_on the affinities of leptarctus primus of leidy._ by j. l. wortman. _author's edition, extracted from_ bulletin of the american museum of natural history, vol. vi, article viii, pp. 229-231. _new york, july 30, 1894._ article viii.--on the affinities of leptarctus primus of leidy. by j. l. wortman. up to the present time but very little has been known of the existence of the peculiarly american family procyonidæ in any deposits older than the very latest quaternary. leidy has described and figured[1] an isolated last upper tooth, from the loup fork deposits of nebraska, under the name of _leptarctus primus_, which has been referred to this family. the museum expedition of last year into this region was successful in obtaining additional material, which we provisionally refer to leidy's species. =leptarctus primus= _leidy_. the specimen consists of the right ramus of the lower jaw, carrying the third and fourth premolars and the canine. the condyle is broken away, but the coronoid process and the angle are preserved. the specimen is from a young individual in which the last premolar had just cut the gum. the alveoli of all the other teeth are present and in a good state of preservation. the dental formula is as follows: i._3, c._1, pm._3, m._2. the incisors are not preserved, but their alveoli indicate that they were much crowded, the outside one being placed almost directly in front of the canine, and the middle one pushed back considerably out of position. this series is in marked contrast with that of the raccoon, in which the crowns of the incisors form almost a straight line across the jaw, and the middle one is crowded backwards to a very slight extent. the canine is peculiar and differs markedly from that of the raccoon. it is rather robust, very much recurved and grooved by a deep vertical sulcus upon its antero-internal face. this sulcus is but faintly indicated in the raccoon. the postero-external face of the crown is marked by a sharp ridge which becomes more prominent near the apex. the first premolar is not preserved, but its alveolus indicates that it was a single-rooted tooth, placed behind the canine after the intervention of a very short diastema. the second premolar is bifanged; its crown is composed of a principal cusp, to which is added behind a small though very distinct second cusp. there is in addition to these cusps a distinct basal cingulum, most prominent in the region of the heel. the third premolar, like the second, is double rooted; its crown moreover is made up of two cusps, the posterior being almost as large as the principal one. these cusps do not stand in the line of the long axis of the jaw, but are placed very obliquely to it. the heel is not very prominent, but the basal cingulum is well developed, both in front and behind. as compared with the raccoon, the second premolar is more complex in that it has two cusps instead of one. in the third premolar the posterior cusp is much better developed, and placed more obliquely than in the corresponding tooth of _procyon_; the heel is moreover not so broad. the first molar is not preserved, but judging from the size of its roots it was decidedly the longest tooth of the series. the second molar was likewise bifanged but much smaller; it was placed close against the base of the coronoid. the whole jaw has, relatively, a greater depth than that of the raccoon, and is remarkably straight upon its lower border, whereas in the recent genus it is considerably curved. the condyle is not preserved, and the angle is somewhat damaged, but it was apparently not so strongly inflected as in the raccoon. the masseteric fossa is deep and prominent, and the coronoid is high and broad. the inferior dental canal is placed higher than it is in the raccoon, being slightly above the tooth line. the symphysis is relatively deeper and more robust than in _procyon_, and the chin is heavier and more abruptly rounded. the jaw of _leptarctus_ differs from that of _cercoleptes_ in the following characters: the coronoid is broader and of less vertical extent; the condyle is not placed so high; the angle is elevated above the lower border of the ramus, which is straight and not concave as it is in _cercoleptes_. in the depth of the symphysis and abrupt rounding of the chin the two genera are similar. _cercoleptes_, moreover, has a moderately deep groove upon the antero-internal face of the canine, but differs from that of _leptarctus_ in having an external groove as well. _cercoleptes_ again resembles _leptarctus_ in having only three premolars in the lower jaw; the middle one, however, has only a single cusp upon the crown, whereas _leptarctus_ has two. as compared with _bassaricyon_,[2] the jaw is more robust, shorter and deeper, with a more prominent chin. the two genera differ again in the number of premolars. altogether, _leptarctus_ appears to offer a number of transitional characters between the more typical procyonidæ and the aberrant _cercoleptes_. this is especially to be seen in the proportions of the jaw, the reduction of the number of premolars, the reduction in size of the last molar, as well as the depth of the mandibular symphysis. footnotes: [1] extinct fauna of dakota. [2] see j. a. allen's paper, proc. phil. acad., 1876, p. 21. transcriber's note: "quartenary" was amended to "quaternary" in the first paragraph. university of kansas publications museum of natural history volume 14, no. 17, pp. 483-491, 2 figs. march 2, 1964 records of the fossil mammal sinclairella, family apatemyidae, from the chadronian and orellan by william a. clemens, jr. university of kansas lawrence 1964 university of kansas publications, museum of natural history editors: e. raymond hall, chairman, henry s. fitch, theodore h. eaton, jr. volume 14, no. 17, pp. 483-491, 2 figs. published march 2, 1964 university of kansas lawrence, kansas printed by harry (bud) timberlake, state printer topeka, kansas 1964 29-8587 records of the fossil mammal sinclairella, family apatemyidae, from the chadronian and orellan by william a. clemens, jr. introduction the family apatemyidae has a long geochronological range in north america, beginning in the torrejonian land-mammal age, but is represented by a relatively small number of fossils found at a few localities. two fossils of orellan age, found in northeastern colorado and described here, demonstrate that the geochronological range of the apatemyidae extends into the middle oligocene. isolated teeth of _sinclairella dakotensis_ jepsen, part of a sample of a chadronian local fauna collected by field parties from the webb school of california, are also described. i thank mr. raymond m. alf, webb school of california, claremont, california, and dr. peter robinson, university of colorado museum, boulder, colorado, for permitting me to describe the fossils they discovered. also dr. robinson made available the draft of a short paper he had prepared on the tooth found in weld county, colorado; his work was facilitated by a grant from the university of colorado council on research and creative work. i also gratefully acknowledge receipt of critical data and valuable comments from drs. edwin c. galbreath, glenn l. jepsen, and malcolm c. mckenna who is currently revising the paleocene apatemyids and studying the phylogenetic relationships of the family. the prefixes of catalogue numbers used in the text identify fossils in the collections of the following institutions: ku, museum of natural history, the university of kansas, lawrence; princeton, princeton museum, princeton, new jersey; ram-ucr, raymond alf museum, webb school of california, claremont, california (the permanent repository for these specimens will be the university of california, riverside); and ucm, university of colorado museum, boulder, colorado. the system of notations for teeth prescribed for use here is as follows: teeth in the upper half of the dentition are designated by a capital letter and a number; thus m2 is the notation for the upper second molar; teeth in the lower half of the dentition are designated by a lower-case letter and a number; thus p2 is the notation for the lower second premolar. family apatemyidae matthew, 1909 genus =sinclairella= jepsen, 1934 =sinclairella dakotensis= jepsen, 1934 the type of the species, princeton no. 13585, was discovered in chadronian strata of the upper part of the chadron formation cropping out in big corral draw, approximately 13 miles south-southwest of scenic, in southwestern south dakota (jepsen, 1934, p. 291). detailed descriptions of the type specimen are given in papers by jepsen (1934) and scott and jepsen (1936). isolated teeth of chadronian age referable to _sinclairella dakotensis_ have been discovered subsequently at a locality in nebraska and fossils of orellan age, also referable to _s. dakotensis_, have been collected at two localities in colorado. the sample from each locality is described separately. sioux county, northwestern nebraska _material._--ram-ucr nos. 381, left m1; 598, left m2; 1000, right m1; 1001, right m2; 1079, right m2; 1674, right m2; and 3013, left m2. _locality and stratigraphy._--these chadronian fossils were discovered by raymond alf and members of his field parties in several harvester ant mounds built in exposures of the chadron formation in sec. 26, t 33 n, r 53 w, sioux county, nebraska (alf, 1962, and hough and alf, 1958). this is ucr locality v5403. the collectors carefully considered the possibility that some of the fossils found in the ant mounds were collected from younger strata by the harvester ants and concluded this was unlikely (alf, personal communication). _description and comments._--the cusps of ram-ucr no. 381, a left m1, are sharp and the wear-facets resulting from occlusion with the lower dentition are small. the paraconule is a low, ill-defined cusp on the anterior margin of the crown; a metaconule is not present. a smooth stylar shelf is present labial to the metacone. the crown was supported by three roots. there are no interradicular crests. the crown of ram-ucr no. 1674, a right m2, is heavily abraded and many morphological details of the cusps have been destroyed. low interradicular crests linked the three roots of the tooth with a low, central prominence. as was the case with ram-ucr no. 381, no significant differences could be found in comparisons with illustrations of the teeth preserved in princeton no. 13585. ram-ucr nos. 598, 1001, 1079, and 3013 all appear to be m2's. the talonids of these teeth are not elongated, their trigonids have quadrilateral outlines, and the paraconids are small but prominent, bladelike cusps. the trigonid of ram-ucr 1000 is elongated and the paraconid is a minute cusp; the tooth closely resembles the m1 of the type of _sinclairella dakotensis_. logan county, northeastern colorado _material._--ku no. 11210 (fig. 1), a fragment of a left maxillary containing p4 and m1-2. _locality and stratigraphy._--the fossil was found in the center of the w-1/2, sec. 21, t 11 n, r 53 w, logan county, colorado, "... in the bed below _agnotocastor_ bed, cedar creek member...." (ronald h. pine, 1958, field notes on file at the university of kansas). the bed so defined is part of unit 3 in the lower division of the cedar creek member, as subdivided by galbreath (1953:25) in stratigraphic section xii. the fauna obtained from unit 3 is of orellan age. [illustration: fig. 1. _sinclairella dakotensis_ jepsen, ku no. 11210, fragment of left maxillary with p4 and m1-2; orellan, logan county, colorado; drawings by mrs. judith hood: a, labial view; b, occlusal view; both approximately × 9.] _description and comments._--p4 of ku no. 11210 has a large posterolingual cusp separated from the main cusp by a distinct groove, which deepens posteriorly. the posterolingual cusp is supported by the broad posterior root. p4 of the type specimen of _sinclairella dakotensis_ is described (jepsen, 1934, p. 392) as having an oval outline at the base of the crown, and a small, posterolingual cusp. a chip of enamel is missing from the posterior slope of the main cusp of the p4 of ku no. 11210. the anterior slope of the main cusp is flattened, possibly the result of wear, and there is no evidence of a groove like that present on the p4 of the type specimen. only a few differences were found between the molars preserved in ku no. 11210 and their counterparts in the type specimen. a stylar shelf is present labial to the metacone of m1 of ku no. 11210, but, unlike the type, its surface is smooth and there is no evidence of cusps. of the three small stylar cusps on the stylar shelf of m2 the smallest is in the position of a mesostyle. the m2 lacks a chip of enamel from the lingual surface of the hypocone. unlike the m2 of princeton no. 13585, in occlusal view the posterior margin of the m2 of ku no. 11210 is convex posterior to the metacone. the anterior edge of the base of the zygomatic arch of ku no. 11210 was dorsal to m2. the shallow oval depression in the maxillary dorsal to m1 might be the result of post-mortem distortion. the molars preserved in ku no. 11210 and their counterparts in the type specimen do not appear to be significantly different in size (table 1) or morphology of the cusps. the only difference between the two specimens that might be of classificatory significance is the difference in size of the posterolingual cusp of p4. at present the range of intraspecific variation in the morphology of p4 has not been documented for any species of apatemyid. the evolutionary trend or trends of the apatemyids (mckenna, 1960, p. 48) for progressive reduction of function of p4 probably were paralleled by similar trends in the evolution of the p4. if so, the intraspecific variation in the morphology of p4 could be expected to be somewhat greater than that of the upper molars, for example. the morphological difference between the p4's of the type of _sinclairella dakotensis_ and ku no. 11210 is not extreme and does not exceed the range of intraspecific variation that could be expected for this element of the dentition. the close resemblances in size and morphology between the m1-2 of princeton no. 13585 and ku no. 11210 also favor identification of the latter as part of a member of an orellan population of _sinclairella dakotensis_. weld county, northeastern colorado [illustration: fig. 2. _sinclairella dakotensis_ jepsen, ucm no. 21073, right m2; orellan, weld county, colorado; drawing by mrs. judith hood: occlusal view, approximately × 9.] _material._--ucm no. 20173 (fig. 2), is a right m2. _locality and stratigraphy._--the tooth was discovered at the mellinger locality, sec. 17, t 11 n, r 65 w, weld county, colorado. the mellinger locality is in the cedar creek member, white river formation, and its fauna is considered to be of orellan age (patterson and mcgrew, 1937, and galbreath, 1953). _description and comments._--ucm no. 21073, which is more heavily abraded than ku no. 11210, shows no evidence of a stylar cusp either anterolabial to the metacone or in the position of a mesostyle. a small stylar cusp is present anterolabial to the paracone. a notch that appears to have been cut through the enamel of the posterolabial corner of the crown could have received the parastylar apex of m3. a similar notch is not present on the m2 of ku no. 11210 nor indicated in the illustrations of the m2 of princeton no. 13585. the coronal dimensions of ucm no. 21073 (table 1) do not appear to differ significantly from those of the m2's of ku no. 11210 and the type specimen of _sinclairella dakotensis_. comments with the discovery of orellan apatemyids the geochronological range of the family in north america is shown to extend from the torrejonian through the orellan land-mammal ages. the discoveries reported here enlarge the oligocene record of apatemyids to include not only the type specimen of _sinclairella dakotensis_, a skull and associated mandible from south dakota, but also seven isolated teeth, representing at least two individuals, from a chadronian fossil locality in nebraska and one specimen from each of two orellan fossil localities in northeastern colorado. simpson (1944:73, and 1953:127) presented tabulations of the published records of american apatemyids and suggested the data indicated the populations of these mammals were of small size throughout the history of the family. the few pre-oligocene occurrences of apatemyids described subsequently (note mckenna, 1960, figs. 3-10, and p. 48) and occurrences described here tend to reinforce simpson's interpretation. this interpretation may have to be modified to some degree, however, when current studies of collections of pre-oligocene apatemyids are completed (mckenna, personal communication). although information concerning the evolutionary trends of american apatemyids has been published, no data on the morphological variation in a population are available in the literature. an adequate basis for evaluating the significance of the morphological differences between the p4's of princeton no. 13585 and ku no. 12110 coupled with the similarities of their m1-2's is lacking. in the evolution of american apatemyids the p4 underwent reduction in size and, apparently, curtailment of function. this history suggests the range of morphological variation of p4 in populations of _sinclairella dakotensis_ could be expected to be greater than that of the molars and encompass the morphological differences between the p4's of princeton no. 13585 and ku no. 12110. the difference in age of the chadronian and orellan fossils does not constitute proof that they pertain to different species. although the identification is admittedly provisional until more fossils including other parts of the skeleton are discovered, the orellan fossils described here are referred to _sinclairella dakotensis_. table 1.--measurements (in millimeters) of teeth of sinclairella dakotensis jepsen. ========================================================================== | p4 | m1 | m2 -----------------------+------------+------------------+----------------- |length|width|length[1]|width[1]|length[1]|width[1] -----------------------+------+-----+---------+--------+---------+-------princeton no. 13585[2] | 2.1 | 1.1 | 4.0 | 3.7 | 3.4 | 4.7 ram no. 381 | | | 4.1 | 3.5 | | ram no. 1674 | | | | | 3.4 | 4.2 ku no. 11210 | 2.4 | 1.6 | 3.9 | 3.5 | 3.8 | 4.1+ ucm no. 21073 | | | | | 3.6 | 4.1 -----------------------+------+-----+---------+--------+---------+------- | m1 | m2 +---------+--------+---------+------- | length | width | length | width +---------+--------+---------+-------princeton no. 13585[3] | 3.5 | 2.4 | 3.7 | 2.8 ram no. 1000 | 3.5 | 2.2 | | ram no. 598 | | | 3.8 | 2.6 ram no. 1001 | | | 3.6+ | 2.6 ram no. 1079 | | | 4.0 | 2.8 ram no. 3013 | | | 3.6 | 2.8 ------------------------------------+---------+--------+---------+-------[footnote 1: length defined as maximum dimension of the labial half of the crown measured parallel to a line drawn through the apices of paracone and metacone. width defined as maximum coronal dimension measured along line perpendicular to line defined by apices of paracone and metacone.] [footnote 2: dimensions provided by dr. glenn l. jepsen.] [footnote 3: dimensions taken from jepsen (1934:300).] literature cited alf, r. 1962. a new species of the rodent _pipestoneomys_ from the oligocene of nebraska. breviora, mus. comp. zool., no. 172, pp. 1-7, 3 figs. galbreath, e. c. 1953. a contribution to the tertiary geology and paleontology of northeastern colorado. univ. kansas paleont. cont., vertebrata, art. 4, pp. 1-120, 2 pls., 26 figs. hough, j., and alf, r. 1958. a chadron mammalian fauna from nebraska. journ. paleon. 30:132-140, 4 figs. jepsen, g. l. 1934. a revision of the american apatemyidae and the description of a new genus, _sinclairella_, from the white river oligocene of south dakota. proc. amer. philos. soc., 74:287-305, 3 pls., 4 figs. mckenna, m. c. 1960. fossil mammalia from the early wasatchian four mile fauna, eocene of northwest colorado. univ. california publ. in geol. sci., 37:1-130, 64 figs. matthew, w. d. 1909. the carnivora and insectivora of the bridger basin, middle eocene. mem. amer. mus. nat. hist., 9:289-567, pls. 42-52, 118 figs. patterson, b. and mcgrew, p. o. 1937. a soricid and two erinaceids from the white river oligocene. geol. ser., field mus. nat. hist., 6:245-272, figs. 60-74. scott, w. b. and jepsen, g. l. 1936. the mammalian fauna of the white river oligocene--part i. insectivora and carnivora. trans. amer. philos. soc., n. s., 28:1-153, 22 pls., 7 figs. simpson, g. g. 1944. tempo and mode in evolution. new york: columbia univ. press, xviii + 237 pp., 36 figs. 1953. the major features of evolution. new york: columbia univ. press, xx + 434 pp., 52 figs. _transmitted june 24, 1963._ university of kansas publications museum of natural history volume 7, no. 6, pp. 479-487 april 21, 1954 distribution of some nebraskan mammals by j. knox jones, jr. university of kansas lawrence 1954 university of kansas publications, museum of natural history editors: e. raymond hall, chairman, a. byron leonard, robert w. wilson volume 7, no. 6, pp. 479-487 published april 21, 1954 university of kansas lawrence, kansas printed by ferd voiland, jr., state printer topeka, kansas 1954 25-2530 distribution of some nebraskan mammals by j. knox jones, jr. because military service will interrupt my study of nebraskan mammals, i am here placing on record certain information on the geographic distribution of several species--information that is thought pertinent to current studies of some of my associates. most of this information is provided by specimens recently collected by me and other representatives of the university of kansas museum of natural history, although specimens from other collections provide some of the records herein reported. the other collections are the biological surveys collection of the united states national museum (usbs), the hastings museum (hm), the nebraska game, forestation and parks commission (ngfpc), the university of california museum of vertebrate zoology (mvz), the university of michigan museum of zoology (mz) and the university of nebraska state museum (nsm). grateful acknowledgment hereby is made to persons in charge of these several collections for lending the materials concerned. specimens mentioned in the following accounts are in the university of kansas museum of natural history, except as otherwise stated. all measurements are in millimeters. color terms are those of ridgway (1912). a part of the funds for field work was made available by the national science foundation and the kansas university endowment association. =sorex cinereus haydeni.= (baird). cinereous shrew.--two male shrews were trapped on april 7, 1952, among rocks along an old railroad fill, 4 mi. n, 1/2 mi. e of octavia, butler county, thus extending the known geographic range of _s. c. haydeni_ approximately 60 miles southward from a line connecting perch, rock county, nebraska, with wall lake, sac county, iowa (see jackson, 1928:52-53), and providing the first record of occurrence in the platte river valley. two additional specimens, taken on july 17, 1952, are from 2-1/2 mi. n of ord, valley county, along the loup river, a tributary of the platte from the north. =blarina brevicauda carolinensis= (bachman). short-tailed shrew.--j. s. findley and i, in a forthcoming paper, review the distribution of _blarina brevicauda_ in the great plains region, recording _b. b. carolinensis_ from the extreme southeastern and southwestern counties of nebraska. a series of five shrews of this species recently obtained from three miles south and two miles east of nebraska city in otoe county, average significantly smaller in both the cranial and the external measurements than typical _b. b. brevicauda_ and fall well within the range of _carolinensis_. average and extreme external measurements of the four adults from otoe county, three males and one female, are as follows: total length, 110 (109-112); length of tail-vertebrae, 24.2 (22-26); length of hind foot, 13.8 (13-14). another specimen from 3 mi. s, 1-1/2 mi. e of peru, nemaha county, also is referable to _carolinensis_. these recent records indicate that the range of _b. b. carolinensis_ extends up the missouri river valley, approximately to nebraska city, otoe county. five specimens from louisville, cass county, the next county northward, along the river, are referable to _b. b. brevicauda_. =eptesicus fuscus fuscus.= (beauvois). big brown bat.--one big brown bat was obtained on july 23, 1952, from one mile west of niobrara, knox county. while not so dark in dorsal coloration as some specimens of _e. f. fuscus_ from eastern nebraska (cass and sarpy counties), this specimen is noticeably darker than a series of _e. f. pallidus_ from ft. niobrara wildlife refuge, 4 mi. e of valentine, cherry county, being near (16" _j_) snuff brown as opposed to near (16' _i_) buckthorn brown. previous to the taking of this specimen, webb and jones (1952:277) reported as _e. f. pallidus_ a specimen, saved as a skull only, which was picked up dead at niobrara. it seems best to assign these two bats from the vicinity of niobrara, knox county, to _e. f. fuscus_. =sciurus carolinensis carolinensis= gmelin. gray squirrel.--an adult male gray squirrel shot by mr. terry a. vaughan in the heavily timbered bluffs of the missouri river, 3 mi. s, 2 mi. e of nebraska city, otoe county, on october 10, 1953, provides the only museum specimen of a gray squirrel from nebraska known to me. residents in the area concerned report small numbers of this squirrel as still occurring on the heavily wooded bluffs along the missouri river in nemaha, otoe and richardson counties, nebraska, at least as far north as nebraska city. gray squirrels from nebraska have been reported twice before in the literature as follows: "mouth of platte [river]" (baird, 1858:262) and barada, richardson county (jones and webb, 1949:312). swenk (1908:80), while listing no actual records, says of this squirrel, "common in the timber along watercourses of southeastern nebraska, but greatly outnumbered everywhere by [_sciurus niger_] _rufiventer_. i have no records west of the 97th meridian nor north of the platte." =spermophilus franklinii= (sabine). franklin ground squirrel.--a specimen from 2 mi. nw of lisco, in morrill county (nsm 3324), extends the known geographic range of _s. franklinii_ approximately 200 miles westward along the platte river valley from kearney, buffalo county (see howell, 1938:134), and suggests a westward movement of this ground squirrel along the platte river in recent years. =perognathus flavescens flavescens= merriam. plains pocket mouse.--_p. f. flavescens_ occurs in the sand hills and adjacent mixed-grass plains of central nebraska. eastern marginal records of occurrence are: neligh, antelope county, 2 (mvz 1, nsm 1); 1 mi. e of ravenna, buffalo county, 2 (mz); unspecified locality in adams county, 1 (hm). =perognathus flavescens perniger= osgood. plains pocket mouse.--this mouse occurs in northeastern nebraska. osgood (1904:127), in the original description of the subspecies, listed two specimens from verdigris [verdigre], knox county. additional records of occurrence are: beemer, cuming county, 2 (usbs); 1-1/2 mi. se of niobrara, knox county, 3; 1-1/2 mi. s of pilger, stanton county, 2. the two specimens from beemer are typical _perniger_. all of the other nebraskan specimens are intergrades between _p. f. flavescens_, geographically adjacent to the west, and _p. f. perniger_ to the east but are best referred to _perniger_ on the basis of greater total length, larger cranial measurements and darker dorsal coloration. _p. f. perniger_ was originally described (osgood, _op. cit._) on the basis of its darker dorsal coloration and encroachment of the lateral line on the posterior parts of the venter. the latter character is not present in all nebraskan specimens. mice from the two localities in knox county have buffy underparts; those from other nebraskan localities do not. of nine specimens of _p. f. perniger_ examined from elk river, sherburne county, minnesota, none has buffy underparts whereas a specimen from randolph, fremont county, iowa (nsm) does. in addition, in two of five specimens of _p. f. flavescens_ from kelso, hooker county, (mz) the lateral line encroaches on the underparts. the encroachment of the lateral line on the underparts, or failure of the line to do so, is thought to be only an individual variation and of no taxonomic use. =perognathus flavus piperi= goldman. buffy pocket mouse.--in the description of _p. f. bunkeri_, cockrum (1951:206) allocated to the new subspecies, without comment, a specimen from alliance, box butte county. i have examined this specimen along with all other nebraskan specimens known to me and, although all approach _bunkeri_ in cranial measurements, they seem best referred to _piperi_ on the basis of darker dorsal coloration and larger external measurements. additional records of occurrence, several of them marginal to the eastward, are: 10 mi. s of antioch, garden county, 1 (mz); kelso, hooker county, 4 (mz); 5 mi. n of bridgeport, morrill county, 1 (mvz); 6 mi. n of mitchell, scotts bluff county, 1 (nsm). a specimen not seen by me that was reported from valentine, cherry county (beed, 1936:21), is presumably also best referred to _p. f. piperi_. no specimens of _p. flavus_ are known to me from south of the platte river in southwestern nebraska although they probably occur there. if so, they may be referable to _p. f. bunkeri_, which is found in counties of kansas adjoining the southwestern part of nebraska. =perognathus hispidus paradoxus= merriam. hispid pocket mouse.--this subspecies occurs commonly in central-and western-nebraska. eastern marginal records of occurrence are: 2 mi. se of niobrara, knox county, 1 (ngfpc); 4 mi. e, 2 mi. s of ord, 1; bladen, webster county, 2 (hm). =perognathus hispidus spilotus= merriam. hispid pocket mouse.--jones and webb (1949:312) first reported this subspecies in nebraska as from 5 mi. se of rulo, richardson county. additional records of occurrence are: 3 mi. sw of barnston, gage county, 1 (ngfpc); bennet, 1 (nsm), 9 mi. nw of lincoln, 1 (nsm), 1-1/2 mi. s of lincoln, 1 (nsm), lancaster county; peru, nemaha county, 1 (ngfpc); 3 mi. s, 2 mi. e of nebraska city, otoe county, 3; barada, richardson county, 1 (nsm); pleasant dale, seward county, 1 (nsm); 1 mi. s of williams, thayer county, 1. glass (1947:179) referred a specimen from 9 mi. nw of lincoln, lancaster county, to _p. h. paradoxus_. in discussing the zone of intergradation between _spilotus_ and _paradoxus_, geographically adjacent to the west, he wrote (_op. cit._:178), "it is evident that it proceeds northeastwards, toward the missouri river since 2 specimens from eastern nebraska, a juvenile from webster county and an adult from lancaster county, are both typical _paradoxus_." i have examined the specimen from webster county referred to by glass and agree that it is _paradoxus_. i have not seen the specimen from 9 mi. nw of lincoln; however, another specimen from there, two others from lancaster county, and one from seward county (see above), are here referred to _p. h. spilotus_, rather than _p. h. paradoxus_, on the basis of notably darker dorsal coloration and smaller external and cranial measurements. the range of _p. h. spilotus_ in nebraska, as presently known, therefore, is limited to the eastern, more humid part of the state, south of the platte river. =peromyscus maniculatus osgoodi= mearns. deer mouse.--swenk (1908:95) reported this subspecies, under the name _peromyscus nebrascensis_, from glen, and dice (1941:17) reported the subspecies from agate, both localities being in sioux county in the northwestern part of the state. osgood (1909), however, did not mention nebraskan specimens of this subspecies and excluded it from the state on his (_op. cit._) distribution map of the subspecies of _p. maniculatus_. in addition, quay (1948:181) reports, as _p. m. nebrascensis_, deer mice obtained by him in the badlands of northern sioux county and adjacent niobrara county, wyoming. four deer mice referable to _p. m. osgoodi_ have been obtained from several localities on the pine ridge in dawes county as follows: 3 mi. e of chadron, 2; chadron state park, 1; 3 mi. sw of crawford, 1. when compared with specimens of _p. m. nebrascensis_, geographically adjacent to the east, these mice are seen to be notably darker and less buffy than _nebrascensis_ and to average significantly larger in both external and cranial measurements. all deer mice from the pine ridge and adjacent badlands of extreme northwestern nebraska probably are best referred to _p. m. osgoodi_. external measurements of two adult females are respectively: total length, 180, 175; length of tail-vertebrae, 78, 74; length of hind foot, 19, 20; length of ear, 17, 16. =neotoma floridana campestris= j. a. allen. florida wood rat.--five wood rats from 5 mi. n, 2 mi. w of parks, dundy county, in extreme southwestern nebraska, provide the first record of occurrence of this subspecies in nebraska. these animals were trapped in outlying sheds at the rock creek state fish hatchery. two large wood-rat houses were in a dense thicket of brush and young trees in a small draw on the west side of the most westwardly hatchery lake. brown rats (_rattus norvegicus_) inhabited a combination garage-storage barn at the hatchery and no wood rats were taken there. =microtus pennsylvanicus pennsylvanicus= (ord). pennsylvania meadow mouse.--this subspecies occurs in eastern and central nebraska (see bailey, 1900:18 and swenk, 1908:104). additional records of occurrence are as follows: 5 mi. e of rising city, butler county, 5; 4 mi. se of laurel, cedar county, 1; wayne, 2, and 2-1/2 mi. e of wayne, 1, wayne county; 2-1/2 mi. n of ord, valley county, 4. =synaptomys cooperi gossii= (coues). cooper lemming mouse.--fichter and hanson (1947:1-8) reported the first known occurrence of this microtine in nebraska, recording specimens from several localities in lancaster county and one from near valentine, cherry county. recent records of this mouse which help to clarify its distribution in nebraska are as follows: 4 mi. n, 1/2 mi. e of octavia, butler county, 1; 5 mi. n, 2 mi. w of parks, dundy county, 1; 1 mi. n of pleasant dale, seward county, 1. an adult female from dundy county provides the westernmost record of distribution of the species in north america. the animal was trapped on november 1, 1952, in association with _microtus pennsylvanicus modestus_ in a marshy area at the rock creek state fish hatchery on spring-fed rock creek. the pelage on the back is notably darker than in _s. c. gossii_, and resembles _s. c. paludis_ from the cimarron river drainage in meade county, kansas, but in the sum total of its characters it most closely resembles _s. c. gossii_ among named subspecies. =mustela rixosa campestris= jackson. least weasel.--the least weasel occurs in eastern and central nebraska (see swenk, 1926:313-330 and hall, 1951:192) but is known by only a single specimen from each locality of record save for the area around inland, clay county (swenk, _op. cit._). additional records of the distribution of this mustelid in nebraska are: hastings, adams county, 1 (hm); schuyler, colfax county, 1 (ngfpc); goehner, seward county, 1 (nsm); 10 mi. s of ord, valley county, 1 (ngfpc). the last mentioned specimen, a skull only, was obtained from a pellet of an unidentified raptorial bird. literature cited bailey, v. 1900. revision of american voles of the genus microtus. n. amer. fauna, 17:1-88, june 6. baird, s. f. 1858. explorations and surveys for a railroad route from the mississippi river to the pacific ocean. war department. 8 (mammals, part 1): xxxii + 757, july 14. beed, w. e. 1936. a preliminary study of the animal ecology of the niobrara game preserve. bull. conserv. dept., conserv. surv. div., univ. nebraska, 10:1-33, october. cockrum, e. l. 1951. a new pocket mouse (genus perognathus) from kansas. univ. kansas publ., mus. nat. hist., 5:203-206, december 15. dice, l. r. 1941. variation of the deer mice (_peromyscus maniculatus_) on the sand hills of nebraska and adjacent areas. contrib. univ. michigan lab. vert. genetics, 15:1-19, july. fichter, e. h., and m. f. hanson. 1947. the goss lemming mouse, _synaptomys cooperi gossii_ (coues), in nebraska. bull. univ. nebraska state mus., 3:1-8, september. glass, b. p. 1947. geographic variation in perognathus hispidus. jour. mamm., 28:174-179, june 1. hall, e. r. 1951. american weasels. univ. kansas publ., mus. nat. hist., 4:1-466, december 27. howell, a. h. 1938. revision of north american ground squirrels with a classification of the north american sciuridae. n. amer. fauna, 56:1-256, may 18. jackson, h. h. t. 1928. a taxonomic review of the american long-tailed shrews. n. amer. fauna, 51:vi + 228, july 24. jones, j. k. jr., and o. l. webb. 1949. notes on mammals from richardson county, nebraska. jour. mamm., 30:312-313, august 17. osgood, w. h. 1904. two new pocket mice of the genus _perognathus_. proc. biol. soc. washington, 17:127-128, june 9. 