she said to Hal. + +“Go ahead and get the ceremonies over,” said Jean. “Don’t allow this +interruption to mar the enjoyment of anybody.” + +And while her father was leading Mrs. O’Dowd to the marriage altar, +with Mr. Burns and Mrs. McAlpin following, and Mary and her chosen +one bringing up the rear, she sank, white-faced and benumbed upon her +bed, and gave no sign of life except in the nervous fluttering of her +half-closed eyelids. + +For a long time she lay thus, mercifully bereft of the power to suffer. +“There is some unavoidable reason for this delay,” she said over and over +to herself. “I’ll understand it all in time.” + +The afternoon waned, and darkness fell upon the Ranch of the Whispering +Firs. + +“Jean!” + +“Is that you, daddie dear?” + +“Yes, darling.” + +“What do you think has delayed Ashton?” + +“Try to forget him, Jean. His failure to be on hand at his own marriage +ought to prove to you that he is faithless. You will live to thank God +that the knowledge of Ashton’s faithlessness did not come upon you after +marriage.” + +“Ashton is not faithless!” she cried, springing to her feet. Then she +fell quivering to the floor. + +“Run, quick, Hal! Saddle a horse and go for the Little Doctor,” cried +Mary. + + * * * * * + +A heavy mist that had rolled up from the ocean in the afternoon had +settled now into a steady downpour. There was no moon, and the dense +darkness of the forest through which Hal’s road lay was as black as +Erebus. “Jean loves you, Sukie,” he would say, patting the mare on the +shoulder. “We must get the Little Doctor at all hazards”; and the mare, +as if sensing the importance of her mission, would leap forward with a +sympathetic whinny. + +The door was opened by Mr. Burns, revealing a scene of domestic comfort. + +A little table, covered with a snowy cloth and spread with light +refreshments, stood before a blazing fire; and at its head sat Mrs. +Burns, daintily attired in a light blue wrapper of exquisite workmanship. + +“Why, Harry Ranger!” she exclaimed, as the lad stood inside the door, +shaking his dripping garments. “I hope Jean isn’t worse? I left her calm +and seemingly out of danger.” + +“She’s fallen in a fit! I’ve come for the Doctor!” + +The wind had lulled a little as the little party hurried down the muddy +highway toward the Ranch of the Whispering Firs. The Little Doctor, +nattily arrayed in a rain suit, hood and all, sat her horse securely +and plunged headlong through the darkness, while Hal rode by her side, +followed at a distance by her husband, who bumped up and down in +Scotch-English fashion on a heavy trotter, reminding himself of John +Gilpin, as his hat blew off and his stirrup slipped from his foot. + +“I’ve heard rumors of the ‘coming woman’ many a time,” he thought, +bracing himself by clinging to the horn of his Spanish saddle. “But +the deuce take me if I like the article in practice, though I’ve long +advocated her cause in theory.” + +He said as much in an injured tone to his wife, as they alighted at the +Ranger home, and received for answer, “We must always consider what is +the greatest good for the greatest number, dear. Won’t we be well repaid +for this night’s adventure if Jean is saved?” + +The Little Doctor found her patient in a rigid, trance-like state, her +eyelids fluttering and her breathing stertorous. + +“The heart’s action is fairly good,” she said, after a careful +examination. “The most we can do is to keep her quiet. I will administer +an opiate, and I think nature will do the rest. Meanwhile, somebody must +go after that recalcitrant bridegroom. She would soon recover her tone if +she could lose faith in him altogether. It is suspense that kills.” + +“Brother Joseph started across the Cascade Mountains after him early in +the afternoon,” the Captain explained. “He declared that nothing but foul +play or some unavoidable accident could have detained so ardent a suitor.” + +At the hour of midnight, when the Ranch of the Whispering Firs was +wrapped in silence, Jean awoke, dismissed Susannah, and rose from her bed. + +“O my God,” she cried inwardly, “if it be possible, let this cup pass +from both of us! I know, O Spirit of Good, that my own has not, of his +own accord, deserted his counterpart, his other self. Give me strength +equal to my day! Let me not fail him now, when I know he needs me most. + +“I must have been in your presence, Ashton, while my body was asleep,” +she said half audibly. “For, in spite of my seeming duty