1909. revision of the mice of the american genus peromyscus. n. amer. fauna, 28:1-285, april 17. quay, w. b. 1948. notes on some bats from nebraska and wyoming. jour. mamm., 29:181-182, may 14. ridgway, r. 1912. color standards and color nomenclature. washington, d. c. privately printed, iv + 44, 53 pls. swenk, m. h. 1908. a preliminary review of the mammals of nebraska. proc. nebraska acad. sci., 8:61-144. 1926. notes on mustek campestris jackson, and on the american forms of least weasels. jour. mamm., 7:313-330, november 23. webb, o. l., and j. k. jones, jr. 1952. an annotated checklist of nebraskan bats. univ. kansas publ., mus. nat. hist., 5:269-279, may 31. _transmitted january 11, 1954._ 25-2530 * * * * * transcriber's notes: bold text is shown within =equal signs=. italicized text is shown within _underscores_. in the early days along the overland trail in nebraska territory, in 1852. by gilbert l. cole, 1905. compiled by mrs. a. hardy. press of franklin hudson publishing company, kansas city, mo. [illustration: gilbert l. cole.] copyright, 1905, by gilbert l. cole, beatrice, neb. testimonials. a true story plainly told, of immense historical value and fascinating interest from beginning to end. dr. geo. w. crofts, beatrice, nebraska. i have read every word of "in the early days," written by mr. gilbert l. cole, with great interest and profit. the language is well chosen, the word-pictures are vivid, and the subject-matter is of historic value. the story is fascinating in the extreme, and i only wished it were longer. the story should be printed and distributed for the people in general to read. july 27, 1905. c. a. fulmer, _superintendent of public schools_, beatrice, neb. at a single sitting, with intense interest, i have read the manuscript of "in the early days." it is a very entertaining narrative of adventure, a vivid portrayal of conditions and an instructive history of events as they came into the personal experience and under the observation of the writer fifty-three years ago. an exceedingly valuable contribution to the too meager literature of a time so near in years, but so distant in conditions as to make the truth about it seem stranger than fiction. rev. n. a. martin, _pastor, centenary m. e. church_, beatrice, neb. nebraska state historical society. lincoln, nebraska, july 28, 1905. _to whom it may concern_: the manuscript account of the overland trip by mr. gilbert l. cole of beatrice, nebraska, in my opinion is a very carefully written story of great interest to the whole public, and particularly to nebraskans. it reads like a novel, and the succession of adventures holds the interest of the reader to the end. the records of trips across the nebraska territory as early as this one are very incomplete, and mr. cole has done a real public service in putting into print so complete a record of these experiences. i predict that it will find a wide circulation among lovers of travel and of nebraska history. very sincerely, jay amos barrett, _curator and librarian nebraska state historical society_, author of "nebraska and the nation"; "civil government of nebraska." executive chamber, lincoln, nebraska, july 28, 1905. _to whom it may concern_: it gives me great pleasure to say that the publication, "in the early days," written by mr. gilbert l. cole, of beatrice, nebraska, is a very interesting and profitable work to read. it bears upon many subjects of great historical value and no doubt will prove a very interesting book to all who read it and i take pleasure in recommending the same. very respectfully, john h. mickey, _governor_. _to whom it may concern_: it is with pleasure i write a few words of commendation for the book written by mr. gilbert l. cole, of beatrice, nebraska, entitled "in the early days." it is well prepared and full of interest from beginning to the end. it is of great value to every nebraskan. _july 28, 1905._ d. l. thomas, _pastor grace m. e. church_, lincoln, neb. an interesting, thrilling and delightful bit of prairie history hitherto unwritten and unsung, which most opportunely and completely supplies a missing link in the stories of the great westland. mrs. a. hardy, _president beatrice woman's club_, beatrice, neb. beatrice, neb., july 30, 1905. i have just read "in the early days," by col. g. l. cole, and i find it an interesting and instructive narrative, clothed in good diction and pleasing style. few of the argonauts took time or trouble to make note of the events of their journey and our california gold episode is remarkably barren of literature, a fact which makes col. cole's book doubly interesting and valuable. m. t. cummings contents. chapter i.--setting up altars of remembrance, 13 chapter ii.--"god could not be everywhere, and so he made mothers," 23 chapter iii.--"but somewhere the master has a counterpart of each," 32 chapter iv.--our prairies are a book whose pages hold many stories, 41 chapter v.--a worthy object reached for and missed is a first step toward success, 51 chapter vi.--"'tis only a snowbank's tears, i ween," 58 chapter vii.--we stepped over the ridge and courted the favor of new and untried waters, 67 chapter viii.--we had no flag to unfurl, but its sentiment was within us, 77 chapter ix.--we listened to each other's rehearsals, and became mutual sympathizers and encouragers, 87 chapter x.--boots and saddles call, 98 chapter xi.--"but all comes right in the end," 108 chapter xii.--each day makes its own paragraphs and punctuation marks, 123 introductory. if one is necessary, the only apology i can offer for presenting this little volume to the public is that it may serve to record for time to come some of the adventures of that long and wearisome journey, together with my impressions of the beautiful plains, mountains and rivers of the great and then comparatively unknown territory of nebraska. they were presented to me fresh from the hand of nature, in all their beauty and glory. and by reference to the daily journal i kept along the trail, the impressions made upon my mind have remained through these long years, bright and clear. the author. in the early days along the overland trail in nebraska territory, in 1852. chapter i. setting up altars of remembrance. it has been said that once upon a time heaven placed a kiss upon the lips of earth and therefrom sprang the fair state of nebraska. it was while the prairies were still dimpling under this first kiss that the events related in this little volume became part and parcel of my life and experience, as gathered from a trip made across the continent in the morning glow of a territory now occupying high and honorable position in the calendar of states and nations. on the 16th day of march, 1852, a caravan consisting of twenty-four men, one woman (our captain, w. w. wadsworth being accompanied by his wife), forty-four head of horses and mules and eight wagons, gathered itself together from the little city of monroe, michigan, and adjacent country, and, setting its face toward the western horizon, started for the newly found gold fields of california, where it expected to unloose from the storage quarters of nature sufficient of shining wealth to insure peace and plenty to twenty-five life-times and their dependencies. as is usual upon such occasions, this march morning departure from home and friends was a strange commingling of sadness and gladness, of hope and fear, for in those days whoever went into the regions beyond the missouri river were considered as already lost to the world. it was going into the dark unknown and untried places of earth whose farewells always surrounded those who remained at home with an atmosphere of foreboding. nothing of importance occurred during our travel through the states, except the general bad roads, which caused us to make slow progress. crossing the mississippi river at warsaw, illinois, we kept along the northern tier of counties in missouri, which were heavily timbered and sparsely settled. bearing south-west, we arrived at st. joseph, missouri, on the first day of may. the town was a collection of one-story, cheap, wooden buildings, located along the river and black snake hollow. the inhabitants appeared to be chiefly french and half-breed indians. the principal business was selling outfits to immigrants and trading horses, mules and cattle. there was one steam ferry-boat, which had several days crossing registered ahead. the level land below the town was the camping-place of our colony. after two or three days at this point, we drove up to the town of savannah, where we laid in new supplies and passed on to the missouri river, where we crossed by hand-ferry at savannah landing, now called amazonia. here we pressed for the first time the soil of the then unsettled plains of the great west. working our way through the heavily timbered bottom, we camped under the bluffs, wet and weary. we remained here over sunday, it having been decided to observe the sabbath days as a time of rest. we usually rested wednesday afternoons also. just after crossing the river, we had a number of set-backs; beginning with the crippling of a wheel while passing through a growth of timber. as we examined the broken spokes, we realized that they would soon have to be replaced by new ones, and that the wise thing to do was to provide for them while in the region of timber; so we stopped, cut jack-oak, made it into lengths and stored them in the wagon until time and place were more opportune for wheel-wrighting. this broken wheel proved to be a hoodoo, as will appear at intervals during the story of the next few weeks. in attempting to cross the slough which lies near to and parallel with the river for a long distance, my team and wagon, leading the others, no sooner got fairly on to the slough, which was crusted over, than the wagon sank in clear to its bed, and the horses sank until they were resting on their bellies as completely as though they were entirely without legs. and there we were, the longed-for bluffs just before us, and yet as unapproachable as if they were located in ireland. a party of campers, numbering some fifty or seventy-five, who were resting near by, came to our relief. the horses were extricated, and, after we had carried the contents of the wagon to the bluff shore, they drew the wagon out with cow-teams, whose flat, broad hoofs kept them from sinking. cow-teams were used quite extensively in those days, being very docile and also swift walkers. here under the bluffs over-hanging the missouri, we completed our organization, for it was not only necessary that every man go armed, but also each man knew his special duty and place. w. w. wadsworth, a brave and noble man, was by common consent made captain. four men were detailed each night to stand guard, two till 1 o'clock, when they were relieved by two others, who served till daylight. monday morning came, and at sunrise we started on the trail that led up the hollow and on to the great plains of kansas and nebraska. the day was warm and bright and clear. the sight before us was the most beautiful i had ever seen. not a tree nor an obstacle was in sight; only the great rolling sea of brightest green beneath us and the vivid blue above. i think it must have been just such a scene as this that inspired a modern writer to pen those expressive and much admired lines: "i'm glad the sky is painted blue and the grass is painted green, and a lot of nice fresh air all sandwiched in between." sky, air, grass; what an abundance of them! in all the pristine splendor of fifty-three years ago, was ours upon that spring morning. this, then, was the land which in later years was called the "great american desert." i have now lived in nebraska for a quarter of a century and know whereof i speak when i say that in those days the grass was as green and luxuriant as it is today; the rivers were fringed with willow green as they are today; the prairie roses, like pink stars, dotted the trail sides through which we passed; and, later on, clumps of golden-rod smiled upon us with their sun-hued faces; the rains fell as they have been falling all these years, and several kinds of birds sang their praises of it all. this was "the barren, sandy desert," as i saw it more than half a hundred years ago. perhaps right here it will be well to ask the reader to bear in mind the fact that the boundary lines of nebraska in 1852, were different from the boundary lines of today. they extended many miles farther south, and so many miles farther west, that we stepped out of nebraska on to the summit of the sierra nevada mountains into california. it was at this stage of our journey, that, in going out, very early in the morning to catch my horse, i noticed ahead of me something sticking up above the grass. stepping aside to see what it might be, i found a new-made grave; just a tiny grave; at its head was the object i had seen--a bit of board bearing the inscription, "our only child, little mary." how my heart saddened as i looked upon it! the tiny mound seemed bulging with buried hopes and happiness as the first rays of a new sun fell across it, for well i knew that somewhere on the trail ahead of us there were empty arms, aching hearts, and bitter longings for the baby who was sleeping so quietly upon the bosom of the prairie. the first indians we saw were at wolf creek, where they had made a bridge of logs and brush, and charged us fifty cents per wagon to pass over it. we paid it and drove on, coming northwest to the vicinity of the big blue river, at a point near where barneston, gage county, is now located. as a couple of horsemen, a comrade and myself, riding in advance, came suddenly to the big blue, where, on the opposite bank stood a party of thirty or forty indians. we fell back, and when the train came up a detail was made of eight men to drive the teams and the other sixteen were to wade the river, rifles in hand. in making preparations to ford the river, captain wadsworth, as a precaution of safety, placed his wife in the bottom of their wagon-bed, and piled sacks of flour around her as a protection in case of a fight. being one of the skirmish line, i remember how cold and blue the water was, and that it was so deep as to come into our vest pockets. we walked up to the indians and said "how," and gave some presents of copper cents and tobacco. we soon saw that they were merely looking on to see us ford the stream. they were pawnees, and were gaily dressed and armed with bows and arrows. we passed several pipes among them, and, seeing that they were quiet, the train was signalled, and all came through the ford without any mishap, excepting, that the water came up from four to six inches in the wagon-bed, making the ride extremely hazardous and uncomfortable for mrs. wadsworth, who was necessarily drawn through the water in an alarming and nerve-trying manner. but she was one of the bravest of women, and in this instance, as in many others of danger and fatigue before we reached our journey's end, she displayed such courage and good temper, as to win the admiration of all the company. the sacks of flour and other contents of the wagons were pretty badly wet, and, after we were again on the open prairie, we bade the indians good-bye, and all hands proceeded to dismount the wagons, and spread their contents on the grass to dry. an "altar of remembrance," is sure to be established at each of these halting places along life's trail. a company of kin-folk and neighbor-folk hitting the trail simultaneously, having a common goal and actuated by common interests, are drawn wonderfully close together by the varied incidents and conditions of the march, and, at the spots thus made sacred, memory never fails to halt, as in later life it makes its rounds up and down the years. not fewer in number than the stars, which hang above them at night, are the altars of remembrance, which will forever mark the line of immigration and civilization from east to west across our prairie country. chapter ii. "god could not be everywhere and so he made mothers." we now moved on in the direction of diller and endicott, where we joined the main line of immigration coming through from st. joe, and, crossing the big blue where marysville, kansas, is located, we were soon coming up the little blue, passing up on the east side, and about one-half mile this side of fairbury. our trail now lay along the uplands through the day, where we could see the long line of covered wagons, sometimes two or three abreast, drawing itself in its windings like a huge white snake across this great sea of rolling green. this line could be seen many miles to the front and rear so far that the major portion of it seemed to the observer to be motionless. this immense concourse of travellers was self-divided into trail families or travelling neighborhoods, as it were; and while each party was bound together by local ties of friendship and affection, there still ran through the entire procession a chord of common interest and sympathy, a something which, in a sense, made the whole line kin. this fact was most touchingly exemplified one day in the region of the blue. i was driving across a bad slough, close behind a man who belonged to another party, from where i did not know. himself, wife and little daughter lived in the covered wagon he was driving. the piece of ground was an unusually bad one, and both his wagon and mine being heavily loaded, we stopped as soon as we had pulled through, in order that the horses might rest; our wagons standing abreast and about ten or twelve feet apart. in the side of his wagon cover next to me was a flap-door, which, the day being fine, was fastened open. as we sat our loads and exchanged remarks, his little girl, a beautiful child, apparently three or four years old, came from the recesses of the wagon-home, and standing in the opening of the door, looked coyly and smilingly out at her father and myself. she made a beautiful picture, with her curls and dimples, and, as i didn't know any baby talk at that time, i playfully snapped my fingers at her. the thought of moving on evidently came to the father very suddenly, for, without any preliminary symptoms and not realizing that the little one was standing so nearly out of the door, he swung his long whip, and, as it cracked over the horses' backs, they gave a sudden lurch, throwing the little girl out of the door and directly in front of the hind wheel of the heavily laden wagon, which, in an instant had passed over the child's body at the waist line, the pretty head and hands reaching up on one side of the wheel, and the feet on the other, as the middle was pressed down into the still boggy soil. the little life was snuffed out in the twinkling of an eye. the mother, seeing her darling fall, jumped from the door, and such excruciating sobs of agony i hope never to hear again. but why say it in that way when i can hear them still, even as i write? it seemed but a moment of time till men and women were gathered about the wagon, helping to gather the crushed form from the prairie, and giving assistance and sympathy in such measure and earnestness as verified the truth of the words, "a touch of sorrow makes the whole world kin." when started again, the trail soon led to a stream, called the big sandy; i believe it is in the northwest part of fillmore county, where, about nine o'clock, a. m., we were suddenly alarmed by the unearthly whoops and yells of one hundred or more indians (pawnees), all mounted and riding up and down across the trail on the open upland opposite us, about a good rifle shot distant. our company was the only people there. a courier was immediately sent back for reinforcements. we hastily put our camp in position of defense (as we had been drilled) by placing our wagons in a circle with our stock and ourselves inside. the indians constantly kept up their noise, and rode up and down, brandishing their arms at us, and every minute we thought they would make a break for us. we soon had recruits mounted and well armed coming up, when our captain assumed command, and all were assigned to their positions. this was kept up until about four p. m., when we decided that our numbers would warrant us in making a forward movement. as a preliminary, skirmishers were ordered forward toward the creek, through some timber and underbrush, i being one of them. my pardner and i, coming to the creek first, discovered an empty whiskey barrel, and going a little farther into the brush, discovered two tents. creeping carefully up to them, we heard groans as of some one in great pain. peeping through a hole in the tent we saw two white men, who, on entering the tent, we learned were badly wounded by knife and bullet. from them we learned the following facts, which caused all our fear and trouble of the morning: the two white men were post-keepers at that point, and, of course, had whiskey to sell. two large trains had camped there the night before; the campers got on a drunk, quarreled, and had a general fight, during which the post-keepers were wounded. on the trail over where the indians were, some immigrants were camped, and a guard had been placed at the roadside. one of the indians, hearing the noise down at the post, started out to see what was going on. coming along the trail, the guard called to him to halt, but as he did not do so the guard fired, killing him on the spot. the campers immediately hitched up and moved on. later the dead indian was found by the other indians lying in the road. it was this that aroused their anger and kept us on the ragged edge for several hours. the indians all rode off as we approached them, and as the trail was now clear our train moved ahead, travelling all night and keeping out all the mounted ones as front and rear guards. we now come to the "last leaving of the little blue," and pass on to the upland without wood or water, thirty-three miles east of ft. kearney, leading to the great platte valley. meanwhile my broken wheel had completely collapsed. having a kit of tools with me, i set about shaping spokes out of the oak wood gathered several days before. while i was doing this others of the men rode a number of miles in search of fuel with which to make a fire to set the tire. it was nearly night and in a drizzling rain when we came to the line of the reservation. a trooper, sitting on his horse, informed us that we would have to keep off of the reservation or else go clear through if once we started. this meant three or four miles' further ride through the darkness and rain, and so we camped right there, without supper or even fire to make some coffee. we hitched up in the morning and drove into the fort, where we were very kindly treated by the commanding officer, whose name, i think, was mcarthur. he tendered us a large room with tables, pen and ink, paper and "envelope paper," where we wrote the first letters home from nebraska, which, i believe, were all received with much joy. the greater part of the troops were absent from the fort on a scout. after buying a few things we had forgotten to bring with us and getting rested, we moved on our journey again, going up on the south side of the platte river. before leaving this region i want to speak of the marvelous beauty of the platte river islands, a magnificent view of which could be had from the bluffs. looking out upon the long stretch of river either way were islands and islands of every size whatever, from three feet in diameter to those which contained miles of area, resting here and there in the most artistic disregard of position and relation to each other, the small and the great alike wearing its own mantle of sheerest willow-green. there are comparatively few of these island beauty spots in the whole wide world. when the maker of the universe gathered up his emeralds and then dropped them with careless hand upon a few of earth's waters. he wrought nowhere a more beautiful effect than in the platte islands of nebraska. it was well that at this point we had an extra amount of kindness tendered us and so much unusual beauty to look upon, for a great sorrow was about to come upon us. just as we were leaving the little blue, thirty-three miles back, one of our party, robert nelson, became ill, and in spite of the best nursing and treatment that the company could give he rapidly grew worse, and it soon became evident that his disease was cholera, which was already quite prevalent thereabout. mrs. wadsworth, that most excellent woman, gave to him her special care, taking him into the tent occupied by herself and husband, which, in fact, was the only tent in the outfit. it was lew wallace who once said that "god couldn't be everywhere, and so he made mothers." our captain's wife was a true mother to the sick boy, but she couldn't save him. at 3 o'clock sunday afternoon, may 27th, about sixty miles beyond kearney, his soul passed on, and we were bowed under our first bereavement. we dug his grave in the sand a little way off the trail. we wrapped his blanket about him and sewed it, and at sunrise monday morning laid him to rest. the end-gate from my wagon had been shaped into a grave-board and, with his name cut upon it, was planted to mark his resting-place. it was a sorrowful little company that performed these last services for one who was beloved by all. just before dying, robert had requested that his grave might be covered with willow branches, and so a comrade and myself rode our horses out to one of the islands and brought in big bunches of willows and tucked them about him, as he had desired. truly our prairies have been a stage upon which much more of tragedy than of comedy has been enacted. chapter iii. "but somewhere the master has a counterpart of each." "o lord almighty, aid thou me to see my way more clear. i find it hard to tell right from wrong, and i find myself beset with tangled wires. o god, i feel that i am ignorant, and fall into many devices. these are strange paths wherein thou hast set my feet, but i feel that through thy help and through great anguish, i am learning." this modern prayer, as prayed by the hero of a modern tale, would have fitted most completely into the spirit and conditions prevailing in our camp on a certain morning in early june, 1852, as we were completing arrangements preparatory to the extremely dangerous crossing of the platte river, owing to its treacherous quicksand bottom. despite the old proverb, "never cross a bridge till you get to it," we had, because of the very absence of a bridge, been running ahead of ourselves during the entire trip, to make the dreaded crossing over this deceptive and gormandizing stream. we had now caught up with our imaginings and found them to be realities. there was not much joshing among the boys that morning as we made the rounds of the horses and wagons and saw that every buckle and strap and gear was in the best possible condition, for to halt in the stream to adjust a mishap would mean death. "once started, never stop," was the ominous admonition of the hour. about 9 o'clock, all things being in readiness, two of us were sent out to wade across the river and mark the route by sticking in the sand long willow branches, with which we were laden for that purpose. the route staked, we returned and the train lined up. it need not require any great feat of imagination on the part of the reader to hear how dirge-like the first hoofs and wheels sounded as they parted the waters and led the way. every man except the drivers waded alongside the horses to render assistance if it should be required. mrs. wadsworth was remarkably brave, sitting her wagon with white, but calm face. scarcely a word was spoken during the entire crossing, which occupied about twenty-five minutes. we passed on the way the remains of two or three wagons standing on end and nearly buried in the sand. they were grewsome reminders of what had been, as well as of what might be. but without a halt or break, we drove clear through and on to dry land. to say that we all felt happy at seeing the crossing behind us does not half express our feelings. the nervous strain had been terrible, and at no time in our journey had we been so nearly taxed to the utmost. one man dug out a demijohn of brandy from his traps and treated all hands, remarking, "that the success of that undertaking merits something extraordinary." the crossing was made at the south fork of the platte, immediately where it flows into the main river. what is now known as north platte and south platte was then known as north fork and south fork of platte river. it was at the south fork and just before we crossed that i shot and killed my first buffalo. it was also very early in the morning, and while i was still on guard duty. a bunch of five of them came down to the river to drink, buffalo being as plentiful in that region, and time, as domestic cattle are here today. my first shot only wounded the creature, who led me quite a lively chase before i succeeded in killing him. we soon had his hide off, and an abundance of luscious, juicy steak for breakfast. i remember that we sent some to another company that was camping not far distant. this was our first and last fresh meat for many a day. a few days after this an incident occurred in camp that bordered on the tragic, but finally ended in good feeling. my guard mate, named charley stewart, and myself were the two youngest in the company, and, being guards together, were great friends. he was a native of cincinnati, well educated, and had a fund of stories and recitations that he used to get off when we were on guard together. this night we were camped on the side of some little hills near some ravines. the moon was shining, but there were dark clouds occasionally passing, so that at times it was quite dark. it was near midnight and we would be relieved in an hour. we had been the "grand rounds" out among the stock, and came to the nearest wagon which was facing the animals that were picketed out on the slope. stewart was armed with a "colt's army," while i had a double-barreled shot-gun, loaded with buckshot. i was sitting on the double-tree, on the right side of the tongue, which was propped up with the neck-yoke. stewart sat on the tongue, about an arm's length ahead of me, i holding my gun between my knees, with the butt on the ground. stewart was getting off one of his stories, and, had about reached the climax, when i saw something running low to the ground, in among the stock. thinking it was an indian, on all fours, to stampede the animals, i instantly leveled my gun, and, as i was following it to an opening in the herd, my gun came in contact with stewart's face at the moment of discharge, stewart falling backward, hanging to the wagon-tongue by his legs and feet. my first thought was that i had killed him. he recovered in a moment, and began cursing and calling me vile names; accusing me of attempting to murder him, etc. during these moments, in his frenzy, he was trying to get his revolver out from under him, swearing he would kill me. taking in the situation, i dropped my gun, jumped over the wagon tongue, as he was getting on to his feet, and engaged in what proved to be a desperate fight for the revolver. we were both sometimes struggling on the ground, then again on our knees, he repeatedly striking me in the face and elsewhere, still accusing me of trying to murder him. as i had no chance to explain things, the struggle went on. finally i threw him, and held him down until he was too much exhausted to continue the fight any longer, and, having wrested the revolver from him, i helped him to his feet. in trying to pacify him, i led him out to where the object ran that i had fired at, and there lay the dead body of a large gray wolf, with several buckshot holes in his side. stewart was speechless. looking at the wolf, and then at me, he suddenly realized his mistake, and repeatedly begged my pardon. we agreed never to mention the affair to any one in the company. taking the wolf by the ears, we dragged him back to the wagon, where i picked up my gun, and gave stewart his revolver. i have often thought what would have been the consequence of that shot, had i not killed the wolf. along in this vicinity, the bluff comes down to the river, and, consequently, we had to take to the hills, which were mostly deep sand, making heavy hauling. this trail brought us into ash hollow, a few miles from its mouth. coming down to where it opened out on the platte, about noon, we turned out for lunch. here was a party of sioux indians, camped in tents made of buffalo skins. they were friendly, as all of that tribe were that summer. this is the place where general kearney, several years later, had a terrific battle with the same tribe, which was then on the war-path along this valley. my hoodoo wheel had recently been giving me trouble. the spokes that i made of green oak, having become dry and wobbly, i had been on the outlook for a cast-off wheel, that i might appropriate the spokes. hence it was, that, after luncheon i took my rifle, and started out across the bottom, where, within a few rods of the river, and about a half a mile off the road which turned close along the bluff, i came upon an old broken-down wagon, almost hidden in the grass. taking the measure of the spokes, i found to my great joy, that they were just the right size and length. looking around, i saw the train moving on, at a good pace, almost three-quarters of a mile away. i was delayed some time in getting the wheel off the axle-tree. succeeding at last, i fired my rifle toward the train, but no one looked around, all evidently supposing that i was on ahead. it was an awful hot afternoon, and i was getting warmed up myself. i reloaded my rifle, looked at the receding train, and made up my mind to have that wheel if it took the balance of the day to get it into camp. i started by rolling it by hand, then by dragging it behind me, then i ran my rifle through the hub and got it up on my shoulder, when i moved off at a good pace. the sun shining hot, soon began to melt the tar in the hub, which began running down my back, both on the inside and outside of my clothes, as well as down along my rifle. i finally got back to the road, very tired, stopping to rest, hoping a wagon would come along to help me out, but not one came in sight that afternoon. in short, i rolled, dragged and carried that wheel; my neck, shoulders and back daubed over with tar, until the train turned out to camp, when, i being missed, was discovered away back in the road with my wheel. when relief came to me, i was nearly tired out with my exertions, and want of water to drink. some of the men set to work taking the wheel apart and fitting the spokes and getting the wheel ready to set the tire. others had collected a couple of gunny-sacks full of the only fuel of the platte valley, viz., "buffalo-chips," and they soon had the job completed. the boys nearly wore themselves out, laughing and jeering at me, saying they were sorry they had no feathers to go with the tar, and calling me a variety of choice pet names. the wheel, when finished and adjusted, proved to be the best part of the wagon, and, better than all else, had provided a season of mirth to the whole company, which, considering the all too serious environments of our march, was really a much needed tonic and diversion. we learned so many wonderful lessons in those days, lessons that have never been made into books. we learned from nature; we learned from animal nature; we learned from human nature; and where are they who studied from the same page as did i? so often and so completely have the slides been changed, that among all the faces now shown by life's stereopticon, mine alone remains of the original twenty-five, of the trail of '52. but somewhere the master has a counterpart of each. chapter iv. our prairies are a book, whose pages hold many stories. we have just been passing through an extremely interesting portion of nebraska, a portion which today is known as western nebraska, where those wonderful formations, scott's bluff, courthouse rock and chimney rock, are standing now, even as they did in the early '50's. courthouse rock a little way off really looked a credit to its name. it was a huge affair, and, in its ragged, irregular outline, seemed to impart to the traveller a sense of protection and fair dealing. scott's bluff was an immense formation, and sometime during its history nature's forces had cleft it in two parts, making an avenue through its center at least one hundred feet wide, through which we all passed, as the trail led through instead of around the bluff. chimney rock in outline resembled an immense funnel. the whole thing was at least two hundred feet in height, the chimney part, starting about midway, was about fifty feet square; its top sloped