to be miserable, +I cannot be unhappy or hopeless. I seem to have been on a journey; but my +recollection of it is indistinct and disjointed.” + +She went to the window and looked out into the night. The clouds had +rolled away, the wind had ceased, and the silent stars were looking down. + + + + +XLI + +“_IN PRISON AND YE VISITED ME_” + + +Joseph Ranger left the scene of the triple wedding early in the afternoon +in quest of the missing bridegroom, and was overtaken by the storm before +riding a dozen miles. But the hospitable welcome of the pioneers awaited +him at Foster’s; and a substantial breakfast was ready for him before the +dawn. The sun was barely up before he left the valley and entered the +mountain pass. His faithful horse, who seemed to understand that he was +bound on no ordinary errand, carefully chose his steps among the rocks +and gullies, and bore him onward with gratifying speed. + +Night overtook him long before he had descended the last of the rugged +steeps that crossed his path after passing the summit of the range. + +Bands of elk and antelope crossed his track at intervals; and at night, +when he stopped to camp under a great pine-tree, when his fire was built, +and his faithful horse and himself had feasted together upon the bag of +roasted wheat he had brought along for sustenance, a band of deer, kindly +eyed, graceful, and not afraid, came near him, attracted by the blaze and +smoke, and circled around his bed at a respectful distance long after he +had retired among his blankets upon a couch of evergreen boughs. + +“That’s right! Come close, my beauties!” he exclaimed, as a doe and her +daughter came close enough to breathe in his face. “I wouldn’t shoot one +of you for the world. Your confidence is not misplaced.” But when he put +out his hand to fondle them, they bounded away as light as birds, only to +approach again and paw the blankets with their nimble hoofs, and awaken +him from his coveted sleep. Finally, to frighten them away, he fired +his revolver into the air, and the entire herd scampered away into the +darkness. + +“The gun is the wild animal’s master,” he said as he fell asleep, to be +awakened again by the neighing of his tethered horse. + +The fire of pitch-pine was still burning, and a pair of eyes glowed near +his face like coals. + +“This is no deer,” he thought, as he very cautiously clasped his +“pepper-box” repeater. + +A heavy paw was placed upon his breast, and the hot breath of a bear +came close enough to nauseate him. There was no time to lose. As a +mountaineer, he knew the nature of his foe too well to await the +inevitable embrace of Bruin. Little by little he moved his repeater, and, +when the weight of the animal was wellnigh crushing him, he sent a bullet +through his eye. But the danger was by no means past, as the beast, +though wounded unto death, was yet alive, and furious with rage and pain. + +Just how he extricated himself from the peril of that eventful encounter, +Joseph Ranger never knew, but he lived to narrate the adventure to +children and grandchildren, and preserved to his dying day that +long-outdated “pepper-box” revolver with which his great-grandchildren +now delight to fire a volley in his honor on Washington’s Birthday and +the Fourth of July. + +Once safely through the Cascade Mountains, Joseph found little to impede +his progress. Some friendly Indians were encountered at the base of the +Blue Mountains, who gave him a hearty meal of bear-meat and wapatoes, and +supplied his weary horse with hay and oats. + +“Mika closh cumtux Wahnetta. Heap good Injun squaw! Ugh! Wake Mika +potlatch chickimin! Hy-as closh muck-a-muck! Heap good. Cultus potlatch!” +was the way in which his Indian host expressed his hospitality and +refused compensation. And Joseph Ranger, acquainted with the jargon of +many native tribes, further ingratiated himself in the Indian’s favor by +presenting his squaw with a few gaudy trinkets such as an experienced +borderer always carries when crossing an Indian country. + +On and on he hurried toward the valley of Great Salt Lake, impelled by an +irresistible impulse he could not have explained to any one. The weather +was in his favor in crossing the Blue Mountains, though the air was cold, +and the wind sometimes blew furiously. Water was low in all the smaller +streams, and the beds of many of them were dry. Ice formed at night in +swampy places and thawed by day, making travelling slippery and tedious; +but on and on he hurried, knowing time was precious and yet not clearly +understanding why. + +At the Ogden Gateway he gained some information that doubled his +impatience and quickened his speed. A man was being held on a charge of +murder at Salt Lake City who he instinctively felt was Ashleigh. His +informant, a Spanish half-breed, did not know his name, but he said an +Indian girl was the victim, and her name was Le-Le. + +On and on he journeyed, till he reached the verge of the little border +city of Salt Lake. The Mormon Temple was not yet built, but a tabernacle +had already arisen as its herald; and the Bee Hive House and Lion House +were filled with wives and children of the prophet, who regularly toiled +and spun. Joseph hastened to the adobe jail, where, after a brief delay, +which seemed to him like an age, he was conducted to a dingy little cell, +reserved for criminals of the lowest type. + +A tall man, unshaven and in his shirt-sleeves, was pacing back and forth +in his narrow quarters like a caged animal. He paused as the bolt flew +back; and, as the light fell upon the face of his astonished visitor, he +exclaimed, “Good God! Joseph Addicks! Can this be you?” + +“I am Joseph Ranger, my boy! And I have come here all the way from the +farthest West. But sit down here on the edge of your bed, and tell me all +about it.” + +“You remember the Indian maiden, Le-Le, whom I purchased and ransomed?” + +“Yes.” + +“And you recall the fact that I left her with her brother, Siwash, at my +Green River cave at the time I came to you?” + +“I remember that you said so.” + +“Can you recall the date of my visit to you at the trading-post?” + +“No; but there must be memoranda somewhere that will settle that. Why?” + +“Because nothing will save me, Joseph, from the hangman’s rope unless I +can prove an alibi. I forwarded a letter to you at Oregon City—or tried +to—after this mishap befell me; but a courier can be bribed sometimes, +you know, and Henry Hankins, who failed to capture my bride, is bent upon +revenge. His incarceration doesn’t keep him out of reach of pals. But how +is my bonnie Jean?” + +“I left home too hurriedly to get much information. But her father said +she was strangely calm, and full of faith in you.” + +“Then my darling is not ill?” + +“I certainly did not leave her well, Ashleigh, but she is in good hands. +Do you know the particulars of Le-Le’s death?” + +“I only know that her body was found in an eddy in Green River about a +fortnight after I last saw her. Just as I was on the eve of starting +to Oregon to claim my bride, I was arrested, charged with murder, and +brought to this villanous den.” + +“Be of good cheer, Ashleigh; I will find Siwash. Say nothing to any one. +The darkest hour of the night is just before the morning. Good-bye, and +may God bless you!” + + + + +XLII + +_TOO BUSY TO BE MISERABLE_ + + +Jean met her father and his wife at the breakfast-table with a welcoming +smile, though her head ached, and on her countenance there was a deathly +pallor. + +“The last night’s storm played havoc with the cherished plans of Mr. and +Mrs. Burns,” said Mary’s husband, adroitly turning the conversation into +a diverting channel. “They were intending to spend their honeymoon with +their camping outfit in the open air among the spicy odors of the October +woods.” + +“They are old enough, and ought to be wise enough, by this time, to spend +their honeymoon at home. No bridegroom ever dreamed of taking his bride +away from home during the honeymoon in my younger days; that is, nobody +did with whom my lot was cast,” said Captain Ranger, beaming tenderly +upon his wife, who, being a sensible woman, was not displeased to note +the far-away look in his eyes which betrayed his straying thoughts. + +“You needn’t make any plans for a new teacher, for the present at least, +daddie,” said Jean; “I shall resume my duties in the schoolroom next +week. Will you post the required notices for me at the Four Corners, and +at the sawmill, sometime during the day?” + +“I wouldn’t be in a hurry about teaching, daughter. Your Uncle Joseph has +gone by private pony express in quest—” + +He paused, uncertain as to the propriety of speaking the name that was +uppermost in all their thoughts. + +“I know it, daddie. I knew all that was going on when I lay yesterday in +what seemed to you as a stupor. I can’t explain it, but I seemed to have +a double, or second, self that told me everything. Ashton is in trouble, +but he