off like the roof of a shanty. beginning at the top, the chimney was split down about one quarter of its length. on the perpendicular part of this rock a good many names had been cut by men who had scaled the base, and, reaching as far on to the chimney as they could, cut their names into its surface. so clear was the atmosphere that when several miles distant we could see the rock and men who looked like ants as they crept and crawled up its sides. as one stops to decipher the inscriptions upon this boulder the sense of distance is entirely lost, and the traveller finds himself trying to compare it with that other obelisk in central park, new york. as he thinks about them, the truth comes gradually to him that there can be no comparison, since the one is a masterpiece from the hand of nature and the other is but a work of art. these formations are not really rock, but of a hard marle substance, and while each is far remote from the others, the same colored strata is seen in all of them, showing conclusively that once upon a time the surface of the ground in that region was many feet higher than it was in 1852 or than it is today, and that by erosion or upheaval large portions of the soil were displaced and carried away, these three chunks remaining intact and as specimens of conditions existing many centuries ago. i have been through the art galleries of our own country and through many of those in europe; i have seen much of the natural scenery in the old world as well as in the new; but not once have i seen anything which surpassed in loveliness and grandeur the pictures which may be seen throughout nature's gallery in nebraska and through which the trail of '52 led us. landscapes, waterscapes, rocks, and skies and atmosphere were here found in the perfection of light, shadow, perspective, color, and effect. added to these fixed features were those of life and animation, contributed by herds of buffalo grazing on the plains, here and there a bunch of antelope galloping about, and everywhere wolf, coyote, and prairie dog, while a quaint and picturesque charm came from the far-reaching line of covered wagons and the many groups of campers, each with its own curl of ascending smoke, which, to the immigrant, always indicated that upon that particular patch of ground, for that particular time, a home had been established. in this connection i find myself thinking about the various modes of travel resorted to in those primitive days, when roads and bridges as we have them today were still far in the future. the wagons were generally drawn by cattle teams, from two to five yokes to the wagon. the number of wagons would be all the way from one to one hundred. the larger trains were difficult to pass, as they took up the road for so long a distance that sometimes we would move on in the night in order to get past them. among the smaller teams we would frequently notice that one yoke would be of cows, some of them giving milk right along. the cattle teams as a rule started out earlier in the morning and drove later at night than did the horse and mule teams; hence, we would sometimes see a certain train for two or three days before we would have an opportunity to get ahead of them. this was the cause of frequent quarrels among drivers of both cattle and horse teams; the former being largely in the majority and having the road, many of them seemed to take delight in keeping the horse teams out of the road and crowding them into narrow places. these little pleasantries were indulged in generally by people from missouri, as many of them seemed to think their state covered the entire distance to california. as to classes and conditions constituting the immigration, they might be divided up somewhat as follows: there were the proprietors or partners, owners of the teams and outfits; then there were men going along with them who had bargained with the owners before leaving home, some for a certain amount paid down, some to work for a certain time or to pay a certain amount at the journey's end. this was to pay for their grub and use of tents and wagons. these men were also to help drive and care for the stock, doing their share of camp and guard duty. there were others travelling with a single pack animal, loaded with their outfits and provisions. these men always travelled on foot. then there were some with hand-carts, others with wheelbarrows, trudging along and making good time. occasionally we would see a man with a pack like a knapsack on his back and a canteen strapped on to him and a long cane in either hand. these men would just walk away from everybody. a couple of incidents along here will serve to show how these conditions sometimes worked. we were turned into camp one evening, and as we were getting supper there came along a man pushing a light handcart, loaded with traps and provisions, and asked permission to camp with us, which was readily granted. he was a stout, hearty, good-natured fellow, possessed of a rich irish accent, and in the best of humor commenced to prepare his supper. just about this time there came into camp another lone man, leading a diminutive donkey, not much larger than a good-sized sheep. the donkey, on halting, gave us a salute that simply silenced the ordinary mule. the two men got acquainted immediately, and by the time their supper was over they had struck a bargain to put their effects together by way of hitching the donkey to the cart, and so move on together. they made a collar for the donkey out of gunny-sack, and we gave them some rope for traces. then, taking off the hand-bar of the cart, they put the donkey into the shafts and tried things on by leading it around through the camp till it was time to turn in. everything went first-rate, and they were so happy over their transportation prospects that they scarcely slept during the whole night. in the morning they were up bright and early, one making the coffee and the other oiling the iron axle-trees and packing the cart. starting out quite early, they bade us goodby with hearty cheer, saying they would let the folks in california know that we were coming, etc. about 10 o'clock we came to a little narrow creek, the bottom being miry and several feet below the surface of the ground. there upon the bank stood the two friends who had so joyously bidden us goodby only a few hours before. the cart was a wreck, with one shaft and one spindle broken. it appeared that the donkey had got mired in crossing the creek and in floundering about had twisted off the shaft and broken one of the wheels. we left them there bewailing their misfortune and blaming each other for the carelessness which worked the mishap. we never saw them again. this incident is an illustration of those cases where a man obtained his passage by contributing something to the outfit and working his way through. there were quite a number of this class, they having no property rights in the train. at the usual time we turned in for dinner near by a camp of two or three wagons. on the side of one wagon was a doctor's sign, who, we afterwards learned, was the proprietor of the train. as we were quietly eating and resting we suddenly heard some one cursing and yelling in the other camp, and saw two men, one the hired man and the other the doctor, the latter being armed with a neck-yoke and chasing the hired man around the wagon, and both running as fast as they could. they had made several circuits, the doctor striking at the man with all his might at each turn, when some of us went over to try to stop the fight. just at this point, the hired man, as he turned the rear of the wagon, whipped out an allen revolver and turning shot the doctor in the mouth, the charge coming out nearly under the ear. the doctor and the neckyoke struck the ground about the same time. his eyes were blinded by powder and he had the appearance of being dangerously if not fatally wounded. everybody was more or less excited except the hired man. from expressions all around in both trains, the hired man seemed to have the most friends. there were many instances of this kind, though none quite so tragic, the quarrels usually arising from the owner of the wagons constantly brow-beating and finding fault with the hired man. again i saw an instance where two men were equal partners all around, in four horses, harness and wagon. they seemed to have quarreled so much that they agreed to divide up and quit travelling together. they divided up their horses and provisions, and then measured off the wagon-bed and sawed it in two parts, also the reach, and then flipped a copper cent to see which should have the front part of the wagon. after the division they each went to work and fixed up his part of the wagon as best he could, and drove on alone. the entire trip from monroe, michigan, our starting-point, to hangtown, the point of landing in california, covered 2,542 miles, and we were five months, lacking six days, in making it. today the same trip can be made in a half week, with every comfort and luxury which money and invention can provide. there is probably nothing that marks the progress of civilization more distinctly than do the perfected modes and conveniences of travel. it is strange, but true, however, that so long as our prairies shall stretch themselves from river to ocean the imprint of the overland trail can never be obliterated. today, after a lapse of over fifty years, whoever passes within seeing distance of the old trail can, upon the crest of grain and grass, note its serpentine windings, as marked by a light and sickly color of green. i myself have followed it from a car-window as traced in yellow green upon an immense field of growing corn. no amount of cultivation can ever restore to that long-trodden path its pristine vigor and productiveness. our prairies are a book, whose pages hold many stories writ by many people. tragedy, comedy, pathos, love and valor, duly punctuated by life's rests and stops, whose interest shall appeal to human hearts as long as their green cover enfolds them. chapter v. a worthy object reached for and missed is a first step toward success. who, among the many persons contributing for a wage, to the convenience of everyday life in these latter times, is more waited and watched for, and brings more of joy, and more of sorrow when he comes, than the postman. in the days of trailing, our post accommodations were extremely few and very far between. there were no mailing points, except at the government forts, fort kearney and laramie being the only two on the entire trip, soldiers carrying the mail to and from the forts either way. after leaving fort kearney, the next mailing point east, was fort laramie. before leaving home, i had been entrusted with a package of letters by hon. isaac p. christiancy, from his wife, to her brother, james mcclosky, who had been on the plains some fourteen years, and who was supposed to be living near fort laramie. when within a couple of days' drive of the fort we came to a building which proved to be a store, and which was surrounded by several wigwams. upon halting and going into the store, we found ourselves face to face with the man we were wanting to meet, mr. mcclosky. he was glad to see us, and overjoyed to receive the package of letters. he stepped out of doors and gave a whoop or two, and immediately indians began to come in from all directions. he ordered them to take our stock out on the ranch, feed and guard it, and bring it in in the morning. he treated us generously to supper and breakfast, including many delicacies to which we had long been strangers. in consideration of my bringing the letters to him, he invited me to sleep in his store, and, in the morning, introduced me to his indian wife and two sons, also, to several other women who were engaged in an adjoining room, in cutting and making buckskin coats, pants and moccasins, presenting me with an elegant pair of the latter. his wife was a bright and interesting woman, to whom he was deeply attached. his two boys were bright, manly fellows, the oldest of whom, about ten years old, was soon to be taken to st. joe or council bluffs and placed in school. at an early hour in the morning, the indians brought in the stock, in fine condition, and we hitched up and bade our host goodbye. he sent word to his sister at home, and seemed much affected at our parting. this was the first morning when, in starting out, we knew anything about what was ahead of us; what we would meet, or what the roads and crossings would be. in fact, every one we saw, were going the same as ourselves, consequently, all were quite ignorant of what the day might bring forth. on this morning, we knew the conditions of the roads for several days ahead, and, that fort laramie was thirty-six miles before us. shortly after going into camp toward sunset, a party of horsemen was seen galloping toward us, who, on nearer approach, proved to be a band of ten or twelve indians. when within about one hundred yards, they halted and dismounted, each holding his horse. the chief rode up to us, saluted and dismounted. he was a sharp-eyed young fellow, showing beneath his blanket the dress-coat of a private soldier and non-commissioned officer's sword. he gave us to understand that they were sioux, and had been on the warpath for some pawnees, also that they were hungry and would like to have us give them something to eat. after assuring him that we would do so, he ordered his men to advance, which they did after picketing their ponies, coming up and setting themselves on the grass in a semi-circle. we soon noticed that they carried spears made of a straight sword-blade thrust into the end of a staff. on two or three of the spears were dangling one or more fresh scalps, on which the blood was yet scarcely dry. on pointing to them, one of the indians drew his knife, and taking a weed by the top, quickly cut it off, saying as he did so, "pawnees." his illustration of how the thing was done was entirely satisfactory. we gave the grub to the chief, who in turn, handed it out to the men as they sat on the ground. when through eating, they mounted their ponies, waved us a salute and were off. the balance of the day was spent in writing home letters, which we expected to deliver on the morrow at the post. about 9 o'clock the next morning, we came to laramie river, near where it empties into the north platte, which we crossed on a bridge, the first one we had seen on the whole route. at this point a road turns off, leading up to the fort, about one mile distant. being selected to deliver the mail, i rode out to the fort, which was made up of a parade-ground protected by earth-works, with the usual stores, quarters, barracks, etc., the sutler and post-office being combined. on entering the sutler's, about the first person i saw was the young leader of the indians, who had lunched at our camp the afternoon before. he was now dressed in the uniform of a soldier, recognizing me as soon as we met with a grunt and a "how." delivering the mail, i rode out in another direction to intercept the train. when about one-half mile from the fort i came to a sentinel, pacing his beat all alone. he was just as neat and clean as though doing duty at the general's headquarters, with his spotless white gloves, polished gun, and accoutrements. in a commanding tone of voice, he ordered me to halt. asking permission to pass, which was readily granted, i rode on a couple of miles, when i met some indians with their families, who were on the march with ponies, dogs, women, and papooses. long spruce poles were lashed each side of the ponies' necks, the other ends trailing on the ground. the poles, being slatted across, were made to hold their plunder or very old people and sometimes the women and children. the dogs, like the ponies, were all packed with a pole or two fastened to their necks; the whole making an interesting picture. overtaking the train about noon, we camped at bitter cottonwood creek, the location being beautifully described by the author of the novel, "prairie flower." our standard rations during these days consisted of hardtack, bacon, and coffee; of course, varying it as we could whenever we came to a government fort. i recall how, on a certain sunday afternoon, we men decided to make some doughnuts, as we had saved some fat drippings from the bacon. not one of us had any idea as to the necessary ingredients or the manner of compounding them, but we remembered how doughnuts used to look and taste at home. so we all took a hand at them, trying to imitate the pattern as well as our ignorance and poor judgment would suggest. well, they looked a trifle peculiar, but we thoroughly enjoyed them, for they were the first we had since leaving home, and proved to be the last until we were boarding in california. one thing was sure; our outdoor mode of living gave us fine appetites and a keen relish for almost anything. and then again, persons can endure almost any sort of privation as long as they can see a gold mine ahead of them, from which they are sure to fill their pockets with nuggets of the pure stuff. what a happy arrangement it is on the part of providence that not too much knowledge of the future comes to us at any one time! just enough to keep us pushing forward and toward the ideal we have set for ourselves, which, even though we miss it, adds strength to purpose as well as to muscle. a worthy object reached for and missed is a first step towards success. chapter vi. "'tis only a snowbank's tears, i ween." we are now approaching the foot-hills of the rocky mountains. the fertile plains through which we have been passing are being merged into rocky hills, the level parts being mostly gravelly barrens. the roads are hard and flinty, like pounded glass, which were making some of the cattle-teams and droves very lame and foot-sore. when one got so it could not walk, it was killed and skinned. other lame ones were lashed to the side of a heavy wagon, partially sunk in the ground, their lame foot fastened on the hub of a wheel, when a piece of the raw hide was brought over the hoof and fastened about the fet-lock, protecting the hoof until it had time to heal. this mode of veterinary treatment, although crude, lessened the suffering among the cattle very materially. the streams along here, the la barge, la bonte, and deer creek, were all shallow with rocky bottoms and excellent water. here we frequently took the stock upon the hills at night, where the bunch-grass grows among the sage brush. this grass, as its name indicates, grows in bunches about a foot high and about the same in diameter, bearing a profusion of yellow seeds about the size of a kernel of wheat. this makes excellent feed, and the stock is very fond of it. at this point mother nature is gradually changing the old scenes for new ones. the big brawny mountains with their little ones clustered at their feet are just before us; while the platte river, which for many miles has been our constant companion, will soon be a thing of the past, as we are close to the crossing, and once over we shall see the river no more. this river which stretches itself in graceful curves across an entire state, is one of peculiar construction and characteristics. at a certain point it is terrifying, even to its best friends. in curve, color, contour, and graceful foliage, it is a magnificent stretch of beauty; while as a stream of utility its presence has ever been a benediction to the country through which it passes. as a tribute to its general excellence, i place here the beautiful lines (name of author unknown to me), entitled: in the cradle of the platte. a little stream in the caã±on ran, in the caã±on deep and long, when a stout old oak at its side began to sing to it this song, "oh, why do you laugh and weep and sing, and why do you hurry by, for you're only a noisy little thing, while a great strong oak am i; a hundred years i shall stand alone, and the world will look at me; while you will bubble and babble on and die at last in the sea." "so proud and lofty," the stream replied, "you're a king of the forest true; but your roots were dead and your leaves all dried had i not watered you." the oak tree rustled its leaves of green to the little stream below; "'tis only a snowbank's tears, i ween, could talk to a monarch so. but where are you going so fast, so fast, and what do you think to do? is there anything in the world at last for a babbling brook like you?" "so fast, so fast,--why should i wait," the hurrying water said, "when yonder by the caã±on gate the farmer waits for bread?" out on the rainless desert land my hurrying footsteps go; i kiss the earth, i kiss the sand, i make the harvest grow. "and many a farmer, when the sky has turned to heated brass, and all the plain is hot and dry, gives thanks to see me pass. by many a sluice and ditch and lane they lead me left and right, for it is i who turns the plain to gardens of delight." then hurrying on, the dashing stream into a river grew, and rock and mountain made a seam to let its torrent through; and where the burning desert lay, a happy river ran; a thousand miles it coursed its way, and blessed the homes of man. vain was the oak tree's proud conceit, dethroned the monarch lay; the brook that babbled at its feet had washed its roots away. still in the caã±on's heart there springs the desert's diadem, and shepherds bless the day that brings the snow-bank's tears to them. we crossed the river on a ferry-boat that was large enough to hold four wagons and some saddle-horses. the boat was run by a cable stretched taut up stream fifteen or twenty feet from the boat. a line from the bow and stern of the boat connected it with a single block which ran on the cable. when ready to start, the bow-line was hauled taut, the stern line slacked off to the proper angle, when, the current passing against the side of the boat, it was propelled across very rapidly. the river here was rapid, the water cold and deep, with a strong undercurrent. we had to wait nearly a whole day before it came our turn to take our wagons over. in the meantime we were detailed as follows: ten men were selected to get the wagons aboard the boat, cross over with them and guard them until all were carried over; three or four men were sent across and up the river to catch and care for the stock as it came out of the river near a clump of cottonwoods. one of the company, named owen powers, a strong, courageous young man and a good swimmer, volunteered to ride the lead horse in and across to induce the other animals to follow, the balance of the company herding them, as they were all loose near the edge of the river. when everything was ready, powers stripped off, and mounting the horse he had selected, rode out into the stream. the other animals, forty-seven of them followed, and when a few feet from the shore had to swim. everything was going all right until powers reached the middle of the river, when an undercurrent struck his horse, laying him over partly on his side. powers leaned forward to encourage his horse, when the animal suddenly threw up his head, striking him a terrible blow squarely in the face. he was stunned and fell off alongside the horse. it now seemed as though both he and his horse would be drowned, as all the other stock began to press close up to them. he soon recovered, however, and as he partially pulled himself on to his horse, we could plainly see that his face and breast were covered with blood. we shouted at him words of encouragement, cheering him from both sides of the river. while his struggling form was hanging to the horse's mane, the other animals all floundered about him, pulling for the shore for dear life. the men on the other side were ready to catch him as he landed, nearly exhausted by his struggles and the blow he had received. they carried him up the bank and leaned him against a tree, one man taking care of him while the others caught the animals, or rather corralled them, until the rest of us got across and went to their assistance. we brought the young man's clothes with us and fixed him up, washing him and stanching his bleeding nose and mouth. he had an awful looking face; his eyes were blackened, nose flattened and mouth cut. however, he soon revived and was helped by a couple of the men down to the wagons. we then gathered the stock, went down to the train, hitched up, and drove into camp. we now soon came to the sweetwater river. the country here is more hilly and rocky, and the valleys narrower and more barren. the main range of wind river mountains could be plainly seen in the distance, while close upon our left were the sweetwater mountains. the difference in scenery after leaving the river and plains was such as to awaken new emotions and fire one with a new kind of admiration. the immensity and fixedness of the mountains awakened a keener sense of stability, of firmness of purpose, and a sort of _expect great things and do great things spirit_; while the sense of beauty appreciation was in no wise narrowed as it followed the lights and shades of jut and crevice, and the rosy, scintillating bits of sun as a new day dropped them with leisure hand upon summit and sides, or later the tender glow of crimson and blue and gold, as the gathered sun-bits trailed themselves behind the mountains for the night. when making up our outfit back in the states, by oversight or want of knowledge of what we would need, we had neglected to lay in a supply of horse-nails, which we now began to be sorely in need of, as the horses' shoes were fast wearing out and becoming loose. it was just here that we came one day to a man sitting by the roadside with a half-bushel measure full of horse nails to sell at the modest price of a "bit" or twelve and one-half cents apiece. no amount of remonstrance or argument about taking advantage of one's necessity could bring down the price; so i paid him ten dollars in gold for eighty nails. i really wanted to be alone with that man for awhile, i loved him so. he, like some others who had crossed the plains before, knew of the opportunity to sell such things as the trailers might be short of at any price they might see fit to ask. it was here, too, that we came upon the great independence rock, an immense boulder, lying isolated on the bank of the sweetwater river. it was oblong, with an oval-shaped top, as large as a block of buildings. it was of such form that parties could walk up and over it lengthwise, thereby getting a fine view of the surrounding country. about a mile beyond was the devil's gate, a crack or rent in the mountain, which was probably about fifty feet wide, the surface of the walls showing that by some sort of force they had been separated, projections on one side finding corresponding indentations on the other. the river in its original course had run around the range, but now it ran leaping and roaring through the gate. there was considerable alkali in this section. we had already lost two horses from drinking it, and several others barely recovered from the effects. chapter vii. we stepped over the ridge and courted the favor of new and untried waters. between independence rock and devil's gate we cross the river, which is about four feet deep and thirty or forty feet wide. there was a man lying down in the shade of his tent, who had logs enough fastened together to hold one wagon, which he kindly loaned the use of for fifty cents for each wagon, we to do the work of ferrying. rather than to wet our traps, we paid the price. the stock was driven through the ford. we camped at the base of some rocky cliffs, and while we were getting our supper an indian was noticed peering from behind some rocks, taking a view of the camp. one of the boys got his rifle from the wagon and fired at him. he drew in his head and we saw no more of him, but kept a strong guard out all night. the trail that followed up the sweetwater was generally a very good road, with good camping-place's and fair grass for stock; while grass and sage brush for fuel and excellent water made the trip of about ninety miles very pleasant, as compared with some of the former route. we now came to the last-leaving of the sweetwater, which is within ten miles of the highest elevation of the south pass. the springs and the little stream on which we were camped, across which one could have stepped, was the last water we saw that flowed into the atlantic. we were upon the summit or dividing line of the continent. with our faces to the southward, the stream at our left flowed east and into the atlantic, while that upon our right flowed west into the pacific. there was something not altogether pleasant in considering the conditions. following and crossing and studying the streams as we had so long been doing, it was not without a tinge of regret and broken fellowship that we stepped over the ridge and courted the favor of new and untried waters. the abrupt ending of the great wind river mountain range was at our right. these mountains are always more or less capped with snow. to the south, perhaps one hundred miles, could be seen the main ridge of the rocky mountains looming up faintly against the sky. the landscape, looking at it from the camp, was certainly pleasing, if not beautiful. during the day there could be seen bunches of deer, antelope, and elk grazing and running about on the ridges, the whole making a picture never to be forgotten. the sky was clear, the air pure and invigorating, the sun shone warm by day and the stars bright at night. the spot proved to be a "parting of the ways" in more than one sense, for it was here, before the breaking of camp, that the company decided to separate, not as to interests, but as to modes of travel. some of our wagons were pretty nearly worn out, and, as we had but little in them, there were sixteen men who that night decided to give up their five wagons and resort to "packing." consequently the remaining three wagons, including captain and mrs. wadsworth, bade us goodby and pulled out in the morning. this parting of the trail, as had been the case in the parting of the waters, was not without its smack of regret. for four months we had travelled as one family, each having at heart the interest and comfort of the others. there had been days of sickness and an hour of death; there was a grave at the roadside; there had had been times of danger and disheartenment; all of which marshalled themselves to memory's foreground as the question of division was talked _pro_ and _con_ by the entire family while camped at the base of the snow-capped mountains on that midsummer night. after the departure of the three wagons we who remained resolutely set ourselves to work to prepare, as best we could, ourselves and our belongings for the packing mode of travel. for three days and nights we remained there busily engaged. we took our wagons to pieces, cutting out such pieces as were necessary to make our pack saddles. one bunch of men worked at the saddles, another bunch separated the harnesses and put them in shape for the saddles, while others made big pouches or saddle-bags out of the wagon covers, in which to carry provisions and cooking utensils. the spot upon which our camp was located was in the vicinity of what is now known as smith's pass, wyoming. during one of our afternoons here nature treated us to one of the grandest spectacles ever witnessed by mortal eyes. we first noticed a small cloud gathering about the top of the mountain, which presently commenced circling around the peak, occasionally reaching over far enough to drop down upon us a few sprinkles of water, although the sun was shining brightly where we were. as the cloud continued to circle, it increased in size, momentum, and density of color, spreading out like a huge umbrella. soon thunder could be heard, growing louder and more frequent until it became one continuous roar, fairly shaking the earth. long, vivid flashes of lightning chased each other in rapid succession over the crags and lost themselves in crevice and ravine. all work was forgotten. in fact, one would as soon think of making saddles in the immediate presence of the almighty as in the presence of that terrific, but sublime spectacle upon the mountain heights. every man stood in reverential attitude and gazed in speechless wonder and admiration. david and moses and the christ had much to do with mountains in their day; and, as we watched the power of the elements that afternoon, we realized as never before how david could hear the floods clap their hands and see expressions of joy or anger upon the faces of the mountains; and how mount sinai might have looked as it became the meeting-place of the lord and moses and the tables of stone. the storm lasted about an hour, and when at last nature seemed to have exhausted herself the great mountain-top stood out again in the clear sunlight, wearing a new mantle of the whitest snow. during our three-days' camp we had a number of callers from other trains, also six or eight indians, among whom we divided such things as we could not take with us. in the evening of the last day, we made a rousing camp-fire out of our wagon wheels, which we piled on top of each other, kindling a fire under them, around which we became reminiscent and grew rested for an early start on the morrow. all things finally ready, we brought up the animals in the morning to fit their saddles and packs to them. one very quiet animal was packed with some camp-kettles, coffee-pots, and other cooking traps. as soon as he was let loose and heard the tinware rattle he broke and ran, bringing up in a quagmire up to his sides. the saddle had turned, and his hind feet stepping into the pack well nigh ruined all our cooking utensils. we managed to pull him out of the mire and quieted him down, but we could never again put anything on him that rattled. we took our guns and provisions and only such clothing as we had on, leaving all else behind. i remember putting on a pair of new boots that i had brought from home, which i did not take off until i had been some time in california, nor any other of my clothes, lying down in my blanket on the ground, like the rest of the animals. as we turned out for noon, we saw off toward the mountain a drove of eleven elk. i took my rifle and creeping behind rocks and through ravines, tried to get in range of them, but with all my caution, they kept just beyond my reach. but i had a little luck toward night just as we were turning into camp. out by a bunch of sagebrush sat the largest jack rabbit i ever saw. i raised my rifle and hit him squarely in the neck, killing him. i took him by the hind feet and slung him over my shoulder, and as i hung hold of his feet in front, his wounded neck came down to my heels behind. his ears were as long as a mule's ears. we dressed it and made it into rabbit stew by putting into the kettle first a layer of bacon and then one of rabbit, and then a layer of dumpling, which we made from flour and water, putting in layer after layer of this sort until our four camp-kettles were filled. we had a late supper that night. it was between 9 and 10 o'clock before our stews were done to a turn, but what a luscious feast was ours when they were finally ready. i can think of no supper in my whole life that i have enjoyed so much as i did that one. we had plenty left over for our sixteen breakfasts the next morning, and some of the boys packed the remainder as a relish for the noon meal. soon after our start in the morning, we came to the big sandy, a stream tributary to green river. the land here had more of the appearance of a desert than any we had yet seen. out on the plain the trail forked, the left hand leading via fort bridges and salt lake city, while the right hand led over what is known as sublett's cut-off. being undecided as to which fork to follow, we finally submitted it to vote, which proved to be a large majority in favor of the cut-off, it having been reported that the mormons were inciting the indians to attack immigrants. the road here was hard and flinty, and, for more than a mile passed down a steep hill, at the bottom of which we noticed that wagon tires were worn half through owing to the wheels being locked for such a long distance. this was green river valley, and, where we made our crossing, the water being deep and cold, with a swift current. there was a good ferry boat, on which, after nearly a day's waiting, we ferried over our pack animals at one dollar per head; the balance of the stock we swam across. a short way on we had to ford a fork of the same river, and were then in an extremely mountainous country, up one side and down the other, until we reached bear river valley. we came down off the uplands into the valley and beside the river to camp, where we had an experience as exasperating as it was unexpected. seeing some fine looking grass, half knee high, we started for it, when all at once clouds of the most persistent and venomous mosquitos filled