is not in bodily danger, and he will not die. I do not understand +it clearly, for I saw conditions only as through a glass, darkly. I would +have remained in that state of seeming torpor for a whole month if it +had been possible, for my mind and body were in different places. But in +spite of myself I am again in a normal condition.” + +“I shall be able to devote two weeks’ work to the erection of that +combined schoolhouse and meeting-house,” said Mary’s husband. “Can’t you +wait, sister, to begin your school till then?” + +“No, Mr. Buckingham. You are very kind, and I thank you from the bottom +of my heart, but I cannot wait. There will be time enough for you to take +the reins when I am gone, Mr. Rogers.” + +During the remainder of the week she performed prodigies of labor, but +the work lagged at the mess-house. The new cook was not a success, and +there was much dissatisfaction among the workingmen. But the Chinaman +learned his lessons rapidly under the guidance of the Ranger sisters, and +was soon able to load the long tables with plain but savory food. + +The storm left the face of Nature fresh and green and joyous, and Mr. +Burns and the Little Doctor repaired to the woods and foot-hills for +their honeymoon, after all. + +Jean’s complexion grew more delicately beautiful, her form more and more +symmetrical, and her eyes sparkled like stars. But her girlish exuberance +of spirit was gone, and in its place had come a womanly dignity, +commanding, gracious, and sweet. The departure of Mary and her husband, +with Marjorie, added heavily to Jean’s duties as superintendent of the +Sunday-school. But her spirit craved work; so she opened a singing-school +and a metrical geography class. + +“Still no tidings!” she cried to herself, after an unusually strenuous +day. “But I will not despair, and I will do my duty though the heavens +fall. The whole of this month’s salary goes to Grandpa and Grandma +Ranger. And for this opportunity to show my appreciation of their lives +of self-denial in the service of others, I devoutly thank God.” + +A shadow darkened the door of the deserted schoolroom. + +“Who is it? And what is wanted?” asked Jean, with a start. + +“It is I,—the Reverend Thomas Rogers,” said a voice, as, stepping out of +the shadow, the preacher met her face to face. + +“I have just completed my day’s work, and was about to shut up shop,” she +said, moving toward the door. + +“Very well. I will walk homeward with you, if I may.” + +“No, you won’t!” piped a tremulous, complaining voice; and Mrs. Rogers +stepped between them and the doorsill. + +“I came to see Miss Jean about a change in the management of the +Sunday-school,” said the preacher, meekly. + +“And I’ve come to remind you that you must chop some stove-wood and milk +the cow.” + +The voice was not tremulous now, but commanding. “I’ll teach you to +be running after the schoolma’am at unseemly hours!” she said with a +vehemence that startled Jean, who had thought her the personification of +submission and humility. “And I’ll teach you to be courting my husband, +Miss Jean!” + +“You can divest yourself of all anxiety on that score, Mrs. Rogers. I +never saw the time when I would have dreamed of ‘courting’ the Reverend +Thomas Rogers, even before he was married; and I wouldn’t ‘court’ any +woman’s husband.” + +“To be explicit,” said the preacher, in a submissive tone, “I think it is +high time for the pastor of this church to manage his Sunday-school. Miss +Jean’s methods are not strictly orthodox. I didn’t mean to speak of this +to her in the presence of any third person, but since you have come upon +the scene, Mrs. Rogers, we may as well settle it here and now.” + +“What’s the trouble?” asked Jean, laughing irreverently. + +“The hymns she teaches the children are not solemn enough. They are all +about happy days and care-free birds and joyous children, whose chief +duty lies in obeying their parents and loving one another. I’ve looked +on during the proceedings, carefully and anxiously, for four consecutive +Sundays now, and I haven’t heard one word about eternal punishment, nor +has she exhorted anybody to flee from the wrath to come!” + +“Aren’t you ashamed of your fit of jealousy in the light of this +revelation, Mrs. Rogers?” asked Jean, laughing aloud. + +“I know he was once in love with your sister Mary!” was the evasive but +crestfallen reply. + +“Well, Mr. Rogers,” said Jean, closing and locking the door, “we may as +well be ending this