the air, covering the animals, which began stamping and running about, some of them lying down and rolling in great torment. we hurried the packs and saddles off them and sent a guard of men back to the hills with them. the rest of us wrapped ourselves head and ears and laid down in the grass without supper or water for man or beast. about 3 o'clock in the morning, the mosquitos having cooled down to some extent, the guard brought in the pack animals, which we loaded, and, like the arab, "silently stole away." returning to the road and getting the balance of the stock, we moved along the base of the hills, and about sunrise came to a beautiful spring branch, which crossed the trail, refreshing us with its cool, sparkling water. here we went up into the hills and into camp for a day and a night, to rest and recuperate from our terrible experience of the night before. it was now the first of july. by keeping close to the base of the hills we found good travelling and an abundance of clear spring-water. at nights we camped high up in the hills, where the mosquito was not. chapter viii. we had no flag to unfurl, but its sentiment was within us. "it ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance by solemn acts of devotion to god almighty. it ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, bells, bonfires and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward for evermore." these words, written by john adams to his wife the day following the declaration of independence, and regarding that act and day, were evidently the sounding of the key-note of american patriotism. it has long been one of uncle sam's legends that "he who starts across the continent is most sure to leave his religion on the east side of the missouri river." conditions in nebraska to-day refute the truth of this statement, however. whatever may be the rule or exception concerning an american traveller's religion, the genuineness of his patriotism and his fidelity to it are rarely questioned. hence it was that during the early july days the varied events of the past few months betook themselves to the recesses of our natures, and patriotism asserted its right of pre-emption. the day of july 3d was somewhat eventful and perhaps somewhat preparatory to the 4th, in that i did a bit of horse-trading, as my riding-horse, through a hole in his shoe, had got a gravel into his foot, which made him so lame that i had been walking and leading him for the last ten days. we had just come to soda springs, where there was a village of shoshone indians, numbering about one thousand, among whom was an indian trader named mcclelland, who was buying or trading for broken-down stock. i soon struck him for a trade. he finally offered me, even up, a small native mule for my lame horse, and we soon traded. i then bought an indian saddle for two dollars, and, mounting, rode back to camp with great joy to myself and amusement of the balance of the company. i had walked for the last two hundred miles, keeping up with the rest of them, and consequently was nearly broken down; and now that i had what proved to be the toughest and easiest riding animal in the bunch, i was to be congratulated. i afterwards saw the horse i had traded for the mule in sacramento, hitched to a dray. his owner valued him at four hundred dollars. we had gone into camp close to the indians, right among their wigwams, in fact, and, though it was independence eve, the weather was cool and chilling, which, together with the jabbering and grunting of the indians and their papooses, made sleeping almost impossible. we had not been in camp more than an hour when three or four packers rode up on their way to the "states." they were the first persons travelling eastward that we had met since leaving the missouri river. one of the men had been wounded with a charge of buckshot a few hours before, and there being no surgeon present, some of us held him while others picked out the shot and dressed his wounds. soda springs was in the extreme eastern part of what is now the state of idaho, at which point there is a town bearing the same name, soda springs. indeed, the 4th of july found us in a settlement of springs, beer spring and steamboat spring being in close proximity to soda springs. beer spring is barrel-shaped, its surface about level with the ground surface. it was always full to the top, and we could look down into the water at least twenty feet and see large bubbles that were constantly rising, a few feet apart, one chasing another to the surface, where they immediately collapsed. the peculiarity of the water was that one could sip down a gallon at a time without any inconvenience. the celebrated steamboat spring came out of a hole in a level rock. the water was quite hot, and the steam, puffing out at regular intervals, presented an interesting sight. we remained in camp during the forenoon and celebrated the 4th of july as best we could. i am quite positive that we could not have repeated in concert the memorable words which open this chapter, but, while the letter of the injunction was absent, the spirit was with us and we carried it out in considerable detail, the indians joining with us. we shot at a mark, we ran horse-races with the indians and also foot-races. we had no bells to ring, but we had plenty of noise and games and sports. we had no flag to unfurl, but its sentiment was within us; and when we had finished we were prouder than ever to be americans. after dinner we packed up and started out again, our trail leading us up in the top of the mountains, where, after going into camp for the night, it began to snow, so i had to quit writing in my diary. we spent a very uncomfortable night, and got out of the place early, going down into a warmer atmosphere and to a level stretch of deep sand covered with a thick growth of sagebrush. having neglected to fill our canteens while on the mountain, we had to travel all day in the sand, under a scorching sun, without a drop of water. this was our first severe experience in water-hunger, and we thought of the deserts yet to be crossed. at night we were delighted with coming to a stream, by the side of which we made camp, ourselves and our animals quite exhausted with the day's experiences. the country along here was very rough and mountainous, making travelling very difficult, so much so that two or more men dropped out to rest up. we were soon in the region of the "city of rocks," which was not a great distance south of fort hall, in oregon. this place, to all appearance, was surrounded by a range of high hills, circular in form and perhaps a quarter mile in diameter. a small stream of mountain water ran through it, near which we made our noon meal. from about the center of this circle arose two grand, colossal steeples of solid rock, rising from two hundred to three hundred feet high; in outline they resembled church steeples. from the base of these great turrets, allowing the eyes to follow the circular mountains, could be seen a striking resemblance to a great city in ruins. tall columns rose with broad facades and colossal archings over the broad entrances, which seemed to lead into those great temples of nature. many of the formations strongly resembled huge lions crouched and guarding the passageways. altogether the spot was one of intense interest and stood as strong evidence that "the manuscript of god remains writ large in waves and woods and rocks." in crossing the valley of raft river, which is tributary to the snake river, and finally empties into the columbia, we came to a deep, ditch-like crack in the earth, partly filled with water and soft mud. it was about a rod in width, but so long that we could not see its end either up or down the valley as far as the eye could reach, so there was no possible show to head it or go around it. scattered along its length we could see a dozen or more wagons standing on their heads, as it were, in this almost bottomless ditch of mud and water, each waiting for the bank to be dug out in front of it, when a long cattle-team would haul it out. after looking the situation over, we put our wits to work for some means of crossing, and finally hit upon what proved to be a feasible plan. a part of the men stripped off, plunged in and made their way through to the opposite bank. we then led the animals up, one at a time, secured a good strong lariat around its neck, and threw the end of it across to the men on the other side. then we just pushed the brute into the ditch and the men ahold of the lariat pulled him through. we then did up our traps in light bundles and threw them across. after everything else was over, we took turns in being pulled through at the end of the lariat. this was a successful way of getting over, but, o my! we were the dirtiest lot of men and animals one ever saw. we were little more than one-quarter mile from raft river, and we lost no time in getting there and wading out in the clear, running water, about two feet deep, with rocky bottom, where we and the animals were washed sleek and clean. leaving the river we entered a narrow defile in the mountain, where horses and men were crowded close together. one of the men having a rifle with the hammer underneath the barrel attempted to mount his horse without stopping and accidentally discharged his gun, the shot shot taking effect in the horse's side. as i happened to be walking on the other side of the wounded horse i was fortunate in not getting some part of the discharge. we pulled the pack off the horse and led him a few steps off the road, where he soon fell dead. we camped for the night farther up this ravine. it was the same place where, a few years afterward, some immigrants were massacred, when a part of the wright family was killed and others badly wounded. years afterward i became well acquainted with the survivors. their description of the place and its surroundings left no doubt in my mind that our ravine camping-spot was identical with that of their massacre. our passage up goose creek valley was extremely slow and difficult, the valley in places being no wider than the road, while in other places rocks and streams were so thick and close together that the way was almost impassible. we camped in this valley at nightfall, and, as there was no feed in sight for the animals, several of us took them up on the mountain side and gave them a feed of bunch grass, one man and myself remaining to guard them. very soon a storm came up, dark clouds, deep thunder, sharp lightning, and a perfect deluge of rain were sweeping through the mountains. we brought the animals as close together as we could, tied them to the sagebrush, and kept going among them, talking to them and quieting them as best we could, for they were whinnying and trembling with fear. it was an awful night. over and above the roaring storm could be heard the howling of wolves, which added much terror to the situation. on being relieved at daylight and going down to camp, the men were trying to find themselves and a lot of traps that were missing. it seemed that the men had lain down in a bunch on a narrow bit of ground close to the creek, and when the rain began to fall they drew a canvas wagon cover over them for protection, when, without any sound or warning that could be heard above the storm, a tide of water came down upon them which fairly washed them off the earth. they got tangled up in the wagon cover and were being washed down the creek, not knowing in the darkness when or where they were going to land. they kept together by all keeping hold of the wagon cover, but for which some or all of them might have lost their lives. they were finally washed up against a rocky projection and pulled themselves ashore. we were a sorry-looking lot--wet, cold, dilapidated, and suffering from the terror and fright of the night. after breakfast we went out to hunt for our missing goods, some of which we found caught in the brush; some was washed beyond finding. this was sunday morning and the weather had cleared up bright. all nature seemed anxious to make amends for her outrageous conduct of the night before. we concluded to stop here until monday morning, and spread our traps out to dry, and cook some rice, and rest and replenish in a general sense. chapter ix. we listened to each other's rehearsals and became mutual sympathizers and encouragers. we travelled up goose creek for several days till we got to its head, on the great divide that separates the snake river from the humboldt. the second or third day up the creek we had a genuine surprise that put us all in the best of humor again. it was no less than the overtaking of the three wagons that left us in the south pass, where we commenced packing. captain wadsworth's wagon was mired down and part of the team. we all turned in and soon had him out. we were all glad to meet again, and all our men were delighted to meet and shake hands with mrs. wadsworth, who was equally as joyful as ourselves. we camped together that night and had a good visit. it was a genuine family reunion. how thoroughly we listened to each other's rehearsals and became mutual sympathizers and encouragers! this was the last time the original company ever met together. some of our boys, whose stock was nearly worn out, concluded that they would join the three wagons and take more time to get through. this move reduced our little company of packers to six men and ten animals. in the morning we bade them all goodby (some of them for the last time), swung into our saddles, and moved on. after crossing the divide we entered pleasant valley, which, with its level floor, abundant grass, and willow-fringed stream of cool water, was very appropriately named. as our provisions were now getting short, i was on the lookout for game of any sort that would furnish food. after dinner, taking my rifle, i went along down the stream as it led off the road, when a pair of ducks flew up and alighted a short distance below. these were the first ducks i had seen since leaving the platte, and, being out for something to eat, i was particularly glad to see them. i watched them settle, and then creeping up through tall wild rice i got a shot and killed one of them. i quickly reloaded. as i was out there alone i was necessarily on my guard. the duck was about twenty-five feet from the bank, and as the water was deep and cold and no one with me i concluded not to go in after it. so i took out the ramrod, screwed the wormer to it, lengthened it out with willow cuttings fastened one to another, and then shoved it out on the water until the wormer touched the duck, which i managed to twist into the game and draw it ashore. we had an elegant supper that night. the next day or two i came to a pond where were sitting five snipe. i killed the whole bunch, and they helped to make another square meal. we were now near the border of the great desert proper, where, out of the midst of a level plain, stood a lone mountain known as the "old crater," which, together with its surroundings, had all the appearance of an extinct volcano. the plain round about this mountain had been rent in narrow cracks or crevices leading in various directions from the mountain off on to the plain, some of them crossing the trail, where we had to push and jump the stock across them. in dropping a rock into them there seemed to be no bottom. all about them the ground was covered with pieces of broken lava, largely composed of gravel stones that had been welded together by intense heat. a half mile or so from the mountain stood a block of the same material, which was nearly square in shape and larger than a thirty-by-forty-foot barn. we made good time here after coming off the mountain, although we suffered intensely for want of water, the sun being very hot. however, we soon found ourselves in the "thousand spring valley," and, being influenced by its name, expected to have, for that day at least, all the water we could drink. but, as is sometimes the case, there was "water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink." near the entrance of the valley, which is about thirty miles long, is the great rock spring, deriving its name, i presume, from its flowing out from under an immense rock, forming a pool or basin of the brightest and clearest of water, but so warm that neither man nor beast could drink it. we all waded around through the basin, the water being about two feet deep. after a few more miles, we could see ahead of us clouds of steam vapor rising from the earth in various places. we came to the first group of boiling springs at noon, nearly famished for water that one could drink. we turned out for a resting-while. some went to look for cool water, and found none, while others made some coffee with boiling water from a spring, of which there were hundreds on a very few acres of ground. some of the springs were six to ten feet across and three or four inches deep. we set our coffee-pots right in a spring and made coffee in a very short time. the hot sun pouring down on us, and boiling springs all about us, and no cold water to drink, made the place desirable for only one thing--to get away from. toward night we turned off into the hills and looked for water, where, tramping over the rocks and brush, supperless, until nearly midnight, we found a most delicious spring. we all drank together, men and animals, and together laid down and slept. a little farther along, one day at noon, while we were drinking our coffee, two wild geese flew over and down the river. watching them sail along as if to light at a certain point, i took my rifle and followed. the trail led to the right and over a range of hills, coming into the valley again several miles ahead, and the direction in which i was pursuing the geese being a tangent, i soon lost sight of the company. i went hurriedly on down the river bottom, much of which was covered with wild rice, very thick and almost as high as my head. the course and windings of the river here were, as elsewhere, marked by the willows along the banks. i was now a mile or so from the trail, and coming quite near where i expected to find the game. passing cautiously by a clump of willows i noticed something white on the dead grass, which, upon investigation, proved to be a human skeleton in a perfect state of preservation. i picked up the skull, looked it over, and picked off the under jaw which was filled with beautiful teeth. putting these in my pocket and replacing the skull, i moved carefully forward, expecting to soon see the geese. picking my way through the stiff mud, i saw several moccasin tracks. i was just on the point of turning back when i saw the head of an indian to my left, within easy range of my rifle. looking hurriedly about me, i saw another at my right and quite a distance to the rear. in a moment they drew their heads down into the grass. i immediately realized the danger of retreating back into open ground, so i plunged forward into the wild rice, gripping my rifle with one hand and making a path through the rice with the other. i ran along in this way until my strength was nearly gone and the hand i worked the rice with was lacerated and bleeding. i faced about, dropped to my knees, and, with rifle cocked, awaited developments. after resting a few minutes and getting over my scare i started in the direction of the trail, hoping to get out of the rice and the willows into the open. again i had to rest. my hands and arms were now both so lame and sore i could scarcely use them. when i finally got out of the rice, i straightened up and ran like a deer, expecting at every jump i made to be pursued and shot. i made straight for a bend in the slough which was partly filled with water. the opposite bank being lined with willows, some of them began to move a little and i concluded some one was coming through them. levelling my rifle and with finger on the trigger, i heard some one shout to me not to shoot. it was a white man, who wanted to cross the slough. he ran into the water and mud far enough so that i could reach him and pull him on to the bank. he, too, had encountered the indians in the rice and willows, and for a time was unable to stand, being completely exhausted with fear and his efforts to escape. as soon as he could walk, we started away from that locality with what strength and energy we had left. he was there alone and unarmed, looking for strayed cattle, and had been skulking and hiding from indians for more than an hour before i came along. i, being well armed, might have discouraged them in their hunt for either one of us. at least they never got in my way after our first sight of each other. my hands were now swollen and very painful. the stranger carried my gun, and in a couple of hours we overtook my comrades. as i got on to my mule i thought what a fool i had been to go alone so far on a wild-goose chase. that day's experience ended my hunting at any considerable distance from camp. while we were still trailing close beside the humboldt river a most remarkable and pathetic incident occurred, the vicinity being that now known as elko, in elko county, nevada. we had been camping over night in the humboldt mountains, and on our way out in the morning i chanced to be some distance ahead. riding down a steep, narrow place, walled in on either side, i could catch only a glimpse of the humboldt river as it spun along just ahead of me. just before emerging from this narrow place i heard loud screaming for help, although as yet i could see no one. coming out into the open, i saw a man in the river struggling with a span of horses to which was still attached the running gear of a wagon. a few rods below him were his wife and two children about five and three years old, floating down the strong current in the wagon bed. i swam my mule across, and the minute i reached the land, i jumped off, and, leaving my rifle on the ground, ran over the rocks down stream after the woman and children, who were screaming at the top of their voices. the river made a short bend around some rocks on which i ran out, and, wading a short distance, i was able to grasp the corner of the the wagon bed as it came along, which was already well filled with water. holding to it, the current swept it against the shore, where the woman handed her children out to me and then climbed ashore herself. as soon as all were on land, the woman, hugging her children with one arm, knelt at my feet and clasping me about the knees sobbed as though her heart would break, as she kept repeating that i had saved their lives, and expressing her thanks for the rescue. as soon as i could collect my wits i began to tug at the wagon-bed, and then the woman helped, and together we got it where it was safe. then we led the children up to where the man had got ashore with his team. by this time the rest of our train had crossed the river and were with the man and his horses. when they learned just what had happened, they became very indignant because the man had apparently abandoned his wife and children to the mercies of the river, while he exerted himself to save his team. quicker than i can tell it, the tongue of the man's wagon was set up on end, and hasty preparations being made to hang the man from the end of it. almost frantic with what she saw, the wife again threw herself at my feet and begged me to save her husband. her tears and entreaties, probably more than all i said, finally quieted the men, although some of them were still in favor of throwing him in the river. we eventually helped them get their wagon together, when we moved on and left them. at this place the river runs down into a caã±on, where we had to ford it four times in ten miles, the stream changing that many times from one side of the rocky walls to the other. we made the last ford about middle afternoon, and as it was sunday, we put out for the day and night. "up with my tent, here will i lie to-night. but where to-morrow? well, all's well for that." chapter x. boots and saddles call. [illustration: music] in nearly all lifetimes and in nearly all undertakings, there will occur seasons which severally try not merely one's faith and courage, but one's power of physical endurance as well; seasons when one's spirits are fagged and stand in need of a reveille, or "boots and saddles" call. the march of our little company during these mid-july days, with their privations and sufferings, could scarcely have been maintained, but for the notes of cheer which, by memory's route, came to us from out the silent places of the past, or, on the wings of hope, alighted among us from off the heights of the future. the humboldt river, which by this time had become to us quite a memorable stream, was winding and crooked after coming out of the caã±on, and could be traced through the desert only by the willows that grew along its banks and around its shallow pools. our route lay on the left bank all the way down to the "sink." it was the middle of july, with never a cloud in the sky, not a tree or shade of any kind. the ground was heated like an oven and covered more or less by an alkali sand, which parched our lips while the sun was blistering our noses. the river from here down to its sink is like all desert streams in the dry season. it does not have a continuous current, but the water lies in pools, alternating with places where the bed is dry and bare. in its windings it averaged about twenty-five miles from one bend to another, the trail leading a straight line like a railroad from one point to another. these points were our camping-places. as it was useless to stop between them we had to make the river or perish. the willows were already browsed down to mere stubs, consequently there was little or no feed for the stock. wherever we could find any grass, there we took the animals and tended them until they got their fill. there was no game to be seen nor anything that had life, except horned toads and lizards. the former could be seen in the sand all day. they were of all sizes, ranging from a kernel of corn to a common toad, each ornamented with the same covering of horns, beginning with a turk's crescent on the tip of the nose. as to the lizards, none could be seen during the day, but at night there would be a whole family of them lying right against one, having crept under the blankets to keep warm, i suppose, as the nights were quite cool. upon getting up in the morning we would take our blankets by one end and give a jerk, and the lizards would roll out like so many links of weinerwurst. about midway to the river we began to get uncomfortably short of provisions, having only some parched coffee, a little sugar, and a few quarts of broken hardtack. we had neither flour nor meat for more than two weeks. but of all our sufferings the greatest was that of thirst. it was so intense that we forgot our hunger and our wearied and wornout condition. our sole thought was of water, and when we talked about what amount we would drink when we came to a good spring no one ever estimated less than a barrel full, and we honestly believed we could drink that much at a single draught. we had, in a degree, become "loony" on the subject, particularly in the middle of the day, when one could not raise moisture in his mouth to even spit. for about ten days the only water we had was obtained from the pools by which we would camp. these pools were stagnant and their edges invariably lined with dead cattle that had died while trying to get a drink. selecting a carcass that was solid enough to hold us up, we would walk out into the pool on it, taking a blanket with us, which we would swash around and get as full of water as it would hold, then carrying it ashore, two men, one holding each end, would twist the filthy water out into a pan, which in turn would be emptied into our canteens, to last until the next camping-place. as the stomach would not retain this water for even a moment, it was only used to moisten the tongue and throat. one afternoon we noticed on the side of a mountain spur off to our left a green spot part way up its side. we looked at the spot and then at the bend to which we were going, and as each seemed to be about equi-distant we concluded to go to the mountains, believing we would find water. well, if any of you have had any experience in travelling toward a mountain you, as did we, probably under-estimated the distance. we left the trail at 3 o'clock and tramped until nearly sundown before we began to make the ascent, always keeping our eyes on that green spot. about an hour after dark we came into the bed of a dry creek, and believing that it would eventually lead us to water, we followed it up until about midnight, when we came to water in a ditch about two feet wide and a few inches deep. ourselves and animals being nearly exhausted, we just laid down in that stream, and i guess each one came pretty near drinking his barrel of water. we pulled off the packs and let the animals go loose in the feed, which was very good, while we were soon stretched out and sound asleep. when we woke in the morning the sun was well up and sending down its scorching rays into our faces. we made some coffee, drank it and felt better. we stayed there until noon, as the animals were still getting good feed, and we--well, we were getting all the water we wanted. we filled our canteens with it, and after making necessary preparations started to strike the river again, which we could plainly see from our mountain perch, also slow moving trains, as they plod their weary way over the plain. we reached the river about sundown and as we looked against the western horizon, began to see quite distinctly the snow-capped range of the sierra nevada mountains. they looked grand and formidable to us, knowing that we must climb up and over them before we could reach our journey's end. they held no terror for us, however, for we knew that we should suffer neither from heat nor thirst during our trail over their broad, friendly sides. for a couple of days we had been trying the experiment of camping during the day and travelling at night, but we soon got enough of that way of getting along. the traveling at night was all right, but to camp all day with a scorching sun overhead and a burning sand under our feet was more than we could endure, so we again worked by day and slept at night. there was no fuel along here except willows, and they were so green it was impossible to coax them into a blaze. we finally resorted to a willow crane, which we made by sticking a couple of willows into the sand, arching them over toward each other and tying them together, hanging our coffee-pot between them, underneath which we made a fire of dead grass tied in knots. for a long time we laid on the sand and fed that fire with knotted grass, but _boil_ the coffee would not. we had now reached the sink of the humboldt, which was a small lake, perhaps ten or twelve miles long and two or three miles wide. the upper half was quite shallow, with soft, miry bottom covered with flags and rushes. the lower half was clear, open water, rounding off at its lower end with a smooth, sandy beach, making it a very pretty thing to look at, but its water was so brackish as to be unpalatable for drinking purposes. we camped for the night near its flags and rushes, a large quantity of which we cut and brought in for the animals, which seemed to give them new life and ambition. we also cut as many bundles as we could carry away bound to the backs of our loose stock, for we still had forty-two miles more of desert, without wood, water or grass, before reaching the carson river. while camping in this vicinity two pelicans sailed around and lighted in the clear lake, beyond reach of rifle-shot. these were the first birds of the kind i had ever seen outside of a showman's cage, and i was determined to have one of them if possible; so, with rifle in hand, i waded out till the water came up under my arms, and, not being able to go any farther, i fired, but without avail. in looking about me as i waded back, i saw a little white tent a short way off, just on the edge of the lake. going to it, i found a lone man about half drunk. i asked him what he was doing there, and he said he had some alcohol to sell at five dollars a quart. i bought a quart, my canteen full, and went back to camp. we succeeded in making coffee of the strongest kind and enough of it to fill our six canteens. we divided the alcohol equally among us and mixed it with the coffee. this arrangement was an experiment, but we found upon trial that one swallow of this mixture would make a person bat his eyes and step about quite lively, while two of them would make a man forget most of his troubles. i remember that it was about mid-afternoon when we finally packed and left the humboldt river for the last time, which we did with but few regrets. it was our intention to make as much as possible of the humboldt desert during the night. a few miles out the trail forked, the one to the right being "trucke route" and the other "carson route"; we decided upon the latter. near the forks were some campers, two sets of them, who were quarreling as to which route was the better. they finally began to shoot at each other and were still at it when we passed out of hearing, not knowing or caring how the duel might end. toward sundown we came to the salt wells, twelve miles from the sink, the water in them being as salt as the strongest brine. this was the last salt water we saw on our journey. about midnight we came to some tents, wagons, and a corral of stock; we were then nearly half the distance across the desert. at the tent water was sold at the very low price of "six bits" a gallon. we bought one gallon apiece for each of the animals and as much as we needed to drink at the time for ourselves. we did not care to dilute the contents of our canteens. we gave the stock a feed and moved on. the night was moonlighted, very bright and pleasant, but awfully still, rendered so seemingly by the surroundings, or perhaps by the lack of surroundings, for there could be heard no rushing of waters, no murmuring of forests no rustling of grasses. all of nature's music-pieces had been left far behind. there was nothing but sand, and it was at rest except as our footfalls caused it to vibrate. the broad and barren expanse, the white light of the full moon full upon it, the curvings and windings of the trail upon the sand, the steady onward march of our caravan, all combined to make a subject worthy the brush of a millet. we travelled in silence mostly. there was reverence in the atmosphere and we could not evade it. we did not even try. akin to this scene must have been the one which inspired longfellow to write: "art is the child of nature; yes, her darling child, in whom we trace the features of the mother's face, her aspect and her mien." chapter xi. "but all comes right in the end." from this point on to carson river the route was continuously strewn with the carcasses of stock that had perished there, some of them years before. owing probably to the dry climate and the fact that the greater part of the desert was covered with alkali and crystalized soda, the bodies of these animals remained perfect, as they had fallen. the sand glistening in their eyes gave them a very lifelike appearance. at intervals could be seen wagons, all complete except the cover, with two to four yoke of cattle lying dead, with the yokes on their necks, the chains still in the rings, just as they fell and died, most of them with their tongues hanging from their mouths. daylight came just as we got to the loose sand. the moment the sun rose above the horizon its influence could be seen and felt, and in an hour or two several cattle-teams had perished near us. first one ox would drop as though he were shot, and in a few minutes others would sink down, and almost before the owner could realize the condition of things, a part or the whole of his team would lie dead. for the want of vegetables or acid of some kind, i had been troubled for a week or so with an attack of scurvy in my mouth, the gums being swollen because of the alkali dust. this not only caused me pain and misery, but created a strong and constant desire for something sour. while riding past an ox team i noticed a jug in the front end of the wagon. upon inquiry of the driver, i found that the jug contained vinegar. i offered him a silver dollar for a cupful, but he refused to part with any of it, saying that he might need it himself before he got through. he was afoot on the off side of the wagon, where the jug was setting. i was sort of crazy mad and drawing my revolver, i rode around the rear of the wagon, thinking i would kill the fellow and take his jug of vinegar. but when he began to run for his life around the front yoke of cattle i came to my senses and hastened away from his outfit. we could now see a few scattering, tall trees outlining the carson river, also long mountain spurs reaching