interview. I founded the Sunday-school, and I will +not abdicate till I get ready to leave the country. I never could be made +to believe by your preaching or teaching that God wasn’t as good as my +daddie, or even yourself. I am teaching the children to love and serve +a beneficent God, and to love their neighbors as themselves. If that is +heresy, make the most of it. Good-night! And, Mrs. Rogers, the next time +you feel the unseemly pangs of jealousy, don’t make a fool of yourself +before folks.” + + + + +XLIII + +_JEAN IS HAPPY—AND ANOTHER PERSON_ + + +December, gloomiest month in the year, had settled over the Ranch of the +Whispering Firs. The steady mist of the rainy season was at its best, +or worst, according to the point of view, mental and physical, of its +beholder. The mighty colonnades of trees, that reared their pointed +crests in the mist-enwrapped heavens, were busily engaged, at the foot of +the Cascade Mountains, in storing away the moisture of the skies among +the countless layers of vegetable mould and moss from which to draw their +supplies for the next summer’s drouth. + +The sawmill, planing-mill, and shingle-loom were running day and night. +The skid roads, upon which the leviathans of the forest were dragged +to their final doom, were sodden, slippery, and already badly worn. +Relays of oxen tugged at the creaking chains and complaining logs. The +mill-pond, a lake upon the mountain-side, very much enlarged by a dam, +lay half asleep under a soft coating of ice; and higher up, at the snow +line, lay the ice-clad creek that fed it, sheathed in a coat of mail +which held in check the waters that were destined, when a thaw should +come, to overflow their banks and send a flood into the valley below. + + * * * * * + +“Are you an angel from heaven, or are you Ashton Ashleigh?” cried +Jean, as a tall man entered at the open door and stood before her with +outstretched arms. The color faded from her cheeks, and her heart gave a +violent thump and then stood still. + +“Nothing angelic about me or near me this holy minute, unless it is Jean, +my bonnie Jean!” exclaimed the intruder, as he clasped her tenderly in +his arms. Jean was speechless for the moment with surprise and joy. + +“Why don’t you ask for an explanation, little one?” he asked after an +interval. “An explanation is due you, God knows!” + +“I knew you would come,” she whispered timidly. “You have been forcibly +detained, Ashton. Nothing else would, or could, have kept you away from +your own.” + +“Yes, darling; it was all the evil-doing of that man Hankins, to whom I +intrusted my letter and my ring. Come in, Uncle Joseph. Tell the whole +cruel story.” + +“He was on his way to his wedding when he was arrested and thrown into +prison!” exclaimed the uncle. + +“You remember the slave girl Le-Le, my bonnie Jean? I was falsely accused +of being her murderer; and they would surely have convicted me of the +crime if your uncle had not appeared upon the scene, and after much delay +and difficulty proved an alibi. Do you wonder that my hair has turned +white?” + +“Why, so it has, Ashton! I had not noticed it before; the light is dim. +But you are all right. Your hair is beautiful. I like it best as it is.” + +“I had a deuce of a time proving that alibi!” interrupted the uncle. “Our +only witness was Siwash, who had left the scene of the tragedy and was +nowhere to be found, though I sent scouts out for him in every direction. +He had no idea that he was wanted, when he finally appeared upon the +scene, but he came just in the nick of time. + +“‘I saw my sister make the fatal leap into Green River,’” he deposed in +excellent English. ‘She had been very despondent after Mr. Ashleigh left +us, and I was often afraid she would take her life. But as the weeks +passed, she apparently grew more reconciled; and I had ceased to worry +about her, when one day, after getting my luncheon, she refused to wait +upon the table, and left our cave in a manner that excited my alarm. +So I followed her. I saw the fatal leap. She plunged into the rushing +water through a hole in the ice, under which her body was imprisoned +till last summer, when it was found three miles from the fatal scene. I +never dreamed of anybody being accused of killing her,—least of all Mr. +Ashleigh, our benefactor and friend.’ + +“‘Do the citizens of the village near the scene of the tragedy know of +the suicide?’ asked the Court. + +“‘They do, your Honor, a dozen of them!’ said the boy. + +“No argument was offered on either side. Hankins was sent back to the +penitentiary. Ashton was allowed to go forth a free man; and here, after +a hard journey, are both of us to tell the tale!” + + * * * * * + +Sunday morning at the Ranch of the Whispering Firs. The skies, which +have been humid and lowering for many days, are once more on their good +behavior. The clouds have rolled away to the Northland, and the air and +sunshine are as balmy as in springtime. + +Once more there is a gathering,—this time at the combined schoolhouse +and meeting-house; and Jean Ranger, handsomely attired in a well-made +travelling suit of gray, with hat to match,—the handiwork of her +stepmother and the Little Doctor,—is superintending for the last time +(at least the last till after her return from abroad) her beloved +Sunday-school. The tidings of the bridegroom’s arrival had spread from +house to house, and everybody within a radius of a dozen miles had +appeared upon the scene. The children of the district had decorated the +room profusely with wild flowers, ferns, and evergreens. + +Jean, in surrendering her school to the pastor, made a felicitous speech, +exhorting her pupils to continue in the ways of well-doing. Then, bidding +them a loving and hopeful good-bye, she formally resigned her post, and +the Reverend Thomas Rogers assumed control. + +At a given signal from Captain Ranger, a tall and handsome young +Englishman, whose youthful face contrasted strangely with his snowy hair, +stepped proudly down the aisle, where he was joined by his radiant bride, +leaning on the arm of her father; and the preacher pronounced the words +that legalized a union made in heaven. The tears that rose unbidden to +the eyes of bronzed and bearded men and toilworn, plainly attired women +were tears of joy and peace, good-will and gladness. + +A bountiful basket-dinner, contributed, as by a common impulse, from +the home of almost every family in the district, was served within the +building. + +“We leave to-morrow, by steamer from Portland, going by way of San +Francisco, Acapulco, and the Isthmus, up the Atlantic coast to New York,” +said the happy bridegroom, in his post-prandial speech, “whence we shall +sail for Liverpool. I shall take my wife to London to visit my mother. +Then, on our return to Oregon (for we will make this neighborhood of the +Ranch of the Whispering Firs our permanent home), we shall stop over at +Washington to see her sisters,—Mrs. Buckingham and Marjorie; and after +that we can visit the home of her childhood.” + +“But I prefer going first to the home of my grandparents, dearest,” said +the bride. “We can get there easily by the way of the Gulf of Mexico and +the Mississippi River and the Illinois, if we’ll be on hand before the +rivers are frozen over. We can then go on to Washington, and to England +afterwards. Don’t you think this will be the more economical, convenient, +and reasonable plan?” + +“As this journey is to be in your honor, it shall be as you say, my +bonnie Jean.” + +The bride blushed and beamed bewitchingly, while the crowd laughed and +applauded, and her husband bowed and smiled in approval. + +All eyes then turned upon the father, who took the happy and exultant +bridegroom by the hand and said in a voice tremulous with emotion: +“Ashton Ashleigh, my son through marriage, you have taken to yourself the +priceless jewel that I once fondly thought was mine! Value not lightly +the radiant gem of womanhood you guard!” Then to the bride he said, +embracing her tenderly, while the eyes of the multitude filled afresh +with tears: “Beloved daughter of thy sainted mother, go thy way with the +husband of thy choice. But do not forget to hold thyself always as his +equal before God and man. Then shalt thou be his best counsellor, his +real helpmate, and his wisest friend.” To both he added, as he folded +their clasped hands between his own broad palms: “Keep step together, my +children; and, whether your way shall lead you up the mountain-sides of +difficulty, or through the quagmires of sorrow, or into the glad valleys +of happiness and peace, always march side by side, in time and tune +to the eternal harmonies of religion, liberty, equality, justice, and +progression.” + +And here, patient reader, with Life before them, and Love leading the +way, these chronicles shall bid adieu to the happy pair while they take +temporary leave of the remnant of the Ranger household and the Ranch of +the