almost out into the sand, covered with a short growth of pine timber. in leaving the sand about 11 o'clock a. m. i noticed a large open tent near by. i rode up and into the tent, and, looking about, saw among other things one bottle of gherkin pickles about one quart of them. i asked the price. it was five dollars, and i paid it gladly as the owner passed the bottle over to me. i saw in that bottle of pickles my day of deliverance and salvation, and drawing my long knife from my bootleg soon drew the cork and filled my fevered mouth with pickles. i assure my readers that i can taste those gherkins to this day. the proprietor, who evidently thought that i was a "little off," brought me to a sense of realization by telling me that his tent was not a mule stable and that i had better get out. his voice and expression made me feel that i might be in danger of losing my pickles, so i waited not on ceremony, but beat a hasty and complete retreat. we had now finished the desert which, with all its events and experiences, was already behind us. we had travelled more than one thousand miles with no tree in sight, and our feelings can easily be imagined when, in looking a short distance ahead, we saw a clump of trees--real trees, green trees, shade-giving trees. we instantly became, as it were, initiated into the tree-worshipping sect. we were soon, men and beasts, within the cooling shade, and the packs stripped from the poor, tired animals, when they were led into the shallow water of the carson, where they drank and bathed to their heart's content, and were then turned loose into a stretch of good grass. we couldn't treat ourselves as well as we had treated our animals, for we had only a bite of hardtack crumbs, which we washed down with some of the "elixir of life" from our canteens. but we stretched ourselves underneath the friendly trees and, just letting loose of everything, slept until nearly noon the next day. the vicinity in which we camped seemed to have been pre-empted by a number of parties, who lived in tents and sold provisions to the immigrants. the settlement was called "ragtown." after coming out of our long sleep and taking in the situation of our whereabouts we were soon ready to take up our westward march, which, in two days, brought us to the first real house we had seen since leaving the missouri. this house was known as "mormon station." it was a good-sized story and half building, with a lean-to on one side and a broad porch on the other, along which was a beautiful little stream of cold, clear water. cups were hanging on the porch columns for the use of immigrants. there were also long benches for them to sit and rest on. connected with this house was a stock ranch and a cultivated farm of sixty acres, mostly all in vegetables. within was a large store of supplies. well, we didn't stop long for compliments, for our mouths were watering for some of those onions, lettuce, cabbage, new potatoes, pickles, steak and bacon, etc. we laid in a generous supply of the whole thing, including soft and hard bread and a bucket of milk. we also got a new coffeepot, as our old one had neither spout nor handle. after making our purchases we selected our camping-site and proceeded to make ourselves comfortable, after disposing of the stock in grass up to its eyes. we were going to have a supper fit for the gods, and everybody became busy. the boss coffee-maker attended strictly to his business, and some others cut and sliced an onion that was as large as a plate, covering it with salt and pepper and vinegar, which we ate as a "starter." we had an elegant supper and appetites to match. after supper some of the men went back to the store and laid in a supply of fresh bread and steak for breakfast. they brought back some pipes and tobacco, and for a long time we sat around our campfire smoking and reciting many experiences incident to our journey across the continent. with pangs of hunger and thirst appeased, our pipes filled to the brim and the smoke therefrom curling and twisting itself into cloud-banks, we were a supremely happy lot, and with the poet was ready to sing: "the road is rough and the day is cold, and the landscape's sour and bare, and the milestones, once such charming friends, half-hearted welcomes wear. there's trouble before and trouble behind, and a troublesome present to mend, and the road goes up and the road goes down, _but it all comes right in the end._" we decided to remain in this place another day, thereby giving ourselves and the stock time to secure the rest which we so greatly needed. it was during our stay here that in loading my rifle for a duck the stock broke in two. in making this little book, i cannot pass the incident by without a few parting words in memory of my faithful old friend and protector. in make and style the gun was known as a kentucky rifle, with curled maple stock the entire length of the barrel, underneath which was a "patch box," set lock, and a brass plate. since we began to pack i had carried it continually on my shoulders, exposed to weather and elements, hot air and desert heat, until the varied exposures had so weakened it that it broke while being loaded. i had carried it on my shoulders for such a long time that my shirt and vest became worn through, and the brass plate, heated by the scorching sun, did a remarkable piece of pyro-sculpture by burning into my bare shoulders a pair of shoulder straps that continued with me more than a year. carson valley, through which our route lay, seemed to be twenty or more miles wide when we first entered it, but it narrowed as it continued toward the sierras until it became not more than a mile in width at the point where it pushed itself far into the mountain range. upon the morning of our departure, we were early astir, and, turning to the right, left the valley that had been to us a mecca of rest and replenishment, and entered the dark caã±on, which is but a few rods wide, with perpendicular sides of rock so high that daylight seemed to be dropped down from overhead. through this caã±on flowed a rushing, roaring torrent of water, and as the bed of the caã±on is very steep and made up mostly of round stones and boulders ranging in size from a marble to a load of hay, one can imagine something of the difficulties we had to encounter during the first four miles of our ascent. in addition to the well-nigh impassable track, was the most deafening and distracting accumulation of noises ever heard since the time of babel. the water as it roared and rushed and dropped itself from boulder to boulder, the rattling and banging of empty wagons, the cracking of the drivers' whips, the shouting of the men, and the repetitions and reverberations of it all as the high walls caught them up and tossed them back and forth on their way to the exit, gave an impression that the caã±on was engaged in grand opera with all stops open. after spending one entire day here we emerged into what is known as hope valley, and its name in no wise belied its nature. in its quietude we took a new hold of ourselves, remaining in camp within its enclosure during the night. the valley is a large estuary or basin upon the first great bench of the range. its center seemed to consist of a quagmire, as one could not walk far out on it and stock could not go at all. some of us took our knives and 'twixt rolling and crawling on our stomachs, got to where the grass was and cut and brought in enough to bait our horses and mules. we started again at daylight next morning, and as the roads were fairly good we made twelve miles, which brought us to the shore of mountain lake. the weather here was cold during the night, the water near the edge of the lake freezing to the thickness of window glass. we were among quite heavy timber of pine and fir. this place might be called the second point in line of ascent. about one-half mile distant was the region of perpetual snow, in full sight, toward which we climbed and worked most assiduously, the line being very steep and the trail exceedingly zigzagged. resting-places were only to be had on the upper side of the great trees. it was here that a four mule team, hitched to a splendid carry-all, got started backward down the mountain, the driver jumping from his seat. the whole outfit going down the mountain end over end and brought up against a large tree, the vehicle completely wrecked. the mules landed farther down. arriving at the snow line, we found grass and even flowers growing and blooming in soil moistened by the melting snow. the notch in the summit of the mountains through which we had to pass was four miles distant from this point. the trail leading up was of a circular form, like a winding stair, turning to the left, and the entire distance was completely covered with snow, or more properly ice crystals as coarse as shelled corn, which made the road-bed so hard that a wheel or an animal's foot scarcely made an impression on it. we reached the summit about noon, august 7th, where we halted to rest and, as did moses, "to view the landscape o'er." looking back and down upon the circular road we could plainly see many outfits of men, animals, and wagons, as they slowly worked their way up and around the great circle which we had just completed. thinking we might see the missouri river or some eastern town from our great altitude, we looked far out to the east; but the fact was we could see but a very little way as compared with our view on the plains. on a point high up on the rocks i spied a flag, which proved to be a section from a red woolen shirt. upon going to it i found in a small cavity in the highest peak a bottle having upon its label the inscription, "take a drink and pass on." we went down to the edge of the timber on the california side and spent a night on the hard snow. we had wood for fire, snow for water, and pine boughs for beds, but no feed for our hungry beasts. having laid in a good supply of provisions at mormon station, among which was a big sack of hard bread, we gave the animals a ration apiece of the same, promising them something better as soon as it could be had. this was our first night in california, having heretofore been travelling, since leaving the missouri river valley, in the territory of nebraska, except as we passed through a little corner of oregon, near ft. hall. after an early breakfast, we left the region of snow and went down among the timber and into a milder atmosphere. we passed through a place called tragedy springs, whose history, we afterwards learned, was indicated by its name. leek springs was the name of our next stopping place, which, from its appearance, evidently a favorite resort of all who passed that way. it so happened, however, that we were the only parties camping there that night. realizing that we were very near our journey's end, we made these last evenings together as pleasant and as restful as possible. i remember this evening in particular, also the following morning, when, upon bestirring ourselves, we found that our sack of hard bread had been eaten and the sack torn to pieces. the frying pan had been licked clean, and things generally disturbed. upon investigation we soon found that the camp had been invaded by two grizzly bears. they had walked all around us while we slept, evidently smelling of each one, as was indicated by the large, plain tracks which they had left, not only in the camp, but across the road also as they took their departure. during the day we had opportunity to buy some hay for our stock, and at night we made ourselves at home among the heaviest white pine timber i ever saw. to test the size of the trees, we selected one that was representative of more than half the trees in that vicinity, and four of us joined hands and tried to circle the tree, but could not. they were so large and so near together that it seemed as though more than one-half of the ground and air was taken up by them. they had only a few stub branches for a top. their bodies were as straight and as smooth as a ship's mast, and so tall that in looking at them one usually had to throw one's head back twice before seeing their tops. the western slope of the sierras was much more gradual in its descent than on the eastern side, the former reaching from the summit to the valley of the sacramento, about one hundred miles, while the ascent on the eastern side, from the leaving of carson valley, is about twenty-four miles. the travel along here was quiet and easy, and as we had reason to believe that we were in close proximity to the gold mines, we were constantly looking out for them. we found a sort of restaurant on the hillside, where we treated ourselves to sardines and vinegar, coffee and crackers; and a little later we came upon some men actually engaged in gold-digging, the first we had ever seen. the place was called weber creek diggings. there were several chinamen in the group, who, with their broad bamboo hats and their incessant chatter, were certainly a great curiosity to us. we passed on and soon came to diamond spring diggings, where we spent the night under an immense lone tree. the ground was rich with gold here, and if we had gone to digging and washing the very spot on which we slept we could all of us have made a snug fortune; but it was not for us to get rich so quickly. this was our last night together, hangtown, or placerville, eldorado county, as it is to-day, being but a few miles distant. we reached hangtown in time for breakfast, after which we all rode up the dividing ridge, from the top of which we looked down upon the busiest town and richest mining district in that country. the hill was long and steep, and thereby hangs a tale. the saddle had worked up on my mule's shoulders, which i had not noticed, my mind being so wholly given to our new surroundings. in a second of time, and with no admonition whatever, that mule kicked both hind feet into the air, and i was made to turn a complete somersault over his head landing on the flat of my back just in front of him. he stopped and looked at me with a malicious smile in his eye, as much as to say: "we will now quit even." the breath was knocked out of me. the boys picked me up and brushed the dirt off, but i never mounted the mule again. we closed our social relations right there. to think he should be so ungrateful as to treat me in that way after i had watched over him with so much care and tenderness! we had swam many a stream together; i had even divided my bread with him; i had reposed so much confidence in him that many a night had i slept with the loose end of his lariat tied to my wrist. when we returned to town i sold both my mule and pony. after we had treated ourselves to a bath, shave, haircut, and some new clothes we started out to prospect for individual interests, and became separated. two of the company i have never seen since we parted that afternoon, august 10, 1852. chapter xii. each day makes its own paragraphs and punctuation marks. "i am dreaming to-night of the days gone by, when i camped in the open so free and grand. * * * * * those days have gone; each passing year has made the buoyant steps grow slow, but the pictures stay to comfort and cheer the days that come and the days that go." during the preparation of the previous chapters i have once again been twenty-four years old. once again i have lived over those five months, so alternated with lights and shadows, but above which the star of hope never for a moment lacked luster or definiteness. the entire route from monroe, michigan, to hangtown, was one great book, having new lessons and illustrations for each day. some of them were beautiful beyond description; others were terrible beyond compare, and so hard to understand. each day made its own paragraphs and punctuation marks, and how surprising and unexpected many of them were! commas would become semicolons and periods give place to exclamation points, in the most reckless sort of fashion. the event which had been planned as a period to a day's doings would often instead become a hyphen, leading into and connecting us with conditions wholly undreamed of. to-day as i look back upon the more than fifty intervening years i realize that the wealth that i gathered from the wayside of each day's doings has enriched my whole after-life far beyond the nuggets which i digged from the mines. nature never does anything half-heartedly. her every lesson, picture, and song is an inspirer and enricher to all who would learn, look, and listen aright. all of our company, excepting the one who still sleeps in his prairie bed, eventually reached the "promised land." captain and mrs. wadsworth, then as before, were noted and esteemed for their noble manhood and womanhood. the captain in time was made marshal of placerville and did much for the advancement of its interests. both he and his wife died after being in california about seven years. charley stewart, the young man with whom i had the midnight tussle, returned to his home in a few months, dying shortly thereafter. he had made the trip hoping to benefit his impaired health, but was disappointed in the result. i kept in touch with several of the others for some time. after two years i returned home by way of the isthmus, when other and new interests claimed my time and attention, and i would only hear now and again that one and then another and yet others had left the trail and passed over the dividing ridge into the land where camps neither break nor move on. the story of our trail has of necessity been told in monologue, as only i of all the number am here to tell it. the pictures upon memory's walls, a few relics, and a golden band upon my wife's finger, made into a wedding-ring from gold that i myself had dug, are the links which unite _these_ days to _those_ days. available by internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 31189-h.htm or 31189-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31189/31189-h/31189-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/31189/31189-h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/monsterotherstor00cranuoft the monster and other stories by stephen crane [illustration: "'if you ain't afraid, go do it then'"] illustrated new york and london harper & brothers publishers 1899 copyright, 1899, by harper & brothers. all rights reserved. [illustration: "'henry johnson! rats!'"] contents the monster the blue hotel his new mittens illustrations "'if you ain't afraid, go do it then'" "no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy" "'henry johnson! rats!'" "they bowed and smiled until a late hour" "the band played a waltz" "'what district?'" in the laboratory "they did not care much for john shipley" "'if i get six dollehs for bo'ding hennery johnson, i uhns it'" "the door swung portentously open" mrs. farragut "'it's about what nobody talks of--much,' said twelve" little horace "yelling like hawks at the white balls flew" "'i've got to go home'" "when he raised his voice to deny the charge" "'aw, come on!'" "a pair of very wet mittens" "brought a plate of food" "horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food" "some sort of bloody-handed person" "people, bowed forward" "eight cents' worth of something" "his head hung low" "'mam-ma! mam-ma! oh, mam-ma!'" the monster i little jim was, for the time, engine number 36, and he was making the run between syracuse and rochester. he was fourteen minutes behind time, and the throttle was wide open. in consequence, when he swung around the curve at the flower-bed, a wheel of his cart destroyed a peony. number 36 slowed down at once and looked guiltily at his father, who was mowing the lawn. the doctor had his back to this accident, and he continued to pace slowly to and fro, pushing the mower. jim dropped the tongue of the cart. he looked at his father and at the broken flower. finally he went to the peony and tried to stand it on its pins, resuscitated, but the spine of it was hurt, and it would only hang limply from his hand. jim could do no reparation. he looked again towards his father. he went on to the lawn, very slowly, and kicking wretchedly at the turf. presently his father came along with the whirring machine, while the sweet, new grass blades spun from the knives. in a low voice, jim said, "pa!" the doctor was shaving this lawn as if it were a priest's chin. all during the season he had worked at it in the coolness and peace of the evenings after supper. even in the shadow of the cherry-trees the grass was strong and healthy. jim raised his voice a trifle. "pa!" the doctor paused, and with the howl of the machine no longer occupying the sense, one could hear the robins in the cherry-trees arranging their affairs. jim's hands were behind his back, and sometimes his fingers clasped and unclasped. again he said, "pa!" the child's fresh and rosy lip was lowered. the doctor stared down at his son, thrusting his head forward and frowning attentively. "what is it, jimmie?" "pa!" repeated the child at length. then he raised his finger and pointed at the flowerbed. "there!" "what?" said the doctor, frowning more. "what is it, jim?" after a period of silence, during which the child may have undergone a severe mental tumult, he raised his finger and repeated his former word--"there!" the father had respected this silence with perfect courtesy. afterwards his glance carefully followed the direction indicated by the child's finger, but he could see nothing which explained to him. "i don't understand what you mean, jimmie," he said. it seemed that the importance of the whole thing had taken away the boy's vocabulary, he could only reiterate, "there!" the doctor mused upon the situation, but he could make nothing of it. at last he said, "come, show me." together they crossed the lawn towards the flower-bed. at some yards from the broken peony jimmie began to lag. "there!" the word came almost breathlessly. "where?" said the doctor. jimmie kicked at the grass. "there!" he replied. the doctor was obliged to go forward alone. after some trouble he found the subject of the incident, the broken flower. turning then, he saw the child lurking at the rear and scanning his countenance. the father reflected. after a time he said, "jimmie, come here." with an infinite modesty of demeanor the child came forward. "jimmie, how did this happen?" the child answered, "now--i was playin' train--and--now--i runned over it." "you were doing what?" "i was playin' train." the father reflected again. "well, jimmie," he said, slowly, "i guess you had better not play train any more to-day. do you think you had better?" "no, sir," said jimmie. during the delivery of the judgment the child had not faced his father, and afterwards he went away, with his head lowered, shuffling his feet. ii it was apparent from jimmie's manner that he felt some kind of desire to efface himself. he went down to the stable. henry johnson, the negro who cared for the doctor's horses, was sponging the buggy. he grinned fraternally when he saw jimmie coming. these two were pals. in regard to almost everything in life they seemed to have minds precisely alike. of course there were points of emphatic divergence. for instance, it was plain from henry's talk that he was a very handsome negro, and he was known to be a light, a weight, and an eminence in the suburb of the town, where lived the larger number of the negroes, and obviously this glory was over jimmie's horizon; but he vaguely appreciated it and paid deference to henry for it mainly because henry appreciated it and deferred to himself. however, on all points of conduct as related to the doctor, who was the moon, they were in complete but unexpressed understanding. whenever jimmie became the victim of an eclipse he went to the stable to solace himself with henry's crimes. henry, with the elasticity of his race, could usually provide a sin to place himself on a footing with the disgraced one. perhaps he would remember that he had forgotten to put the hitching-strap in the back of the buggy on some recent occasion, and had been reprimanded by the doctor. then these two would commune subtly and without words concerning their moon, holding themselves sympathetically as people who had committed similar treasons. on the other hand, henry would sometimes choose to absolutely repudiate this idea, and when jimmie appeared in his shame would bully him most virtuously, preaching with assurance the precepts of the doctor's creed, and pointing out to jimmie all his abominations. jimmie did not discover that this was odious in his comrade. he accepted it and lived in its shadow with humility, merely trying to conciliate the saintly henry with acts of deference. won by this attitude, henry would sometimes allow the child to enjoy the felicity of squeezing the sponge over a buggy-wheel, even when jimmie was still gory from unspeakable deeds. whenever henry dwelt for a time in sackcloth, jimmie did not patronize him at all. this was a justice of his age, his condition. he did not know. besides, henry could drive a horse, and jimmie had a full sense of this sublimity. henry personally conducted the moon during the splendid journeys through the country roads, where farms spread on all sides, with sheep, cows, and other marvels abounding. "hello, jim!" said henry, poising his sponge. water was dripping from the buggy. sometimes the horses in the stalls stamped thunderingly on the pine floor. there was an atmosphere of hay and of harness. for a minute jimmie refused to take an interest in anything. he was very downcast. he could not even feel the wonders of wagon washing. henry, while at his work, narrowly observed him. "your pop done wallop yer, didn't he?" he said at last. "no," said jimmie, defensively; "he didn't." after this casual remark henry continued his labor, with a scowl of occupation. presently he said: "i done tol' yer many's th' time not to go a-foolin' an' a-projjeckin' with them flowers. yer pop don' like it nohow." as a matter of fact, henry had never mentioned flowers to the boy. jimmie preserved a gloomy silence, so henry began to use seductive wiles in this affair of washing a wagon. it was not until he began to spin a wheel on the tree, and the sprinkling water flew everywhere, that the boy was visibly moved. he had been seated on the sill of the carriage-house door, but at the beginning of this ceremony he arose and circled towards the buggy, with an interest that slowly consumed the remembrance of a late disgrace. johnson could then display all the dignity of a man whose duty it was to protect jimmie from a splashing. "look out, boy! look out! you done gwi' spile yer pants. i raikon your mommer don't 'low this foolishness, she know it. i ain't gwi' have you round yere spilin' yer pants, an' have mis' trescott light on me pressen'ly. 'deed i ain't." he spoke with an air of great irritation, but he was not annoyed at all. this tone was merely a part of his importance. in reality he was always delighted to have the child there to witness the business of the stable. for one thing, jimmie was invariably overcome with reverence when he was told how beautifully a harness was polished or a horse groomed. henry explained each detail of this kind with unction, procuring great joy from the child's admiration. iii after johnson had taken his supper in the kitchen, he went to his loft in the carriage house and dressed himself with much care. no belle of a court circle could bestow more mind on a toilet than did johnson. on second thought, he was more like a priest arraying himself for some parade of the church. as he emerged from his room and sauntered down the carriage-drive, no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy. [illustration: "no one would have suspected him of ever having washed a buggy"] it was not altogether a matter of the lavender trousers, nor yet the straw hat with its bright silk band. the change was somewhere, far in the interior of henry. but there was no cake-walk hyperbole in it. he was simply a quiet, well-bred gentleman of position, wealth, and other necessary achievements out for an evening stroll, and he had never washed a wagon in his life. in the morning, when in his working-clothes, he had met a friend--"hello, pete!" "hello, henry!" now, in his effulgence, he encountered this same friend. his bow was not at all haughty. if it expressed anything, it expressed consummate generosity--"good-evenin', misteh washington." pete, who was very dirty, being at work in a potato-patch, responded in a mixture of abasement and appreciation--"good-evenin', misteh johnsing." the shimmering blue of the electric arc lamps was strong in the main street of the town. at numerous points it was conquered by the orange glare of the outnumbering gaslights in the windows of shops. through this radiant lane moved a crowd, which culminated in a throng before the post-office, awaiting the distribution of the evening mails. occasionally there came into it a shrill electric street-car, the motor singing like a cageful of grasshoppers, and possessing a great gong that clanged forth both warnings and simple noise. at the little theatre, which was a varnish and red plush miniature of one of the famous new york theatres, a company of strollers was to play "east lynne." the young men of the town were mainly gathered at the corners, in distinctive groups, which expressed various shades and lines of chumship, and had little to do with any social gradations. there they discussed everything with critical insight, passing the whole town in review as it swarmed in the street. when the gongs of the electric cars ceased for a moment to harry the ears, there could be heard the sound of the feet of the leisurely crowd on the bluestone pavement, and it was like the peaceful evening lashing at the shore of a lake. at the foot of the hill, where two lines of maples sentinelled the way, an electric lamp glowed high among the embowering branches, and made most wonderful shadow-etchings on the road below it. when johnson appeared amid the throng a member of one of the profane groups at a corner instantly telegraphed news of this extraordinary arrival to his companions. they hailed him. "hello, henry! going to walk for a cake to-night?" "ain't he smooth?" "why, you've got that cake right in your pocket, henry!" "throw out your chest a little more." henry was not ruffled in any way by these quiet admonitions and compliments. in reply he laughed a supremely good-natured, chuckling laugh, which nevertheless expressed an underground complacency of superior metal. young griscom, the lawyer, was just emerging from reifsnyder's barber shop, rubbing his chin contentedly. on the steps he dropped his hand and looked with wide eyes into the crowd. suddenly he bolted back into the shop. "wow!" he cried to the parliament; "you ought to see the coon that's coming!" reifsnyder and his assistant instantly poised their razors high and turned towards the window. two belathered heads reared from the chairs. the electric shine in the street caused an effect like water to them who looked through the glass from the yellow glamour of reifsnyder's shop. in fact, the people without resembled the inhabitants of a great aquarium that here had a square pane in it. presently into this frame swam the graceful form of henry johnson. "chee!" said reifsnyder. he and his assistant with one accord threw their obligations to the winds, and leaving their lathered victims helpless, advanced to the window. "ain't he a taisy?" said reifsnyder, marvelling. but the man in the first chair, with a grievance in his mind, had found a weapon. "why, that's only henry johnson, you blamed idiots! come on now, reif, and shave me. what do you think i am--a mummy?" reifsnyder turned, in a great excitement. "i bait you any money that vas not henry johnson! henry johnson! rats!" the scorn put into this last word made it an explosion. "that man was a pullman-car porter or someding. how could that be henry johnson?" he demanded, turbulently. "you vas crazy." the man in the first chair faced the barber in a storm of indignation. "didn't i give him those lavender trousers?" he roared. and young griscom, who had remained attentively at the window, said: "yes, i guess that was henry. it looked like him." "oh, vell," said reifsnyder, returning to his business, "if you think so! oh, vell!" he implied that he was submitting for the sake of amiability. finally the man in the second chair, mumbling from a mouth made timid by adjacent lather, said: "that was henry johnson all right. why, he always dresses like that when he wants to make a front! he's the biggest dude in town--anybody knows that." "chinger!" said reifsnyder. [illustration: "'henry johnson! rats!'"] henry was not at all oblivious of the wake of wondering ejaculation that streamed out behind him. on other occasions he had reaped this same joy, and he always had an eye for the demonstration. with a face beaming with happiness he turned away from the scene of his victories into a narrow side street, where the electric light still hung high, but only to exhibit a row of tumble-down houses leaning together like paralytics. the saffron miss bella farragut, in a calico frock, had been crouched on the front stoop, gossiping at long range, but she espied her approaching caller at a distance. she dashed around the corner of the house, galloping like a horse. henry saw it all, but he preserved the polite demeanor of a guest when a waiter spills claret down his cuff. in this awkward situation he was simply perfect. the duty of receiving mr. johnson fell upon mrs. farragut, because bella, in another room, was scrambling wildly into her best gown. the fat old woman met him with a great ivory smile, sweeping back with the door, and bowing low. "walk in, misteh johnson, walk in. how is you dis ebenin', misteh johnson--how is you?" henry's face showed like a reflector as he bowed and bowed, bending almost from his head to his ankles, "good-evenin', mis' fa'gut; good-evenin'. how is you dis evenin'? is all you' folks well, mis' fa'gut?" after a great deal of kowtow, they were planted in two chairs opposite each other in the living-room. here they exchanged the most tremendous civilities, until miss bella swept into the room, when there was more kowtow on all sides, and a smiling show of teeth that was like an illumination. the cooking-stove was of course in this drawing-room, and on the fire was some kind of a long-winded stew. mrs. farragut was obliged to arise and attend to it from time to time. also young sim came in and went to bed on his pallet in the corner. but to all these domesticities the three maintained an absolute dumbness. they bowed and smiled and ignored and imitated until a late hour, and if they had been the occupants of the most gorgeous salon in the world they could not have been more like three monkeys. after henry had gone, bella, who encouraged herself in the appropriation of phrases, said, "oh, ma, isn't he divine?" [illustration: "they bowed and smiled until a late hour"] iv a saturday evening was a sign always for a larger crowd to parade the thoroughfare. in summer the band played until ten o'clock in the little park. most of the young men of the town affected to be superior to this band, even to despise it; but in the still and fragrant evenings they invariably turned out in force, because the girls were sure to attend this concert, strolling slowly over the grass, linked closely in pairs, or preferably in threes, in the curious public dependence upon one another which was their inheritance. there was no particular social aspect to this gathering, save that group regarded group with interest, but mainly in silence. perhaps one girl would nudge another girl and suddenly say, "look! there goes gertie hodgson and her sister!" and they would appear to regard this as an event of importance. on a particular evening a rather large company of young men were gathered on the sidewalk that edged the park. they remained thus beyond the borders of the festivities because of their dignity, which would not exactly allow them to appear in anything which was so much fun for the younger lads. these latter were careering madly through the crowd, precipitating minor accidents from time to time, but usually fleeing like mist swept by the wind before retribution could lay hands upon them. the band played a waltz which involved a gift of prominence to the bass horn, and one of the young men on the sidewalk said that the music reminded him of the new engines on the hill pumping water into the reservoir. a similarity of this kind was not inconceivable, but the young man did not say it because he disliked the band's playing. he said it because it was fashionable to say that manner of thing concerning the band. however, over in the stand, billie harris, who played the snare-drum, was always surrounded by a throng of boys, who adored his every whack. after the mails from new york and rochester had been finally distributed, the crowd from the post-office added to the mass already in the park. the wind waved the leaves of the maples, and, high in the air, the blue-burning globes of the arc lamps caused the wonderful traceries of leaf shadows on the ground. when the light fell upon the upturned face of a girl, it caused it to glow with a wonderful pallor. a policeman came suddenly from the darkness and chased a gang of obstreperous little boys. they hooted him from a distance. the leader of the band had some of the mannerisms of the great musicians, and during a period of silence the crowd smiled when they saw him raise his hand to his brow, stroke it sentimentally, and glance upward with a look of poetic anguish. in the shivering light, which gave to the park an effect like a great vaulted hall, the throng swarmed, with a gentle murmur of dresses switching the turf, and with a steady hum of voices. [illustration: "the band played a waltz"] suddenly, without preliminary bars, there arose from afar the great hoarse roar of a factory whistle. it raised and swelled to a sinister note, and then it sang on the night wind one long call that held the crowd in the park immovable, speechless. the band-master had been about to vehemently let fall his hand to start the band on a thundering career through a popular march, but, smitten by this giant voice from the night, his hand dropped slowly to his knee, and, his mouth agape, he looked at his men in silence. the cry died away to a wail and then to stillness. it released the muscles of the company of young men on the sidewalk, who had been like statues, posed eagerly, lithely, their ears turned. and then they wheeled upon each other simultaneously, and, in a single explosion, they shouted, "one!" again the sound swelled in the night and roared its long ominous cry, and as it died away the crowd of young men wheeled upon each other and, in chorus, yelled, "two!" there was a moment of breathless waiting. then they bawled, "second district!" in a flash the company of indolent and cynical young men had vanished like a snowball disrupted by dynamite. v jake rogers was the first man to reach the home of tuscarora hose company number six. he had wrenched his key from his pocket as he tore down the street, and he jumped at the spring-lock like a demon. as the doors flew back before his hands he leaped and kicked the wedges from a pair of wheels, loosened a tongue from its clasp, and in the glare of the electric light which the town placed before each of its hose-houses the next comers beheld the spectacle of jake rogers bent like hickory in the manfulness of his pulling, and the heavy cart was moving slowly towards the doors. four men joined him at the time, and as they swung with the cart out into the street, dark figures sped towards them from the ponderous shadows back of the electric lamps. some set up the inevitable question, "what district?" "second," was replied to them in a compact howl. tuscarora hose company number six swept on a perilous wheel into niagara avenue, and as the men, attached to the cart by the rope which had been paid out from the windlass under the tongue, pulled madly in their fervor and abandon, the gong under the axle clanged incitingly. and sometimes the same cry was heard, "what district?" "second." [illustration: "what district"] on a grade johnnie thorpe fell, and exercising a singular muscular ability, rolled out in time from the track of the on-coming wheel, and arose, dishevelled and aggrieved, casting a look of mournful disenchantment upon the black crowd that poured after the machine. the cart seemed to be the apex of a dark wave that was whirling as if it had been a broken dam. back of the lad were stretches of lawn, and in that direction front-doors were banged by men who hoarsely shouted out into the clamorous avenue, "what district?" at one of these houses a woman came to the door bearing a lamp, shielding her face from its rays with her hands. across the cropped grass the avenue represented to her a kind of black torrent, upon which, nevertheless, fled numerous miraculous figures upon bicycles. she did not know that the towering light at the corner was continuing its nightly whine. suddenly a little boy somersaulted around the corner of the house as if he had been projected down a flight of stairs by a catapultian boot. he halted himself in front of the house by dint of a rather extraordinary evolution with his legs. "oh, ma," he gasped, "can i go? can i, ma?" she straightened with the coldness of the exterior mother-judgment, although the hand that held the lamp trembled slightly. "no, willie; you had better come to bed." instantly he began to buck and fume like a mustang. "oh, ma," he cried, contorting himself--"oh, ma, can't i go? please, ma, can't i go? can't i go, ma?" "it's half-past nine now, willie." he ended by wailing out a compromise: "well, just down to the corner, ma? just down to the corner?" from the avenue came the sound of rushing men who wildly shouted. somebody had grappled the bell-rope in the methodist church, and now over the town rang this solemn and terrible voice, speaking from the clouds. moved from its peaceful business, this bell gained a new spirit in the portentous night, and it swung the heart to and fro, up and down, with each peal of it. "just down to the corner, ma?" "willie, it's half-past nine now." [illustration: "they did not care much for john shipley"] vi the outlines of the house of dr. trescott had faded quietly into the evening, hiding a shape such as we call queen anne against the pall of the blackened sky. the neighborhood was at this time so quiet, and seemed so devoid of obstructions, that hannigan's dog thought it a good opportunity to prowl in forbidden precincts, and so came and pawed trescott's lawn, growling, and considering himself a formidable beast. later, peter washington strolled past the house and whistled, but there was no dim light shining from henry's loft, and presently peter went his way. the rays from the street, creeping in silvery waves over the grass, caused the row of shrubs along the drive to throw a clear, bold shade. a wisp of smoke came from one of the windows at the end of the house and drifted quietly into the branches of a cherry-tree. its companions followed it in slowly increasing numbers, and finally there was a current controlled by invisible banks which poured into the fruit-laden boughs of the cherry-tree. it was no more to be noted than if a troop of dim and silent gray monkeys had been climbing a grapevine into the clouds. after a moment the window brightened as if the four panes of it had been stained with blood, and a quick ear might have been led to imagine the fire-imps calling and calling, clan joining clan, gathering to the colors. from the street, however, the house maintained its dark quiet, insisting to a passer-by that it was the safe dwelling of people who chose to retire early to tranquil dreams. no one could have heard this low droning of the gathering clans. suddenly the panes of the red window tinkled and crashed to the ground, and at other windows there suddenly reared other flames, like bloody spectres at the apertures of a haunted house. this outbreak had been well planned, as if by professional revolutionists. a man's voice suddenly shouted: "fire! fire! fire!" hannigan had flung his pipe frenziedly from him because his lungs demanded room. he tumbled down from his perch, swung over the fence, and ran shouting towards the front-door of the trescotts'. then he hammered on the door, using his fists as if they were mallets. mrs. trescott instantly came to one of the windows on the second floor. afterwards she knew she had been about to say, "the doctor is not at home, but if you will leave your name, i will let him know as soon as he comes." hannigan's bawling was for a minute incoherent, but she understood that it was not about croup. "what?" she said, raising the window swiftly. "your house is on fire! you're all ablaze! move quick if--" his cries were resounding, in the street as if it were a cave of echoes. many feet pattered swiftly on the stones. there was one man who ran with an almost fabulous speed. he wore lavender trousers. a straw hat with a bright silk band was held half crumpled in his hand. as henry reached the front-door, hannigan had just broken the lock with a kick. a thick cloud of smoke poured over them, and henry, ducking his head, rushed into it. from hannigan's clamor he knew only one thing, but it turned him blue with horror. in the hall a lick of flame had found the cord that supported "signing the declaration." the engraving slumped suddenly down at one end, and then dropped to the floor, where it burst with the sound of a bomb. the fire was already roaring like a winter wind among the pines. at the head of the stairs mrs. trescott was waving her arms as if they were two reeds. "jimmie! save jimmie!" she screamed in henry's face. he plunged past her and disappeared, taking the long-familiar routes among these upper chambers, where he had once held office as a sort of second assistant house-maid. hannigan had followed him up the stairs, and grappled the arm of the maniacal woman there. his face was black with rage. "you must come down," he bellowed. she would only scream at him in reply: "jimmie! jimmie! save jimmie!" but he dragged her forth while she babbled at him. as they swung out into the open air a man ran across the lawn, and seizing a shutter, pulled it from its hinges and flung it far out upon the grass. then he frantically attacked the other shutters one by one. it was a kind of temporary insanity. "here, you," howled hannigan, "hold mrs. trescott--and stop--" the news had been telegraphed by a twist of the wrist of a neighbor who had gone to the fire-box at the corner, and the time when hannigan and his charge struggled out of the house was the time when the whistle roared its hoarse night call, smiting the crowd in the park, causing the leader of the band, who was about to order the first triumphal clang of a military march, to let his hand drop slowly to his knees. vii henry pawed awkwardly through the smoke in the upper halls. he had attempted to guide himself by the walls, but they were too hot. the paper was crimpling, and he expected at any moment to have a flame burst from under his hands. "jimmie!" he did not call very loud, as if in fear that the humming flames below would overhear him. "jimmie! oh, jimmie!" stumbling and panting, he speedily reached the entrance to jimmie's room and flung open the door. the little chamber had no smoke in it at all. it was faintly illuminated by a beautiful rosy light reflected circuitously from the flames that were consuming the house. the boy had apparently just been aroused by the noise. he sat in his bed, his lips apart, his eyes wide, while upon his little white-robed figure played caressingly the light from the fire. as the door flew open he had before him this apparition of his pal, a terror-stricken negro, all tousled and with wool scorching, who leaped upon him and bore him up in a blanket as if the whole affair were a case of kidnapping by a dreadful robber chief. without waiting to go through the usual short but complete process of wrinkling up his face, jimmie let out a gorgeous bawl, which resembled the expression of a calf's deepest terror. as johnson, bearing him, reeled into the smoke of the hall, he flung his arms about his neck and buried his face in the blanket. he called twice in muffled tones: "mam-ma! mam-ma!" when johnson came to the top of the stairs with his burden, he took a quick step backward. through the smoke that rolled to him he could see that the lower hall was all ablaze. he cried out then in a howl that resembled jimmie's former achievement. his legs gained a frightful faculty of bending sideways. swinging about precariously on these reedy legs, he made his way back slowly, back along the upper hall. from the way of him then, he had given up almost all idea of escaping from the burning house, and with it the desire. he was submitting, submitting because of his fathers, bending his mind in a most perfect slavery to this conflagration. he now clutched jimmie as unconsciously as when, running toward the house, he had clutched the hat with the bright silk band. suddenly he remembered a little private staircase which led from a bedroom to an apartment which the doctor had fitted up as a laboratory and work-house, where he used some of his leisure, and also hours when he might have been sleeping, in devoting himself to experiments which came in the way of his study and interest. when johnson recalled this stairway the submission to the blaze departed instantly. he had been perfectly familiar with it, but his confusion had destroyed the memory of it. in his sudden momentary apathy there had been little that resembled fear, but now, as a way of safety came to him, the old frantic terror caught him. he was no longer creature to the flames, and he was afraid of the battle with them. it was a singular and swift set of alternations in which he feared twice without submission, and submitted once without fear. "jimmie!" he wailed, as he staggered on his way. he wished this little inanimate body at his breast to participate in his tremblings. but the child had lain limp and still during these headlong charges and countercharges, and no sign came from him. johnson passed through two rooms and came to the head of the stairs. as he opened the door great billows of smoke poured out, but gripping jimmie closer, he plunged down through them. all manner of odors assailed him during this flight. they seemed to be alive with envy, hatred, and malice. at the entrance to the laboratory he confronted a strange spectacle. the room was like a garden in the region where might be burning flowers. flames of violet, crimson, green, blue, orange, and purple were blooming everywhere. there was one blaze that was precisely the hue of a delicate coral. in another place was a mass that lay merely in phosphorescent inaction like a pile of emeralds. but all these marvels were to be seen dimly through clouds of heaving, turning, deadly smoke. johnson halted for a moment on the threshold. he cried out again in the negro wail that had in it the sadness of the swamps. then he rushed across the room. an orange-colored flame leaped like a panther at the lavender trousers. this animal bit deeply into johnson. there was an explosion at one side, and suddenly before him there reared a delicate, trembling sapphire shape like a fairy lady. with a quiet smile she blocked his path and doomed him and jimmie. johnson shrieked, and then ducked in the manner of his race in fights. he aimed to pass under the left guard of the sapphire lady. but she was swifter than eagles, and her talons caught in him as he plunged past her. bowing his head as if his neck had been struck, johnson lurched forward, twisting this way and that way. he fell on his back. the still form in the blanket flung from his arms, rolled to the edge of the floor and beneath the window. johnson had fallen with his head at the base of an old-fashioned desk. there was a row of jars upon the top of this desk. for the most part, they were silent amid this rioting, but there was one which seemed to hold a scintillant and writhing serpent. suddenly the glass splintered, and a ruby-red snakelike thing poured its thick length out upon the top of the old desk. it coiled and hesitated, and then began to swim a languorous way down the mahogany slant. at the angle it waved its sizzling molten head to and fro over the closed eyes of the man beneath it. then, in a moment, with a mystic impulse, it moved again, and the red snake flowed directly down into johnson's upturned face. afterwards the trail of this creature seemed to reek, and amid flames and low explosions drops like red-hot jewels pattered softly down it at leisurely intervals. [illustration: "in the laboratory"] viii suddenly all roads led to dr. trescott's. the whole town flowed towards one point. chippeway hose company number one toiled desperately up bridge street hill even as the tuscaroras came in an impetuous sweep down niagara avenue. meanwhile the machine of the hook-and-ladder experts from across the creek was spinning on its way. the chief of the fire department had been playing poker in the rear room of whiteley's cigar-store, but at the first breath of the alarm he sprang through the door like a man escaping with the kitty. in whilomville, on these occasions, there was always a number of people who instantly turned their attention to the bells in the churches and school-houses. the bells not only emphasized the alarm, but it was the habit to send these sounds rolling across the sky in a stirring brazen uproar until the flames were practically vanquished. there was also a kind of rivalry as to which bell should be made to produce the greatest din. even the valley church, four miles away among the farms, had heard the voices of its brethren, and immediately added a quaint little yelp. dr. trescott had been driving homeward, slowly smoking a cigar, and feeling glad that this last case was now in complete obedience to him, like a wild animal that he had subdued, when he heard the long whistle, and chirped to his horse under the unlicensed but perfectly distinct impression that a fire had broken out in oakhurst, a new and rather high-flying suburb of the town which was at least two miles from his own home. but in the second blast and in the ensuing silence he read the designation of his own district. he was then only a few blocks from his house. he took out the whip and laid it lightly on the mare. surprised and frightened at this extraordinary action, she leaped forward, and as the reins straightened like steel bands, the doctor leaned backward a trifle. when the mare whirled him up to the closed gate he was wondering whose house could be afire. the man who had rung the signal-box yelled something at him, but he already knew. he left the mare to her will. in front of his door was a maniacal woman in a wrapper. "ned!" she screamed at sight of him. "jimmie! save jimmie!" trescott had grown hard and chill. "where?" he said. "where?" mrs. trescott's voice began to bubble. "up--up--up--" she pointed at the second-story windows. hannigan was already shouting: "don't go in that way! you can't go in that way!" trescott ran around the corner of the house and disappeared from them. he knew from the view he had taken of the main hall that it would be impossible to ascend from there. his hopes were fastened now to the stairway which led from the laboratory. the door which opened from this room out upon the lawn was fastened with a bolt and lock, but he kicked close to the lock and then close to the bolt. the door with a loud crash flew back. the doctor recoiled from the roll of smoke, and then bending low, he stepped into the garden of burning flowers. on the floor his stinging eyes could make out a form in a smouldering blanket near the window. then, as he carried his son towards the door, he saw that the whole lawn seemed now alive with men and boys, the leaders in the great charge that the whole town was making. they seized him and his burden, and overpowered him in wet blankets and water. but hannigan was howling: "johnson is in there yet! henry johnson is in there yet! he went in after the kid! johnson is in there yet!" these cries penetrated to the sleepy senses of trescott, and he struggled with his captors, swearing, unknown to him and to them, all the deep blasphemies of his medical-student days. he rose to his feet and went again towards the door of the laboratory. they endeavored to restrain him, although they were much affrighted at him. but a young man who was a brakeman on the railway, and lived in one of the rear streets near the trescotts, had gone into the laboratory and brought forth a thing which he laid on the grass. ix there were hoarse commands from in front of the house. "turn on your water, five!" "let 'er go, one!" the gathering crowd swayed this way and that way. the flames, towering high, cast a wild red light on their faces. there came the clangor of a gong from along some adjacent street. the crowd exclaimed at it. "here comes number three!" "that's three a-comin'!" a panting and irregular mob dashed into view, dragging a hose-cart. a cry of exultation arose from the little boys. "here's three!" the lads welcomed never-die hose company number three as if it was composed of a chariot dragged by a band of gods. the perspiring citizens flung themselves into the fray. the boys danced in impish joy at the displays of prowess. they acclaimed the approach of number two. they welcomed number four with cheers. they were so deeply moved by this whole affair that they bitterly guyed the late appearance of the hook and ladder company, whose heavy apparatus had almost stalled them on the bridge street hill. the lads hated and feared a fire, of course. they did not particularly want to have anybody's house burn, but still it was fine to see the gathering of the companies, and amid a great noise to watch their heroes perform all manner of prodigies. they were divided into parties over the worth of different companies, and supported their creeds with no small violence. for instance, in that part of the little city where number four had its home it would be most daring for a boy to contend the superiority of any other company. likewise, in another quarter, where a strange boy was asked which fire company was the best in whilomville, he was expected to answer "number one." feuds, which the boys forgot and remembered according to chance or the importance of some recent event, existed all through the town. they did not care much for john shipley, the chief of the department. it was true that he went to a fire with the speed of a falling angel, but when there he invariably lapsed into a certain still mood, which was almost a preoccupation, moving leisurely around the burning structure and surveying it, putting meanwhile at a cigar. this quiet man, who even when life was in danger seldom raised his voice, was not much to their fancy. now old sykes huntington, when he was chief, used to bellow continually like a bull and gesticulate in a sort of delirium. he was much finer as a spectacle than this shipley, who viewed a fire with the same steadiness that he viewed a raise in a large jack-pot. the greater number of the boys could never understand why the members of these companies persisted in re-electing shipley, although they often pretended to understand it, because "my father says" was a very formidable phrase in argument, and the fathers seemed almost unanimous in advocating shipley. at this time there was considerable discussion as to which company had gotten the first stream of water on the fire. most of the boys claimed that number five owned that distinction, but there was a determined minority who contended for number one. boys who were the blood adherents of other companies were obliged to choose between the two on this occasion, and the talk waxed warm. but a great rumor went among the crowds. it was told with hushed voices. afterwards a reverent silence fell even upon the boys. jimmie trescott and henry johnson had been burned to death, and dr. trescott himself had been most savagely hurt. the crowd did not even feel the police pushing at them. they raised their eyes, shining now with awe, towards the high flames. the man who had information was at his best. in low tones he described the whole affair. "that was the kid's room--in the corner there. he had measles or somethin', and this coon--johnson--was a-settin' up with 'im, and johnson got sleepy or somethin' and upset the lamp, and the doctor he was down in his office, and he came running up, and they all got burned together till they dragged 'em out." another man, always preserved for the deliverance of the final judgment, was saying: "oh, they'll die sure. burned to flinders. no chance. hull lot of 'em. anybody can see." the crowd concentrated its gaze still more closely upon these flags of fire which waved joyfully against the black sky. the bells of the town were clashing unceasingly. a little procession moved across the lawn and towards the street. there were three cots, borne by twelve of the firemen. the police moved sternly, but it needed no effort of theirs to open a lane for this slow cortege. the men who bore the cots were well known to the crowd, but in this solemn parade during the ringing of the bells and the shouting, and with the red glare upon the sky, they seemed utterly foreign, and whilomville paid them a deep respect. each man in this stretcher party had gained a reflected majesty. they were footmen to death, and the crowd made subtle obeisance to this august dignity derived from three prospective graves. one woman turned away with a shriek at sight of the covered body on the first stretcher, and people faced her suddenly in silent and mournful indignation. otherwise there was barely a sound as these twelve important men with measured tread carried their burdens through the throng. the little boys no longer discussed the merits of the different fire companies. for the greater part they had been routed. only the more courageous viewed closely the three figures veiled in yellow blankets. x old judge denning hagenthorpe, who lived nearly opposite the trescotts, had thrown his door wide open to receive the afflicted family. when it was publicly learned that the doctor and his son and the negro were still alive, it required a specially detailed policeman to prevent people from scaling the front porch and interviewing these sorely wounded. one old lady appeared with a miraculous poultice, and she quoted most damning scripture to the officer when he said that she could not pass him. throughout the night some lads old enough to be given privileges or to compel them from their mothers remained vigilantly upon the kerb in anticipation of a death or some such event. the reporter of the morning tribune rode thither on his bicycle every hour until three o'clock. six of the ten doctors in whilomville attended at judge hagenthorpe's house. almost at once they were able to know that trescott's burns were not vitally important. the child would possibly be scarred badly, but his life was undoubtedly safe. as for the negro henry johnson, he could not live. his body was frightfully seared, but more than that, he now had no face. his face had simply been burned away. trescott was always asking news of the two other patients. in the morning he seemed fresh and strong, so they told him that johnson was doomed. they then saw him stir on the bed, and sprang quickly to see if the bandages needed readjusting. in the sudden glance he threw from one to another he impressed them as being both leonine and impracticable. the morning paper announced the death of henry johnson. it contained a long interview with edward j. hannigan, in which the latter described in full the performance of johnson at the fire. there was also an editorial built from all the best words in the vocabulary of the staff. the town halted in its accustomed road of thought, and turned a reverent attention to the memory of this hostler. in the breasts of many people was the regret that they had not known enough to give him a hand and a lift when he was alive, and they judged themselves stupid and ungenerous for this failure. the name of henry johnson became suddenly the title of a saint to the little boys. the one who thought of it first could, by quoting it in an argument, at once overthrow his antagonist, whether it applied to the subject or whether it did not. "nigger, nigger, never die. black face and shiny eye." boys who had called this odious couplet in the rear of johnson's march buried the fact at the bottom of their hearts. later in the day miss bella farragut, of no. 7 watermelon alley, announced that she had been engaged to marry mr. henry johnson. xi the old judge had a cane with an ivory head. he could never think at his best until he was leaning slightly on this stick and smoothing the white top with slow movements of his hands. it was also to him a kind of narcotic. if by any chance he mislaid it, he grew at once very irritable, and was likely to speak sharply to his sister, whose mental incapacity he had patiently endured for thirty years in the old mansion on ontario street. she was not at all aware of her brother's opinion of her endowments, and so it might be said that the judge had successfully dissembled for more than a quarter of a century, only risking the truth at the times when his cane was lost. on a particular day the judge sat in his armchair on the porch. the sunshine sprinkled through the lilac-bushes and poured great coins on the boards. the sparrows disputed in the trees that lined the pavements. the judge mused deeply, while his hands gently caressed the ivory head of his cane. finally he arose and entered the house, his brow still furrowed in a thoughtful frown. his stick thumped solemnly in regular beats. on the second floor he entered a room where dr. trescott was working about the bedside of henry johnson. the bandages on the negro's head allowed only one thing to appear, an eye, which unwinkingly stared at the judge. the later spoke to trescott on the condition of the patient. afterward he evidently had something further to say, but he seemed to be kept from it by the scrutiny of the unwinking eye, at which he furtively glanced from time to time. when jimmie trescott was sufficiently recovered, his mother had taken him to pay a visit to his grandparents in connecticut. the doctor had remained to take care of his patients, but as a matter of truth he spent most of his time at judge hagenthorpe's house, where lay henry johnson. here he slept and ate almost every meal in the long nights and days of his vigil. at dinner, and away from the magic of the unwinking eye, the judge said, suddenly, "trescott, do you think it is--" as trescott paused expectantly, the judge fingered his knife. he said, thoughtfully, "no one wants to advance such ideas, but somehow i think that that poor fellow ought to die." there was in trescott's face at once a look of recognition, as if in this tangent of the judge he saw an old problem. he merely sighed and answered, "who knows?" the words were spoken in a deep tone that gave them an elusive kind of significance. the judge retreated to the cold manner of the bench. "perhaps we may not talk with propriety of this kind of action, but i am induced to say that you are performing a questionable charity in preserving this negro's life. as near as i can understand, he will hereafter be a monster, a perfect monster, and probably with an affected brain. no man can observe you as i have observed you and not know that it was a matter of conscience with you, but i am afraid, my friend, that it is one of the blunders of virtue." the judge had delivered his views with his habitual oratory. the last three words he spoke with a particular emphasis, as if the phrase was his discovery. the doctor made a weary gesture. "he saved my boy's life." "yes," said the judge, swiftly--"yes, i know!" "and what am i to do?" said trescott, his eyes suddenly lighting like an outburst from smouldering peat. "what am i to do? he gave himself for--for jimmie. what am i to do for him?" the judge abased himself completely before these words. he lowered his eyes for a moment. he picked at his cucumbers. presently he braced himself straightly in his chair. "he will be your creation, you understand. he is purely your creation. nature has very evidently given him up. he is dead. you are restoring him to life. you are making him, and he will be a monster, and with no mind. "he will be what you like, judge," cried trescott, in sudden, polite fury. "he will be anything, but, by god! he saved my boy." the judge interrupted in a voice trembling with emotion: "trescott! trescott! don't i know?" trescott had subsided to a sullen mood. "yes, you know," he answered, acidly; "but you don't know all about your own boy being saved from death." this was a perfectly childish allusion to the judge's bachelorhood. trescott knew that the remark was infantile, but he seemed to take desperate delight in it. but it passed the judge completely. it was not his spot. "i am puzzled," said he, in profound thought. "i don't know what to say." trescott had become repentant. "don't think i don't appreciate what you say, judge. but--" "of course!" responded the judge, quickly. "of course." "it--" began trescott. "of course," said the judge. in silence they resumed their dinner. "well," said the judge, ultimately, "it is hard for a man to know what to do." "it is," said the doctor, fervidly. there was another silence. it was broken by the judge: "look here, trescott; i don't want you to think--" "no, certainly not," answered the doctor, earnestly. "well, i don't want you to think i would say anything to--it was only that i thought that i might be able to suggest to you that--perhaps--the affair was a little dubious." with an appearance of suddenly disclosing his real mental perturbation, the doctor said: "well, what would you do? would you kill him?" he asked, abruptly and sternly. "trescott, you fool," said the old man, gently. "oh, well, i know, judge, but then--" he turned red, and spoke with new violence: "say, he saved my boy--do you see? he saved my boy." "you bet he did," cried the judge, with enthusiasm. "you bet he did." and they remained for a time gazing at each other, their faces illuminated with memories of a certain deed. after another silence, the judge said, "it is hard for a man to know what to do." xii late one evening trescott, returning from a professional call, paused his buggy at the hagenthorpe gate. he tied the mare to the old tin-covered post, and entered the house. ultimately he appeared with a companion--a man who walked slowly and carefully, as if he were learning. he was wrapped to the heels in an old-fashioned ulster. they entered the buggy and drove away. after a silence only broken by the swift and musical humming of the wheels on the smooth road, trescott spoke. "henry," he said, "i've got you a home here with old alek williams. you will have everything you want to eat and a good place to sleep, and i hope you will get along there all right. i will pay all your expenses, and come to see you as often as i can. if you don't get along, i want you to let me know as soon as possible, and then we will do what we can to make it better." the dark figure at the doctor's side answered with a cheerful laugh. "these buggy wheels don' look like i washed 'em yesterday, docteh," he said. trescott hesitated for a moment, and then went on insistently, "i am taking you to alek williams, henry, and i--" the figure chuckled again. "no, 'deed! no, seh! alek williams don' know a hoss! 'deed he don't. he don' know a hoss from a pig." the laugh that followed was like the rattle of pebbles. trescott turned and looked sternly and coldly at the dim form in the gloom from the buggy-top. "henry," he said, "i didn't say anything about horses. i was saying--" "hoss? hoss?" said the quavering voice from these near shadows. "hoss? 'deed i don' know all erbout a boss! 