Whispering Firs. + + THE END + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +[1] The writer has not been able to trace the date or origin of these +stanzas. She learned them in her childhood of a Scotchwoman who recited +them on a winter evening in her chimney corner, and who has long been +dead. She herself has often recited the whole ballad at weddings within +the past fifty years. + +[2] Since called the Ogden Gateway. + + + + +BOOKS RELATING TO THE NORTHWEST + + + THE JOURNALS OF LEWIS AND CLARK + GASS’S JOURNAL OF THE LEWIS AND CLARK EXPEDITION + THE CONQUEST + THE BRIDGE OF THE GODS + McLOUGHLIN AND OLD OREGON + LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH + FROM THE WEST TO THE WEST + A SHORT HISTORY OF OREGON + + (OVER) + +These books are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the +publishers on receipt of price. An extra for postage will be made on +“net” books. + +A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS, CHICAGO + + +The Conquest + +By EVA EMERY DYE. Being the True Story of Lewis and Clark. Third Edition, +with frontispiece in full color by Charlotte Weber. 12mo, gilt top, 504 +pages. $1.50. + +No book published in recent years has more of tremendous import between +its covers, and certainly no recent novel has in it more of the elements +of a permanent success. A historical romance which tells with accuracy +and inspiring style of the bravery of the pioneers in winning the western +continent, should have a lasting place in the esteem of every American. + +“No one who wishes to know the true story of the conquest of the greater +part of this great nation can afford to pass by this book.”—_Cleveland +Leader._ + +“A vivid picture of the Indian wars preceding the Louisiana purchase, of +the expedition of Lewis and Clark, and of events following the occupation +of Oregon.”—_The Congregationalist._ + +“It may not be the great American novel we have been waiting for so long, +but it certainly looks as though it would be very near it.”—_Rochester +Times._ + +“The characters that are assembled in ‘The Conquest’ belong to the +history of the United States, their story is a national epic.”—_Detroit +Free Press._ + + +McLoughlin and Old Oregon + +By EVA EMERY DYE. A Chronicle. Fifth Edition. 12mo, 381 pages. $1.50. + +This is a most graphic and interesting chronicle of the movement which +added to the United States that vast territory, previously a British +possession, of which Oregon formed a part, and how Dr. John McLoughlin, +then chief factor of the Hudson’s Bay Company for the Northwest, by his +fatherly interest in the settlers, displeased the Hudson’s Bay Company +and aided in bringing this about. The author has gathered her facts at +first hand, and as a result the work is vivid and picturesque and reads +like a romance. + +“A spirited narrative of what life in the wilderness meant in the early +days, a record of heroism, self-sacrifice, and dogged persistence; a +graphic page of the story of the American pioneer.”—_New York Mail._ + + +The Bridge of the Gods + +By F. H. BALCH. A Romance of Indian Oregon. New (seventh) Edition, +enlarged size. With eight full-page illustrations by Laurens Maynard +Dixon. Cloth, 12mo, 280 pages, gilt top. $1.50. Paper edition, without +illustrations. 50 cents. + +Encouraged by the steady demand for this powerful story, since its +publication twelve years ago, the publishers felt justified in issuing +this attractive illustrated edition. The book has fairly earned its +lasting popularity, not only by the intense interest of the story, but +by its faithful delineation of Indian character. From the legends of the +Columbia River and the mystical “bridge of the gods,” the author has +derived a truthful and realistic picture of the powerful tribes that +inhabited the Oregon country two centuries ago. + +The _Syracuse Herald_ calls the author of “The Bridge of the Gods” “the +best writer of Indian romance since the days of Fenimore Cooper.” + + +A Short History of Oregon + +By SIDONA V. JOHNSON. With seventeen illustrations from photographs, and +a map of the Lewis and Clark route. 