'deed i don't." there was a satirical chuckle. at the end of three miles the mare slackened and the doctor leaned forward, peering, while holding tight reins. the wheels of the buggy bumped often over out-cropping bowlders. a window shone forth, a simple square of topaz on a great black hill-side. four dogs charged the buggy with ferocity, and when it did not promptly retreat, they circled courageously around the flanks, baying. a door opened near the window in the hill-side, and a man came and stood on a beach of yellow light. "yah! yah! you roveh! you susie! come yah! come yah this minit!" trescott called across the dark sea of grass, "hello, alek!" "hello!" "come down here and show me where to drive." the man plunged from the beach into the surf, and trescott could then only trace his course by the fervid and polite ejaculations of a host who was somewhere approaching. presently williams took the mare by the head, and uttering cries of welcome and scolding the swarming dogs, led the equipage towards the lights. when they halted at the door and trescott was climbing out, williams cried, "will she stand, docteh?" "she'll stand all right, but you better hold her for a minute. now, henry." the doctor turned and held both arms to the dark figure. it crawled to him painfully like a man going down a ladder. williams took the mare away to be tied to a little tree, and when he returned he found them awaiting him in the gloom beyond the rays from the door. he burst out then like a siphon pressed by a nervous thumb. "hennery! hennery, ma ol' frien'. well, if i ain' glade. if i ain' glade!" trescott had taken the silent shape by the arm and led it forward into the full revelation of the light. "well, now, alek, you can take henry and put him to bed, and in the morning i will--" near the end of this sentence old williams had come front to front with johnson. he gasped for a second, and then yelled the yell of a man stabbed in the heart. for a fraction of a moment trescott seemed to be looking for epithets. then he roared: "you old black chump! you old black--shut up! shut up! do you hear?" williams obeyed instantly in the matter of his screams, but he continued in a lowered voice: "ma lode amassy! who'd ever think? ma lode amassy!" trescott spoke again in the manner of a commander of a battalion. "alek!" the old negro again surrendered, but to himself he repeated in a whisper, "ma lode!" he was aghast and trembling. as these three points of widening shadows approached the golden doorway a hale old negress appeared there, bowing. "good-evenin', docteh! good-evenin'! come in! come in!" she had evidently just retired from a tempestuous struggle to place the room in order, but she was now bowing rapidly. she made the effort of a person swimming. "don't trouble yourself, mary," said trescott, entering. "i've brought henry for you to take care of, and all you've got to do is to carry out what i tell you." learning that he was not followed, he faced the door, and said, "come in, henry." johnson entered. "whee!" shrieked mrs. williams. she almost achieved a back somersault. six young members of the tribe of williams made a simultaneous plunge for a position behind the stove, and formed a wailing heap. xiii "you know very well that you and your family lived usually on less than three dollars a week, and now that dr. trescott pays you five dollars a week for johnson's board, you live like millionaires. you haven't done a stroke of work since johnson began to board with you--everybody knows that--and so what are you kicking about?" the judge sat in his chair on the porch, fondling his cane, and gazing down at old williams, who stood under the lilac-bushes. "yes, i know, jedge," said the negro, wagging his head in a puzzled manner. "tain't like as if i didn't 'preciate what the docteh done, but--but--well, yeh see, jedge," he added, gaining a new impetus, "it's--it's hard wuk. this ol' man nev' did wuk so hard. lode, no." "don't talk such nonsense, alek," spoke the judge, sharply. "you have never really worked in your life--anyhow, enough to support a family of sparrows, and now when you are in a more prosperous condition than ever before, you come around talking like an old fool." the negro began to scratch his head. "yeh see, jedge," he said at last, "my ol' 'ooman she cain't 'ceive no lady callahs, nohow." "hang lady callers'" said the judge, irascibly. "if you have flour in the barrel and meat in the pot, your wife can get along without receiving lady callers, can't she?" "but they won't come ainyhow, jedge," replied williams, with an air of still deeper stupefaction. "noner ma wife's frien's ner noner ma frien's 'll come near ma res'dence." "well, let them stay home if they are such silly people." the old negro seemed to be seeking a way to elude this argument, but evidently finding none, he was about to shuffle meekly off. he halted, however. "jedge," said he, "ma ol' 'ooman's near driv' abstracted." "your old woman is an idiot," responded the judge. williams came very close and peered solemnly through a branch of lilac. "judge," he whispered, "the chillens." "what about them?" dropping his voice to funereal depths, williams said, "they--they cain't eat." "can't eat!" scoffed the judge, loudly. "can't eat! you must think i am as big an old fool as you are. can't eat--the little rascals! what's to prevent them from eating?" in answer, williams said, with mournful emphasis, "hennery." moved with a kind of satisfaction at his tragic use of the name, he remained staring at the judge for a sign of its effect. the judge made a gesture of irritation. "come, now, you old scoundrel, don't beat around the bush any more. what are you up to? what do you want? speak out like a man, and don't give me any more of this tiresome rigamarole." "i ain't er-beatin' round 'bout nuffin, jedge," replied williams, indignantly. "no, seh; i say whatter got to say right out. 'deed i do." "well, say it, then." "jedge," began the negro, taking off his hat and switching his knee with it, "lode knows i'd do jes 'bout as much fer five dollehs er week as ainy cul'd man, but--but this yere business is awful, jedge. i raikon 'ain't been no sleep in--in my house sence docteh done fetch 'im." "well, what do you propose to do about it?" williams lifted his eyes from the ground and gazed off through the trees. "raikon i got good appetite, an' sleep jes like er dog, but he--he's done broke me all up. 'tain't no good, nohow. i wake up in the night; i hear 'im, mebbe, er-whimperin' an' er-whimperin', an' i sneak an' i sneak until i try th' do' to see if he locked in. an' he keep me er-puzzlin' an' er-quakin' all night long. don't know how'll do in th' winter. can't let 'im out where th' chillen is. he'll done freeze where he is now." williams spoke these sentences as if he were talking to himself. after a silence of deep reflection he continued: "folks go round sayin' he ain't hennery johnson at all. they say he's er devil!" "what?" cried the judge. "yesseh," repeated williams, in tones of injury, as if his veracity had been challenged. "yesseh. i'm er-tellin' it to yeh straight, jedge. plenty cul'd people folks up my way say it is a devil." "well, you don't think so yourself, do you?" "no. 'tain't no devil. it's hennery johnson." "well, then, what is the matter with you? you don't care what a lot of foolish people say. go on 'tending to your business, and pay no attention to such idle nonsense." "'tis nonsense, jedge; but he _looks_ like er devil." "what do you care what he looks like?" demanded the judge. "ma rent is two dollehs and er half er month," said williams, slowly. "it might just as well be ten thousand dollars a month," responded the judge. "you never pay it, anyhow." "then, anoth' thing," continued williams, in his reflective tone. "if he was all right in his haid i could stan' it; but, jedge, he's crazier 'n er loon. then when he looks like er devil, an' done skears all ma frien's away, an' ma chillens cain't eat, an' ma ole 'ooman jes raisin' cain all the time, an' ma rent two dollehs an' er half er month, an' him not right in his haid, it seems like five dollehs er week--" the judge's stick came down sharply and suddenly upon the floor of the porch. "there," he said, "i thought that was what you were driving at." williams began swinging his head from side to side in the strange racial mannerism. "now hol' on a minnet, jedge," he said, defensively. "'tain't like as if i didn't 'preciate what the docteh done. 'tain't that. docteh trescott is er kind man, an' 'tain't like as if i didn't 'preciate what he done; but--but--" "but what? you are getting painful, alek. now tell me this: did you ever have five dollars a week regularly before in your life?" williams at once drew himself up with great dignity, but in the pause after that question he drooped gradually to another attitude. in the end he answered, heroically: "no, jedge, i 'ain't. an' 'tain't like as if i was er-sayin' five dollehs wasn't er lot er money for a man like me. but, jedge, what er man oughter git fer this kinder wuk is er salary. yesseh, jedge," he repeated, with a great impressive gesture; "fer this kinder wuk er man oughter git er salary." he laid a terrible emphasis upon the final word. the judge laughed. "i know dr. trescott's mind concerning this affair, alek; and if you are dissatisfied with your boarder, he is quite ready to move him to some other place; so, if you care to leave word with me that you are tired of the arrangement and wish it changed, he will come and take johnson away." williams scratched his head again in deep perplexity. "five dollehs is er big price fer bo'd, but 'tain't no big price fer the bo'd of er crazy man," he said, finally. "what do you think you ought to get?" asked the judge. "well," answered alek, in the manner of one deep in a balancing of the scales, "he looks like er devil, an' done skears e'rybody, an' ma chillens cain't eat, an' i cain't sleep, an' he ain't right in his haid, an'--" "you told me all those things." after scratching his wool, and beating his knee with his hat, and gazing off through the trees and down at the ground, williams said, as he kicked nervously at the gravel, "well, jedge, i think it is wuth--" he stuttered. "worth what?" "six dollehs," answered williams, in a desperate outburst. the judge lay back in his great arm-chair and went through all the motions of a man laughing heartily, but he made no sound save a slight cough. williams had been watching him with apprehension. "well," said the judge, "do you call six dollars a salary?" "no, seh," promptly responded williams. "'tain't a salary. no, 'deed! 'tain't a salary." he looked with some anger upon the man who questioned his intelligence in this way. "well, supposing your children can't eat?" "i--" "and supposing he looks like a devil? and supposing all those things continue? would you be satisfied with six dollars a week?" recollections seemed to throng in williams's mind at these interrogations, and he answered dubiously. "of co'se a man who ain't right in his haid, an' looks like er devil--but six dollehs--" after these two attempts at a sentence williams suddenly appeared as an orator, with a great shiny palm waving in the air. "i tell yeh, jedge, six dollehs is six dollehs, but if i git six dollehs for bo'ding hennery johnson, i uhns it! i uhns it!" "i don't doubt that you earn six dollars for every week's work you do," said the judge. "well, if i bo'd hennery johnson fer six dollehs er week, i uhns it! i uhns it!" cried williams, wildly. [illustration: "'if i get six dollehs for bo'ding hennery johnson, i uhns it'"] xiv reifsnyder's assistant had gone to his supper, and the owner of the shop was trying to placate four men who wished to be shaved at once. reifsnyder was very garrulous--a fact which made him rather remarkable among barbers, who, as a class, are austerely speechless, having been taught silence by the hammering reiteration of a tradition. it is the customers who talk in the ordinary event. as reifsnyder waved his razor down the cheek of a man in the chair, he turned often to cool the impatience of the others with pleasant talk, which they did not particularly heed. "oh, he should have let him die," said bainbridge, a railway engineer, finally replying to one of the barber's orations. "shut up, reif, and go on with your business!" instead, reifsnyder paused shaving entirely, and turned to front the speaker. "let him die?" he demanded. "how vas that? how can you let a man die?" "by letting him die, you chump," said the engineer. the others laughed a little, and reifsnyder turned at once to his work, sullenly, as a man overwhelmed by the derision of numbers. "how vas that?" he grumbled later. "how can you let a man die when he vas done so much for you?" "'when he vas done so much for you?'" repeated bainbridge. "you better shave some people. how vas that? maybe this ain't a barber shop?" a man hitherto silent now said, "if i had been the doctor, i would have done the same thing." "of course," said reifsnyder. "any man vould do it. any man that vas not like you, you--old--flint-hearted--fish." he had sought the final words with painful care, and he delivered the collection triumphantly at bainbridge. the engineer laughed. the man in the chair now lifted himself higher, while reifsnyder began an elaborate ceremony of anointing and combing his hair. now free to join comfortably in the talk, the man said: "they say he is the most terrible thing in the world. young johnnie bernard--that drives the grocery wagon--saw him up at alek williams's shanty, and he says he couldn't eat anything for two days." "chee!" said reifsnyder. "well, what makes him so terrible?" asked another. "because he hasn't got any face," replied the barber and the engineer in duct. "hasn't got any face!" repeated the man. "how can he do without any face?" "he has no face in the front of his head. in the place where his face ought to grow." bainbridge sang these lines pathetically as he arose and hung his hat on a hook. the man in the chair was about to abdicate in his favor. "get a gait on you now," he said to reifsnyder. "i go out at 7.31." as the barber foamed the lather on the cheeks of the engineer he seemed to be thinking heavily. then suddenly he burst out. "how would you like to be with no face?" he cried to the assemblage. "oh, if i had to have a face like yours--" answered one customer. bainbridge's voice came from a sea of lather. "you're kicking because if losing faces became popular, you'd have to go out of business." "i don't think it will become so much popular," said reifsnyder. "not if it's got to be taken off in the way his was taken off," said another man. "i'd rather keep mine, if you don't mind." "i guess so!" cried the barber. "just think!" the shaving of bainbridge had arrived at a time of comparative liberty for him. "i wonder what the doctor says to himself?" he observed. "he may be sorry he made him live." "it was the only thing he could do," replied a man. the others seemed to agree with him. "supposing you were in his place," said one, "and johnson had saved your kid. what would you do?" "certainly!" "of course! you would do anything on earth for him. you'd take all the trouble in the world for him. and spend your last dollar on him. well, then?" "i wonder how it feels to be without any face?" said reifsnyder, musingly. the man who had previously spoken, feeling that he had expressed himself well, repeated the whole thing. "you would do anything on earth for him. you'd take all the trouble in the world for him. and spend your last dollar on him. well, then?" "no, but look," said reifsnyder; "supposing you don't got a face!" xv as soon as williams was hidden from the view of the old judge he began to gesture and talk to himself. an elation had evidently penetrated to his vitals, and caused him to dilate as if he had been filled with gas. he snapped his fingers in the air, and whistled fragments of triumphal music. at times, in his progress towards his shanty, he indulged in a shuffling movement that was really a dance. it was to be learned from the intermediate monologue that he had emerged from his trials laurelled and proud. he was the unconquerable alexander williams. nothing could exceed the bold self-reliance of his manner. his kingly stride, his heroic song, the derisive flourish of his hands--all betokened a man who had successfully defied the world. on his way he saw zeke paterson coming to town. they hailed each other at a distance of fifty yards. "how do, broth' paterson?" "how do, broth' williams?" they were both deacons. "is you' folks well, broth' paterson?" "middlin', middlin'. how's you' folks, broth' williams?" neither of them had slowed his pace in the smallest degree. they had simply begun this talk when a considerable space separated them, continued it as they passed, and added polite questions as they drifted steadily apart. williams's mind seemed to be a balloon. he had been so inflated that he had not noticed that paterson had definitely shied into the dry ditch as they came to the point of ordinary contact. afterwards, as he went a lonely way, he burst out again in song and pantomimic celebration of his estate. his feet moved in prancing steps. when he came in sight of his cabin, the fields were bathed in a blue dusk, and the light in the window was pale. cavorting and gesticulating, he gazed joyfully for some moments upon this light. then suddenly another idea seemed to attack his mind, and he stopped, with an air of being suddenly dampened. in the end he approached his home as if it were the fortress of an enemy. some dogs disputed his advance for a loud moment, and then discovering their lord, slunk away embarrassed. his reproaches were addressed to them in muffled tones. arriving at the door, he pushed it open with the timidity of a new thief. he thrust his head cautiously sideways, and his eyes met the eyes of his wife, who sat by the table, the lamp-light defining a half of her face. '"sh!" he said, uselessly. his glance travelled swiftly to the inner door which shielded the one bed-chamber. the pickaninnies, strewn upon the floor of the living-room, were softly snoring. after a hearty meal they had promptly dispersed themselves about the place and gone to sleep. "'sh!" said williams again to his motionless and silent wife. he had allowed only his head to appear. his wife, with one hand upon the edge of the table and the other at her knee, was regarding him with wide eyes and parted lips as if he were a spectre. she looked to be one who was living in terror, and even the familiar face at the door had thrilled her because it had come suddenly. williams broke the tense silence. "is he all right?" he whispered, waving his eyes towards the inner door. following his glance timorously, his wife nodded, and in a low tone answered: "i raikon he's done gone t' sleep." williams then slunk noiselessly across his threshold. he lifted a chair, and with infinite care placed it so that it faced the dreaded inner door. his wife moved slightly, so as to also squarely face it. a silence came upon them in which they seemed to be waiting for a calamity, pealing and deadly. williams finally coughed behind his hand. his wife started, and looked upon him in alarm. "pears like he done gwine keep quiet ternight," he breathed. they continually pointed their speech and their looks at the inner door, paying it the homage due to a corpse or a phantom. another long stillness followed this sentence. their eyes shone white and wide. a wagon rattled down the distant road. from their chairs they looked at the window, and the effect of the light in the cabin was a presentation of an intensely black and solemn night. the old woman adopted the attitude used always in church at funerals. at times she seemed to be upon the point of breaking out in prayer. "he mighty quiet ter-night," whispered williams. "was he good ter-day?" for answer his wife raised her eyes to the ceiling in the supplication of job. williams moved restlessly. finally he tiptoed to the door. he knelt slowly and without a sound, and placed his ear near the key-hole. hearing a noise behind him, he turned quickly. his wife was staring at him aghast. she stood in front of the stove, and her arms were spread out in the natural movement to protect all her sleeping ducklings. but williams arose without having touched the door. "i raikon he er-sleep," he said, fingering his wool. he debated with himself for some time. during this interval his wife remained, a great fat statue of a mother shielding her children. it was plain that his mind was swept suddenly by a wave of temerity. with a sounding step he moved towards the door. his fingers were almost upon the knob when he swiftly ducked and dodged away, clapping his hands to the back of his head. it was as if the portal had threatened him. there was a little tumult near the stove, where mrs. williams's desperate retreat had involved her feet with the prostrate children. after the panic williams bore traces of a feeling of shame. he returned to the charge. he firmly grasped the knob with his left hand, and with his other hand turned the key in the lock. he pushed the door, and as it swung portentously open he sprang nimbly to one side like the fearful slave liberating the lion. near the stove a group had formed, the terror stricken mother, with her arms stretched, and the aroused children clinging frenziedly to her skirts. the light streamed after the swinging door, and disclosed a room six feet one way and six feet the other way. it was small enough to enable the radiance to lay it plain. williams peered warily around the corner made by the door-post. suddenly he advanced, retired, and advanced again with a howl. his palsied family had expected him to spring backward, and at his howl they heaped themselves wondrously. but williams simply stood in the little room emitting his howls before an open window. "he's gone! he's gone! he's gone!" his eye and his hand had speedily proved the fact. he had even thrown open a little cupboard. presently he came flying out. he grabbed his hat, and hurled the outer door back upon its hinges. then he tumbled headlong into the night. he was yelling: "docteh trescott! docteh trescott!" he ran wildly through the fields, and galloped in the direction of town. he continued to call to trescott, as if the latter was within easy hearing. it was as if trescott was poised in the contemplative sky over the running negro, and could heed this reaching voice--"docteh trescott!" in the cabin, mrs. williams, supported by relays from the battalion of children, stood quaking watch until the truth of daylight came as a reinforcement and made the arrogant, strutting, swashbuckler children, and a mother who proclaimed her illimitable courage. [illustration: "the door swung portentously open"] xvi theresa page was giving a party. it was the outcome of a long series of arguments addressed to her mother, which had been overheard in part by her father. he had at last said five words, "oh, let her have it." the mother had then gladly capitulated. theresa had written nineteen invitations, and distributed them at recess to her schoolmates. later her mother had composed five large cakes, and still later a vast amount of lemonade. so the nine little girls and the ten little boys sat quite primly in the dining-room, while theresa and her mother plied them with cake and lemonade, and also with ice-cream. this primness sat now quite strangely upon them. it was owing to the presence of mrs. page. previously in the parlor alone with their games they had overturned a chair; the boys had let more or less of their hoodlum spirit shine forth. but when circumstances could be possibly magnified to warrant it, the girls made the boys victims of an insufferable pride, snubbing them mercilessly. so in the dining-room they resembled a class at sunday-school, if it were not for the subterranean smiles, gestures, rebuffs, and poutings which stamped the affair as a children's party. two little girls of this subdued gathering were planted in a settle with their backs to the broad window. they were beaming lovingly upon each other with an effect of scorning the boys. hearing a noise behind her at the window, one little girl turned to face it. instantly she screamed and sprang away, covering her face with her hands. "what was it? what was it?" cried every one in a roar. some slight movement of the eyes of the weeping and shuddering child informed the company that she had been frightened by an appearance at the window. at once they all faced the imperturbable window, and for a moment there was a silence. an astute lad made an immediate census of the other lads. the prank of slipping out and looming spectrally at a window was too venerable. but the little boys were all present and astonished. as they recovered their minds they uttered warlike cries, and through a side door sallied rapidly out against the terror. they vied with each other in daring. none wished particularly to encounter a dragon in the darkness of the garden, but there could be no faltering when the fair ones in the dining-room were present. calling to each other in stern voices, they went dragooning over the lawn, attacking the shadows with ferocity, but still with the caution of reasonable beings. they found, however, nothing new to the peace of the night. of course there was a lad who told a great lie. he described a grim figure, bending low and slinking off along the fence. he gave a number of details, rendering his lie more splendid by a repetition of certain forms which he recalled from romances. for instance, he insisted that he had heard the creature emit a hollow laugh. inside the house the little girl who had raised the alarm was still shuddering and weeping. with the utmost difficulty was she brought to a state approximating calmness by mrs. page. then she wanted to go home at once. page entered the house at this time. he had exiled himself until he concluded that this children's party was finished and gone. he was obliged to escort the little girl home because she screamed again when they opened the door and she saw the night. she was not coherent even to her mother. was it a man? she didn't know. it was simply a thing, a dreadful thing. xvii in watermelon alley the farraguts were spending their evening as usual on the little rickety porch. sometimes they howled gossip to other people on other rickety porches. the thin wail of a baby arose from a near house. a man had a terrific altercation with his wife, to which the alley paid no attention at all. there appeared suddenly before the farraguts a monster making a low and sweeping bow. there was an instant's pause, and then occurred something that resembled the effect of an upheaval of the earth's surface. the old woman hurled herself backward with a dreadful cry. young sim had been perched gracefully on a railing. at sight of the monster he simply fell over it to the ground. he made no sound, his eyes stuck out, his nerveless hands tried to grapple the rail to prevent a tumble, and then he vanished. bella, blubbering, and with her hair suddenly and mysteriously dishevelled, was crawling on her hands and knees fearsomely up the steps. standing before this wreck of a family gathering, the monster continued to bow. it even raised a deprecatory claw. "doh' make no botheration 'bout me, miss fa'gut," it said, politely. "no, 'deed. i jes drap in ter ax if yer well this evenin', miss fa'gut. don' make no botheration. no, 'deed. i gwine ax you to go to er daince with me, miss fa'gut. i ax you if i can have the magnifercent gratitude of you' company on that 'casion, miss fa'gut." the girl cast a miserable glance behind her. she was still crawling away. on the ground beside the porch young sim raised a strange bleat, which expressed both his fright and his lack of wind. presently the monster, with a fashionable amble, ascended the steps after the girl. she grovelled in a corner of the room as the creature took a chair. it seated itself very elegantly on the edge. it held an old cap in both hands. "don' make no botheration, miss fa'gut. don' make no botherations. no, 'deed. i jes drap in ter ax you if you won' do me the proud of acceptin' ma humble invitation to er daince, miss fa'gut." she shielded her eyes with her arms and tried to crawl past it, but the genial monster blocked the way. "i jes drap in ter ax you 'bout er daince, miss fa'gut. i ax you if i kin have the magnifercent gratitude of you' company on that 'casion, miss fa'gut." in a last outbreak of despair, the girl, shuddering and wailing, threw herself face downward on the floor, while the monster sat on the edge of the chair gabbling courteous invitations, and holding the old hat daintily to his stomach. at the back of the house, mrs. farragut, who was of enormous weight, and who for eight years had done little more than sit in an armchair and describe her various ailments, had with speed and agility scaled a high board fence. [illustration: "mrs. farragut"] xviii the black mass in the middle of trescott's property was hardly allowed to cool before the builders were at work on another house. it had sprung upward at a fabulous rate. it was like a magical composition born of the ashes. the doctor's office was the first part to be completed, and he had already moved in his new books and instruments and medicines. trescott sat before his desk when the chief of police arrived. "well, we found him," said the latter. "did you?" cried the doctor. "where?" "shambling around the streets at daylight this morning. i'll be blamed if i can figure on where he passed the night." "where is he now?" "oh, we jugged him. i didn't know what else to do with him. that's what i want you to tell me. of course we can't keep him. no charge could be made, you know." "i'll come down and get him." the official grinned retrospectively. "must say he had a fine career while he was out. first thing he did was to break up a children's party at page's. then he went to watermelon alley. whoo! he stampeded the whole outfit. men, women, and children running pell-mell, and yelling. they say one old woman broke her leg, or something, shinning over a fence. then he went right out on the main street, and an irish girl threw a fit, and there was a sort of a riot. he began to run, and a big crowd chased him, firing rocks. but he gave them the slip somehow down there by the foundry and in the railroad yard. we looked for him all night, but couldn't find him." "was he hurt any? did anybody hit him with a stone?" "guess there isn't much of him to hurt any more, is there? guess he's been hurt up to the limit. no. they never touched him. of course nobody really wanted to hit him, but you know how a crowd gets. it's like--it's like--" "yes, i know." for a moment the chief of the police looked reflectively at the floor. then he spoke hesitatingly. "you know jake winter's little girl was the one that he scared at the party. she is pretty sick, they say." "is she? why, they didn't call me. i always attend the winter family." "no? didn't they?" asked the chief, slowly. "well--you know--winter is--well, winter has gone clean crazy over this business. he wanted--he wanted to have you arrested." "have me arrested? the idiot! what in the name of wonder could he have me arrested for?" "of course. he is a fool. i told him to keep his trap shut. but then you know how he'll go all over town yapping about the thing. i thought i'd better tip you." "oh, he is of no consequence; but then, of course, i'm obliged to you, sam." "that's all right. well, you'll be down tonight and take him out, eh? you'll get a good welcome from the jailer. he don't like his job for a cent. he says you can have your man whenever you want him. he's got no use for him." "but what is this business of winter's about having me arrested?" "oh, it's a lot of chin about your having no right to allow this--this--this man to be at large. but i told him to tend to his own business. only i thought i'd better let you know. and i might as well say right now, doctor, that there is a good deal of talk about this thing. if i were you, i'd come to the jail pretty late at night, because there is likely to be a crowd around the door, and i'd bring a--er--mask, or some kind of a veil, anyhow." xix martha goodwin was single, and well along into the thin years. she lived with her married sister in whilomville. she performed nearly all the house-work in exchange for the privilege of existence. every one tacitly recognized her labor as a form of penance for the early end of her betrothed, who had died of small-pox, which he had not caught from her. but despite the strenuous and unceasing workaday of her life, she was a woman of great mind. she had adamantine opinions upon the situation in armenia, the condition of women in china, the flirtation between mrs. minster of niagara avenue and young griscom, the conflict in the bible class of the baptist sunday-school, the duty of the united states towards the cuban insurgents, and many other colossal matters. her fullest experience of violence was gained on an occasion when she had seen a hound clubbed, but in the plan which she had made for the reform of the world she advocated drastic measures. for instance, she contended that all the turks should be pushed into the sea and drowned, and that mrs. minster and young griscom should be hanged side by side on twin gallows. in fact, this woman of peace, who had seen only peace, argued constantly for a creed of illimitable ferocity. she was invulnerable on these questions, because eventually she overrode all opponents with a sniff. this sniff was an active force. it was to her antagonists like a bang over the head, and none was known to recover from this expression of exalted contempt. it left them windless and conquered. they never again came forward as candidates for suppression. and martha walked her kitchen with a stern brow, an invincible being like napoleon. nevertheless her acquaintances, from the pain of their defeats, had been long in secret revolt. it was in no wise a conspiracy, because they did not care to state their open rebellion, but nevertheless it was understood that any woman who could not coincide with one of martha's contentions was entitled to the support of others in the small circle. it amounted to an arrangement by which all were required to disbelieve any theory for which martha fought. this, however, did not prevent them from speaking of her mind with profound respect. two people bore the brunt of her ability. her sister kate was visibly afraid of her, while carrie dungen sailed across from her kitchen to sit respectfully at martha's feet and learn the business of the world. to be sure, afterwards, under another sun, she always laughed at martha and pretended to deride her ideas, but in the presence of the sovereign she always remained silent or admiring. kate, the sister, was of no consequence at all. her principal delusion was that she did all the work in the up-stairs rooms of the house, while martha did it down-stairs. the truth was seen only by the husband, who treated martha with a kindness that was half banter, half deference. martha herself had no suspicion that she was the only pillar of the domestic edifice. the situation was without definitions. martha made definitions, but she devoted them entirely to the armenians and griscom and the chinese and other subjects. her dreams, which in early days had been of love of meadows and the shade of trees, of the face of a man, were now involved otherwise, and they were companioned in the kitchen curiously, cuba, the hot-water kettle, armenia, the washing of the dishes, and the whole thing being jumbled. in regard to social misdemeanors, she who was simply the mausoleum of a dead passion was probably the most savage critic in town. this unknown woman, hidden in a kitchen as in a well, was sure to have a considerable effect of the one kind or the other in the life of the town. every time it moved a yard, she had personally contributed an inch. she could hammer so stoutly upon the door of a proposition that it would break from its hinges and fall upon her, but at any rate it moved. she was an engine, and the fact that she did not know that she was an engine contributed largely to the effect. one reason that she was formidable was that she did not even imagine that she was formidable. she remained a weak, innocent, and pig-headed creature, who alone would defy the universe if she thought the universe merited this proceeding. one day carrie dungen came across from her kitchen with speed. she had a great deal of grist. "oh," she cried, "henry johnson got away from where they was keeping him, and came to town last night, and scared everybody almost to death." martha was shining a dish-pan, polishing madly. no reasonable person could see cause for this operation, because the pan already glistened like silver. "well!" she ejaculated. she imparted to the word a deep meaning. "this, my prophecy, has come to pass." it was a habit. the overplus of information was choking carrie. before she could go on she was obliged to struggle for a moment. "and, oh, little sadie winter is awful sick, and they say jake winter was around this morning trying to get doctor trescott arrested. and poor old mrs. farragut sprained her ankle in trying to climb a fence. and there's a crowd around the jail all the time. they put henry in jail because they didn't know what else to do with him, i guess. they say he is perfectly terrible." martha finally released the dish-pan and confronted the headlong speaker. "well!" she said again, poising a great brown rag. kate had heard the excited new-comer, and drifted down from the novel in her room. she was a shivery little woman. her shoulder-blades seemed to be two panes of ice, for she was constantly shrugging and shrugging. "serves him right if he was to lose all his patients," she said suddenly, in blood-thirsty tones. she snipped her words out as if her lips were scissors. "well, he's likely to," shouted carrie dungen. "don't a lot of people say that they won't have him any more? if you're sick and nervous, doctor trescott would scare the life out of you, wouldn't he? he would me. i'd keep thinking." martha, stalking to and fro, sometimes surveyed the two other women with a contemplative frown. xx after the return from connecticut, little jimmie was at first much afraid of the monster who lived in the room over the carriage-house. he could not identify it in any way. gradually, however, his fear dwindled under the influence of a weird fascination. he sidled into closer and closer relations with it. one time the monster was seated on a box behind the stable basking in the rays of the afternoon sun. a heavy crepe veil was swathed about its head. little jimmie and many companions came around the corner of the stable. they were all in what was popularly known as the baby class, and consequently escaped from school a half-hour before the other children. they halted abruptly at sight of the figure on the box. jimmie waved his hand with the air of a proprietor. "there he is," he said. "o-o-o!" murmured all the little boys--"o-o-o!" they shrank back, and grouped according to courage or experience, as at the sound the monster slowly turned its head. jimmie had remained in the van alone. "don't be afraid! i won't let him hurt you," he said, delighted. "huh!" they replied, contemptuously. "we ain't afraid." jimmie seemed to reap all the joys of the owner and exhibitor of one of the world's marvels, while his audience remained at a distance--awed and entranced, fearful and envious. one of them addressed jimmie gloomily. "bet you dassent walk right up to him." he was an older boy than jimmie, and habitually oppressed him to a small degree. this new social elevation of the smaller lad probably seemed revolutionary to him. "huh!" said jimmie, with deep scorn. "dassent i? dassent i, hey? dassent i?" the group was immensely excited. it turned its eyes upon the boy that jimmie addressed. "no, you dassent," he said, stolidly, facing a moral defeat. he could see that jimmie was resolved. "no, you dassent," he repeated, doggedly. "ho?" cried jimmie. "you just watch!