16mo, 320 pages, indexed. $1.00 _net_. + +FROM HENRY E. DOSCH, _Director of Exhibits at Lewis and Clark Exposition +at Portland_. + +“Every home in Oregon might well welcome this condensed, readable +‘History of Oregon,’ and, most important of all, the school children of +the State are entitled to an opportunity to study it, to the end that the +history of the State and the great and memorable achievement of Lewis +and Clark may be intelligently understood and appreciated by every man, +woman, and child in Oregon before the opening of the Lewis and Clark +Centennial Exposition.” + + +Letters from an Oregon Ranch + +By “KATHARINE.” With twelve full-page illustrations from photographs. +Square 8vo. $1.25 _net_. + +The hours of delight, as well as those of trial, which fall to the lot +of “Katharine,” in creating a home out of the raw materials of nature, +are chronicled with naïve humor, and in a vein of hearty optimism which +will make a universal appeal. This year the eyes of the entire country +are on Oregon, and it is expected that a book of this kind, giving such +an illuminating idea of the country, will be of great interest. The +photographs which illustrate the volume are of remarkable beauty. + + +From the West to the West + +Across the Plains to Oregon + +By ABIGAIL SCOTT DUNIWAY. With frontispiece in color. 12mo. $1.50. + +A chronicle and remarkable picture of a group of pioneers in their +journeyings across the plains and their subsequent settling in Oregon. +The characters are of the distinctive class of Western emigrant of fifty +years ago, resourceful, independent, and progressive, and in their +conversation and experiences give a vivid account of a phase of American +social life that has passed, as well as foreshadowing the active and +productive period that was to follow. Though a faithful account of an +actual journey, the book is in the form of fiction, and brings the course +of several romances to a successful end. + + +The Journals of Captains Lewis and Clark, 1804-5-6 (McClurg Library +Reprints of Americana) + +Reprinted from the Edition of 1814. With an Introduction by JAMES K. +HOSMER, LL.D., an analytical Index, and photogravure portraits and maps. +In two volumes, boxed, 1,083 pages, gilt top. $5.00 _net_. Large-paper +edition, on Brown’s hand-made paper, illustrations on Japan vellum, +limited to 150 copies, boxed. $18.00 _net_. + +“The republication of the complete narrative is both timely and +invaluable.... Dr. Hosmer is well known as an authority on Western +history; hence to see his name on the title-page is to know that the work +has been well done.”—_Portland Oregonian._ + +“The celebrated story of the expedition of Lewis and Clark has now been +put in an easily accessible form.”—_N. Y. Times Saturday Review._ + +“Of the several new editions of this valuable narrative, this is by far +the best and most complete.”—_Minneapolis Journal._ + +“We have nothing but praise for this clear and handsome reprint.”—_The +Nation._ + + +Gass’s Journal of the Lewis and Clark Expedition (McClurg Library +Reprints of Americana) + +Reprinted from the Edition of 1811. With an Introduction by DR. JAMES K. +HOSMER, an analytical Index, facsimiles of the original illustrations, +and a rare portrait of Patrick Gass. In one square octavo volume, boxed, +350 pages, gilt top. $3.50 _net_. Large-paper edition, on Brown’s +hand-made paper, illustrations on Japan paper, limited to 75 copies, +boxed. $9.00 _net_. + +The appearance of this volume in the period of Lewis and Clark +celebrations is especially pertinent, as no practical library edition has +been available of the “Journal of Patrick Gass.” His narrative was for +seven years the only source from which any authentic knowledge of the +great enterprise could be obtained. When at last the work based on the +diaries of the Captains was given to the world, the earlier book, so far +from being set aside, was found to be most important as confirming and +supplementing what had been set down by the leaders, and, in fact, has +not ceased to be held in high estimation up to the present moment. + +“Several picturesque details Dr. Hosmer mentions (in the ‘Introduction’) +which had eluded the argus eyes of Coues through a lifetime of waiting +and watching. Whatever he learns he sets forth with a vivacity which +keeps our attention expectant and appetite growing by what it feeds +on.”—_New York Evening Post._ + +“It restores Gass’s Journal to a common use. The portrait of Gass, which +serves as a frontispiece, is a distinct addition.”—_American Historical +Review._ + +“No edition of Lewis and Clark is complete unless accompanied by the +Journal of Patrick Gass. The work has been well edited, and the mechanics +are of a superior character.”—_Baltimore Sun._ + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75131 *** |