--you just watch!" amid a silence he turned and marched towards the monster. but possibly the palpable wariness of his companions had an effect upon him that weighed more than his previous experience, for suddenly, when near to the monster, he halted dubiously. but his playmates immediately uttered a derisive shout, and it seemed to force him forward. he went to the monster and laid his hand delicately on its shoulder. "hello, henry," he said, in a voice that trembled a trifle. the monster was crooning a weird line of negro melody that was scarcely more than a thread of sound, and it paid no heed to the boy. jimmie: strutted back to his companions. they acclaimed him and hooted his opponent. amid this clamor the larger boy with difficulty preserved a dignified attitude. "i dassent, dassent i?" said jimmie to him. "now, you're so smart, let's see you do it!" this challenge brought forth renewed taunts from the others. the larger boy puffed out his checks. "well, i ain't afraid," he explained, sullenly. he had made a mistake in diplomacy, and now his small enemies were tumbling his prestige all about his ears. they crowed like roosters and bleated like lambs, and made many other noises which were supposed to bury him in ridicule and dishonor. "well, i ain't afraid," he continued to explain through the din. jimmie, the hero of the mob, was pitiless. "you ain't afraid, hey?" he sneered. "if you ain't afraid, go do it, then." "well, i would if i wanted to," the other retorted. his eyes wore an expression of profound misery, but he preserved steadily other portions of a pot-valiant air. he suddenly faced one of his persecutors. "if you're so smart, why don't you go do it?" this persecutor sank promptly through the group to the rear. the incident gave the badgered one a breathing-spell, and for a moment even turned the derision in another direction. he took advantage of his interval. "i'll do it if anybody else will," he announced, swaggering to and fro. candidates for the adventure did not come forward. to defend themselves from this counter-charge, the other boys again set up their crowing and bleating. for a while they would hear nothing from him. each time he opened his lips their chorus of noises made oratory impossible. but at last he was able to repeat that he would volunteer to dare as much in the affair as any other boy. "well, you go first," they shouted. but jimmie intervened to once more lead the populace against the large boy. "you're mighty brave, ain't you?" he said to him. "you dared me to do it, and i did--didn't i? now who's afraid?" the others cheered this view loudly, and they instantly resumed the baiting of the large boy. he shamefacedly scratched his left shin with his right foot. "well, i ain't afraid." he cast an eye at the monster. "well, i ain't afraid." with a glare of hatred at his squalling tormentors, he finally announced a grim intention. "well, i'll do it, then, since you're so fresh. now!" the mob subsided as with a formidable countenance he turned towards the impassive figure on the box. the advance was also a regular progression from high daring to craven hesitation. at last, when some yards from the monster, the lad came to a full halt, as if he had encountered a stone wall. the observant little boys in the distance promptly hooted. stung again by these cries, the lad sneaked two yards forward. he was crouched like a young cat ready for a backward spring. the crowd at the rear, beginning to respect this display, uttered some encouraging cries. suddenly the lad gathered himself together, made a white and desperate rush forward, touched the monster's shoulder with a far-outstretched finger, and sped away, while his laughter rang out wild, shrill, and exultant. the crowd of boys reverenced him at once, and began to throng into his camp, and look at him, and be his admirers. jimmie was discomfited for a moment, but he and the larger boy, without agreement or word of any kind, seemed to recognize a truce, and they swiftly combined and began to parade before the others. "why, it's just as easy as nothing," puffed the larger boy. "ain't it, jim?" "course," blew jimmie. "why, it's as e-e-easy." they were people of another class. if they had been decorated for courage on twelve battle-fields, they could not have made the other boys more ashamed of the situation. meanwhile they condescended to explain the emotions of the excursion, expressing unqualified contempt for any one who could hang back. "why, it ain't nothin'. he won't do nothin' to you," they told the others, in tones of exasperation. one of the very smallest boys in the party showed signs of a wistful desire to distinguish himself, and they turned their attention to him, pushing at his shoulders while he swung away from them, and hesitated dreamily. he was eventually induced to make furtive expedition, but it was only for a few yards. then he paused, motionless, gazing with open mouth. the vociferous entreaties of jimmie and the large boy had no power over him. mrs. hannigan had come out on her back porch with a pail of water. from this coign she had a view of the secluded portion of the trescott grounds that was behind the stable. she perceived the group of boys, and the monster on the box. she shaded her eyes with her hand to benefit her vision. she screeched then as if she was being murdered. "eddie! eddie! you come home this minute!" her son querulously demanded, "aw, what for?" "you come home this minute. do you hear?" the other boys seemed to think this visitation upon one of their number required them to preserve for a time the hang-dog air of a collection of culprits, and they remained in guilty silence until the little hannigan, wrathfully protesting, was pushed through the door of his home. mrs. hannigan cast a piercing glance over the group, stared with a bitter face at the trescott house, as if this new and handsome edifice was insulting her, and then followed her son. there was wavering in the party. an inroad by one mother always caused them to carefully sweep the horizon to see if there were more coming. "this is my yard," said jimmie, proudly. "we don't have to go home." the monster on the box had turned its black crepe countenance towards the sky, and was waving its arms in time to a religious chant. "look at him now," cried a little boy. they turned, and were transfixed by the solemnity and mystery of the indefinable gestures. the wail of the melody was mournful and slow. they drew back. it seemed to spellbind them with the power of a funeral. they were so absorbed that they did not hear the doctor's buggy drive up to the stable. trescott got out, tied his horse, and approached the group. jimmie saw him first, and at his look of dismay the others wheeled. "what's all this, jimmie?" asked trescott, in surprise. the lad advanced to the front of his companions, halted, and said nothing. trescott's face gloomed slightly as he scanned the scene. "what were you doing, jimmie?" "we was playin'," answered jimmie, huskily. "playing at what?" "just playin'." trescott looked gravely at the other boys, and asked them to please go home. they proceeded to the street much in the manner of frustrated and revealed assassins. the crime of trespass on another boy's place was still a crime when they had only accepted the other boy's cordial invitation, and they were used to being sent out of all manner of gardens upon the sudden appearance of a father or a mother. jimmie had wretchedly watched the departure of his companions. it involved the loss of his position as a lad who controlled the privileges of his father's grounds, but then he knew that in the beginning he had no right to ask so many boys to be his guests. once on the sidewalk, however, they speedily forgot their shame as trespassers, and the large boy launched forth in a description of his success in the late trial of courage. as they went rapidly up the street, the little boy who had made the furtive expedition cried out confidently from the rear, "yes, and i went almost up to him, didn't i, willie?" the large boy crushed him in a few words. "huh!" he scoffed. "you only went a little way. i went clear up to him." the pace of the other boys was so manly that the tiny thing had to trot, and he remained at the rear, getting entangled in their legs in his attempts to reach the front rank and become of some importance, dodging this way and that way, and always piping out his little claim to glory. xxi "by-the-way, grace," said trescott, looking into the dining-room from his office door, "i wish you would send jimmie to me before school-time." when jimmie came, he advanced so quietly that trescott did not at first note him. "oh," he said, wheeling from a cabinet, "here you are, young man." "yes, sir." trescott dropped into his chair and tapped the desk with a thoughtful finger. "jimmie, what were you doing in the back garden yesterday--you and the other boys--to henry?" "we weren't doing anything, pa." trescott looked sternly into the raised eyes of his son. "are you sure you were not annoying him in any way? now what were you doing, exactly?" "why, we--why, we--now--willie dalzel said i dassent go right up to him, and i did; and then he did; and then--the other boys were 'fraid; and then--you comed." trescott groaned deeply. his countenance was so clouded in sorrow that the lad, bewildered by the mystery of it, burst suddenly forth in dismal lamentations. "there, there. don't cry, jim," said trescott, going round the desk. "only--" he sat in a great leather reading-chair, and took the boy on his knee. "only i want to explain to you--" after jimmie had gone to school, and as trescott was about to start on his round of morning calls, a message arrived from doctor moser. it set forth that the latter's sister was dying in the old homestead, twenty miles away up the valley, and asked trescott to care for his patients for the day at least. there was also in the envelope a little history of each case and of what had already been done. trescott replied to the messenger that he would gladly assent to the arrangement. he noted that the first name on moser's list was winter, but this did not seem to strike him as an important fact. when its turn came, he rang the winter bell. "good-morning, mrs. winter," he said, cheerfully, as the door was opened. "doctor moser has been obliged to leave town to-day, and he has asked me to come in his stead. how is the little girl this morning?" mrs. winter had regarded him in stony surprise. at last she said: "come in! i'll see my husband." she bolted into the house. trescott entered the hall, and turned to the left into the sitting-room. presently winter shuffled through the door. his eyes flashed towards trescott. he did not betray any desire to advance far into the room. "what do you want?" he said. "what do i want? what do i want?" repeated trescott, lifting his head suddenly. he had heard an utterly new challenge in the night of the jungle. "yes, that's what i want to know," snapped winter. "what do you want?" trescott was silent for a moment. he consulted moser's memoranda. "i see that your little girl's case is a trifle serious," he remarked. "i would advise you to call a physician soon. i will leave you a copy of dr. moser's record to give to any one you may call." he paused to transcribe the record on a page of his note-book. tearing out the leaf, he extended it to winter as he moved towards the door. the latter shrunk against the wall. his head was hanging as he reached for the paper. this caused him to grasp air, and so trescott simply let the paper flutter to the feet of the other man. "good-morning," said trescott from the hall. this placid retreat seemed to suddenly arouse winter to ferocity. it was as if he had then recalled all the truths which he had formulated to hurl at trescott. so he followed him into the hall, and down the hall to the door, and through the door to the porch, barking in fiery rage from a respectful distance. as trescott imperturbably turned the mare's head down the road, winter stood on the porch, still yelping. he was like a little dog. xxii "have you heard the news?" cried carrie dungen as she sped towards martha's kitchen. "have you heard the news?" her eyes were shining with delight. "no," answered martha's sister kate, bending forward eagerly. "what was it? what was it?" carrie appeared triumphantly in the open door. "oh, there's been an awful scene between doctor trescott and jake winter. i never thought that jake winter had any pluck at all, but this morning he told the doctor just what he thought of him." "well, what did he think of him?" asked martha. "oh, he called him everything. mrs. howarth heard it through her front blinds. it was terrible, she says. it's all over town now. everybody knows it." "didn't the doctor answer back?" "no! mrs. howarth--she says he never said a word. he just walked down to his buggy and got in, and drove off as co-o-o-l. but jake gave him jinks, by all accounts." "but what did he say?" cried kate, shrill and excited. she was evidently at some kind of a feast. "oh, he told him that sadie had never been well since that night henry johnson frightened her at theresa page's party, and he held him responsible, and how dared he cross his threshold--and--and--and--" "and what?" said martha. "did he swear at him?" said kate, in fearsome glee. "no--not much. he did swear at him a little, but not more than a man does anyhow when he is real mad, mrs. howarth says." "o-oh!" breathed kate. "and did he call him any names?" martha, at her work, had been for a time in deep thought. she now interrupted the others. "it don't seem as if sadie winter had been sick since that time henry johnson got loose. she's been to school almost the whole time since then, hasn't she?" they combined upon her in immediate indignation. "school? school? i should say not. don't think for a moment. school!" martha wheeled from the sink. she held an iron spoon, and it seemed as if she was going to attack them. "sadie winter has passed here many a morning since then carrying her schoolbag. where was she going? to a wedding?" the others, long accustomed to a mental tyranny, speedily surrendered. "did she?" stammered kate. "i never saw her." carrie dungen made a weak gesture. "if i had been doctor trescott," exclaimed martha, loudly, "i'd have knocked that miserable jake winter's head off." kate and carrie, exchanging glances, made an alliance in the air. "i don't see why you say that, martha," replied carrie, with considerable boldness, gaining support and sympathy from kate's smile. "i don't see how anybody can be blamed for getting angry when their little girl gets almost scared to death and gets sick from it, and all that. besides, everybody says--" "oh, i don't care what everybody says," said martha. "well, you can't go against the whole town," answered carrie, in sudden sharp defiance. "no, martha, you can't go against the whole town," piped kate, following her leader rapidly. "'the whole town,'" cried martha. "i'd like to know what you call 'the whole town.' do you call these silly people who are scared of henry johnson 'the whole town'?" "why, martha," said carrie, in a reasoning tone, "you talk as if you wouldn't be scared of him!" "no more would i," retorted martha. "o-oh, martha, how you talk!" said kate. "why, the idea! everybody's afraid of him." carrie was grinning. "you've never seen him, have you?" she asked, seductively. "no," admitted martha. "well, then, how do you know that you wouldn't be scared?" martha confronted her. "have you ever seen him? no? well, then, how do you know you _would_ be scared?" the allied forces broke out in chorus: "but, martha, everybody says so. everybody says so." "everybody says what?" "everybody that's seen him say they were frightened almost to death. tisn't only women, but it's men too. it's awful." martha wagged her head solemnly. "i'd try not to be afraid of him." "but supposing you could not help it?" said kate. "yes, and look here," cried carrie. "i'll tell you another thing. the hannigans are going to move out of the house next door." "on account of him?" demanded martha. carrie nodded. "mrs. hannigan says so herself." "well, of all things!" ejaculated martha. "going to move, eh? you don't say so! where they going to move to?" "down on orchard avenue." "well, of all things! nice house?" "i don't know about that. i haven't heard. but there's lots of nice houses on orchard." "yes, but they're all taken," said kate. "there isn't a vacant house on orchard avenue." "oh yes, there is," said martha. "the old hampstead house is vacant." "oh, of course," said kate. "but then i don't believe mrs. hannigan would like it there. i wonder where they can be going to move to?" "i'm sure i don't know," sighed martha. "it must be to some place we don't know about." "well." said carrie dungen, after a general reflective silence, "it's easy enough to find out, anyhow." "who knows--around here?" asked kate. "why, mrs. smith, and there she is in her garden," said carrie, jumping to her feet. as she dashed out of the door, kate and martha crowded at the window. carrie's voice rang out from near the steps. "mrs. smith! mrs. smith! do you know where the hannigans are going to move to?" xxiii the autumn smote the leaves, and the trees of whilomville were panoplied in crimson and yellow. the winds grew stronger, and in the melancholy purple of the nights the home shine of a window became a finer thing. the little boys, watching the sear and sorrowful leaves drifting down from the maples, dreamed of the near time when they could heap bushels in the streets and burn them during the abrupt evenings. three men walked down the niagara avenue. as they approached judge hagenthorpe's house he came down his walk to meet them in the manner of one who has been waiting. "are you ready, judge?" one said. "all ready," he answered. the four then walked to trescott's house. he received them in his office, where he had been reading. he seemed surprised at this visit of four very active and influential citizens, but he had nothing to say of it. after they were all seated, trescott looked expectantly from one face to another. there was a little silence. it was broken by john twelve, the wholesale grocer, who was worth $400,000, and reported to be worth over a million. "well, doctor," he said, with a short laugh, "i suppose we might as well admit at once that we've come to interfere in something which is none of our business." "why, what is it?" asked trescott, again looking from one face to another. he seemed to appeal particularly to judge hagenthorpe, but the old man had his chin lowered musingly to his cane, and would not look at him. "it's about what nobody talks of--much," said twelve. "it's about henry johnson." trescott squared himself in his chair. "yes?" he said. having delivered himself of the title, twelve seemed to become more easy. "yes," he answered, blandly, "we wanted to talk to you about it." "yes?" said trescott. [illustration: "'it's about what nobody talks of--much,' said twelve"] twelve abruptly advanced on the main attack. "now see here, trescott, we like you, and we have come to talk right out about this business. it may be none of our affairs and all that, and as for me, i don't mind if you tell me so; but i am not going to keep quiet and see you ruin yourself. and that's how we all feel." "i am not ruining myself," answered trescott. "no, maybe you are not exactly ruining yourself," said twelve, slowly, "but you are doing yourself a great deal of harm. you have changed from being the leading doctor in town to about the last one. it is mainly because there are always a large number of people who are very thoughtless fools, of course, but then that doesn't change the condition." a man who had not heretofore spoken said, solemnly, "it's the women." "well, what i want to say is this," resumed twelve: "even if there are a lot of fools in the world, we can't see any reason why you should ruin yourself by opposing them. you can't teach them anything, you know." "i am not trying to teach them anything." trescott smiled wearily. "i--it is a matter of--well--" "and there are a good many of us that admire you for it immensely," interrupted twelve; "but that isn't going to change the minds of all those ninnies." "it's the women," stated the advocate of this view again. "well, what i want to say is this," said twelve. "we want you to get out of this trouble and strike your old gait again. you are simply killing your practice through your infernal pigheadedness. now this thing is out of the ordinary, but there must be ways to--to beat the game somehow, you see. so we've talked it over--about a dozen of us--and, as i say, if you want to tell us to mind our own business, why, go ahead; but we've talked it over, and we've come to the conclusion that the only way to do is to get johnson a place somewhere off up the valley, and--" trescott wearily gestured. "you don't know, my friend. everybody is so afraid of him, they can't even give him good care. nobody can attend to him as i do myself." "but i have a little no-good farm up beyond clarence mountain that i was going to give to henry," cried twelve, aggrieved. "and if you--and if you--if you--through your house burning down, or anything--why, all the boys were prepared to take him right off your hands, and--and--" trescott arose and went to the window. he turned his back upon them. they sat waiting in silence. when he returned he kept his face in the shadow. "no, john twelve," he said, "it can't be done." there was another stillness. suddenly a man stirred on his chair. "well, then, a public institution--" he began. "no," said trescott; "public institutions are all very good, but he is not going to one." in the background of the group old judge hagenthorpe was thoughtfully smoothing the polished ivory head of his cane. xxiv trescott loudly stamped the snow from his feet and shook the flakes from his shoulders. when he entered the house he went at once to the dining-room, and then to the sitting-room. jimmie was there, reading painfully in a large book concerning giraffes and tigers and crocodiles. "where is your mother, jimmie?" asked trescott. "i don't know, pa," answered the boy. "i think she is up-stairs." trescott went to the foot of the stairs and called, but there came no answer. seeing that the door of the little drawing-room was open, he entered. the room was bathed in the half-light that came from the four dull panes of mica in the front of the great stove. as his eyes grew used to the shadows he saw his wife curled in an arm-chair. he went to her. "why, grace." he said, "didn't you hear me calling you?" she made no answer, and as he bent over the chair he heard her trying to smother a sob in the cushion. "grace!" he cried. "you're crying!" she raised her face. "i've got a headache, a dreadful headache, ned." "a headache?" he repeated, in surprise and incredulity. he pulled a chair close to hers. later, as he cast his eye over the zone of light shed by the dull red panes, he saw that a low table had been drawn close to the stove, and that it was burdened with many small cups and plates of uncut tea-cake. he remembered that the day was wednesday, and that his wife received on wednesdays. "who was here to-day, gracie?" he asked. from his shoulder there came a mumble, "mrs. twelve." "was she--um," he said. "why--didn't anna hagenthorpe come over?" the mumble from his shoulder continued, "she wasn't well enough." glancing down at the cups, trescott mechanically counted them. there were fifteen of them. "there, there," he said. "don't cry, grace. don't cry." the wind was whining round the house, and the snow beat aslant upon the windows. sometimes the coal in the stove settled with a crumbling sound, and the four panes of mica flashed a sudden new crimson. as he sat holding her head on his shoulder, trescott found himself occasionally trying to count the cups. there were fifteen of them. -----the blue hotel i the palace hotel at fort romper was painted a light blue, a shade that is on the legs of a kind of heron, causing the bird to declare its position against any background. the palace hotel, then, was always screaming and howling in a way that made the dazzling winter landscape of nebraska seem only a gray swampish hush. it stood alone on the prairie, and when the snow was falling the town two hundred yards away was not visible. but when the traveller alighted at the railway station he was obliged to pass the palace hotel before he could come upon the company of low clapboard houses which composed fort romper, and it was not to be thought that any traveller could pass the palace hotel without looking at it. pat scully, the proprietor, had proved himself a master of strategy when he chose his paints. it is true that on clear days, when the great trans-continental expresses, long lines of swaying pullmans, swept through fort romper, passengers were overcome at the sight, and the cult that knows the brown-reds and the subdivisions of the dark greens of the east expressed shame, pity, horror, in a laugh. but to the citizens of this prairie town and to the people who would naturally stop there, pat scully had performed a feat. with this opulence and splendor, these creeds, classes, egotisms, that streamed through romper on the rails day after day, they had no color in common. as if the displayed delights of such a blue hotel were not sufficiently enticing, it was scully's habit to go every morning and evening to meet the leisurely trains that stopped at romper and work his seductions upon any man that he might see wavering, gripsack in hand. one morning, when a snow-crusted engine dragged its long string of freight cars and its one passenger coach to the station, scully performed the marvel of catching three men. one was a shaky and quick-eyed swede, with a great shining cheap valise; one was a tall bronzed cowboy, who was on his way to a ranch near the dakota line; one was a little silent man from the east, who didn't look it, and didn't announce it. scully practically made them prisoners. he was so nimble and merry and kindly that each probably felt it would be the height of brutality to try to escape. they trudged off over the creaking board sidewalks in the wake of the eager little irishman. he wore a heavy fur cap squeezed tightly down on his head. it caused his two red ears to stick out stiffly, as if they were made of tin. at last, scully, elaborately, with boisterous hospitality, conducted them through the portals of the blue hotel. the room which they entered was small. it seemed to be merely a proper temple for an enormous stove, which, in the centre, was humming with godlike violence. at various points on its surface the iron had become luminous and glowed yellow from the heat. beside the stove scully's son johnnie was playing high-five with an old farmer who had whiskers both gray and sandy. they were quarrelling. frequently the old farmer turned his face towards a box of sawdust--colored brown from tobacco juice--that was behind the stove, and spat with an air of great impatience and irritation. with a loud flourish of words scully destroyed the game of cards, and bustled his son up-stairs with part of the baggage of the new guests. he himself conducted them to three basins of the coldest water in the world. the cowboy and the easterner burnished themselves fiery-red with this water, until it seemed to be some kind of a metal polish. the swede, however, merely dipped his fingers gingerly and with trepidation. it was notable that throughout this series of small ceremonies the three travellers were made to feel that scully was very benevolent. he was conferring great favors upon them. he handed the towel from one to the other with an air of philanthropic impulse. afterwards they went to the first room, and, sitting about the stove, listened to scully's officious clamor at his daughters, who were preparing the mid-day meal. they reflected in the silence of experienced men who tread carefully amid new people. nevertheless, the old farmer, stationary, invincible in his chair near the warmest part of the stove, turned his face from the sawdust box frequently and addressed a glowing commonplace to the strangers. usually he was answered in short but adequate sentences by either the cowboy or the easterner. the swede said nothing. he seemed to be occupied in making furtive estimates of each man in the room. one might have thought that he had the sense of silly suspicion which comes to guilt. he resembled a badly frightened man. later, at dinner, he spoke a little, addressing his conversation entirely to scully. he volunteered that he had come from new york, where for ten years he had worked as a tailor. these facts seemed to strike scully as fascinating, and afterwards he volunteered that he had lived at romper for fourteen years. the swede asked about the crops and the price of labor. he seemed barely to listen to scully's extended replies. his eyes continued to rove from man to man. finally, with a laugh and a wink, he said that some of these western communities were very dangerous; and after his statement he straightened his legs under the table, tilted his head, and laughed again, loudly. it was plain that the demonstration had no meaning to the others. they looked at him wondering and in silence. ii as the men trooped heavily back into the front-room, the two little windows presented views of a turmoiling sea of snow. the huge arms of the wind were making attempts--mighty, circular, futile--to embrace the flakes as they sped. a gate-post like a still man with a blanched face stood aghast amid this profligate fury. in a hearty voice scully announced the presence of a blizzard. the guests of the blue hotel, lighting their pipes, assented with grunts of lazy masculine contentment. no island of the sea could be exempt in the degree of this little room with its humming stove. johnnie, son of scully, in a tone which defined his opinion of his ability as a card-player, challenged the old farmer of both gray and sandy whiskers to a game of high-five. the farmer agreed with a contemptuous and bitter scoff. they sat close to the stove, and squared their knees under a wide board. the cowboy and the easterner watched the game with interest. the swede remained near the window, aloof, but with a countenance that showed signs of an inexplicable excitement. the play of johnnie and the gray-beard was suddenly ended by another quarrel. the old man arose while casting a look of heated scorn at his adversary. he slowly buttoned his coat, and then stalked with fabulous dignity from the room. in the discreet silence of all other men the swede laughed. his laughter rang somehow childish. men by this time had begun to look at him askance, as if they wished to inquire what ailed him. a new game was formed jocosely. the cowboy volunteered to become the partner of johnnie, and they all then turned to ask the swede to throw in his lot with the little easterner, he asked some questions about the game, and, learning that it wore many names, and that he had played it when it was under an alias, he accepted the invitation. he strode towards the men nervously, as if he expected to be assaulted. finally, seated, he gazed from face to face and laughed shrilly. this laugh was so strange that the easterner looked up quickly, the cowboy sat intent and with his mouth open, and johnnie paused, holding the cards with still fingers. afterwards there was a short silence. then johnnie said, "well, let's get at it. come on now!" they pulled their chairs forward until their knees were bunched under the board. they began to play, and their interest in the game caused the others to forget the manner of the swede. the cowboy was a board-whacker. each time that he held superior cards he whanged them, one by one, with exceeding force, down upon the improvised table, and took the tricks with a glowing air of prowess and pride that sent thrills of indignation into the hearts of his opponents. a game with a board-whacker in it is sure to become intense. the countenances of the easterner and the swede were miserable whenever the cowboy thundered down his aces and kings, while johnnie, his eyes gleaming with joy, chuckled and chuckled. because of the absorbing play none considered the strange ways of the swede. they paid strict heed to the game. finally, during a lull caused by a new deal, the swede suddenly addressed johnnie: "i suppose there have been a good many men killed in this room." the jaws of the others dropped and they looked at him. "what in hell are you talking about?" said johnnie. the swede laughed again his blatant laugh, full of a kind of false courage and defiance. "oh, you know what i mean all right," he answered. "i'm a liar if i do!" johnnie protested. the card was halted, and the men stared at the swede. johnnie evidently felt that as the son of the proprietor he should make a direct inquiry. "now, what might you be drivin' at, mister?" he asked. the swede winked at him. it was a wink full of cunning. his fingers shook on the edge of the board. "oh, maybe you think i have been to nowheres. maybe you think i'm a tenderfoot?" "i don't know nothin' about you," answered johnnie, "and i don't give a damn where you've been. all i got to say is that i don't know what you're driving at. there hain't never been nobody killed in this room." the cowboy, who had been steadily gazing at the swede, then spoke: "what's wrong with you, mister?" apparently it seemed to the swede that he was formidably menaced. he shivered and turned white near the corners of his mouth. he sent an appealing glance in the direction of the little easterner. during these moments he did not forget to wear his air of advanced pot-valor. "they say they don't know what i mean," he remarked mockingly to the easterner. the latter answered after prolonged and cautious reflection. "i don't understand you," he said, impassively. the swede made a movement then which announced that he thought he had encountered treachery from the only quarter where he had expected sympathy, if not help. "oh, i see you are all against me. i see--" the cowboy was in a state of deep stupefaction. "say." he cried, as he tumbled the deck violently down upon the board "--say, what are you gittin' at, hey?" the swede sprang up with the celerity of a man escaping from a snake on the floor. "i don't want to fight!" he shouted. "i don't want to fight!" the cowboy stretched his long legs indolently and deliberately. his hands were in his pockets. he spat into the sawdust box. "well, who the hell thought you did?" he inquired. the swede backed rapidly towards a corner of the room. his hands were out protectingly in front of his chest, but he was making an obvious struggle to control his fright. "gentlemen," he quavered, "i suppose i am going to be killed before i can leave this house! i suppose i am going to be killed before i can leave this house!" in his eyes was the dying-swan look. through the windows could be seen the snow turning blue in the shadow of dusk. the wind tore at the house and some loose thing beat regularly against the clap-boards like a spirit tapping. a door opened, and scully himself entered. he paused in surprise as he noted the tragic attitude of the swede. then he said, "what's the matter here?" the swede answered him swiftly and eagerly: "these men are going to kill me." "kill you!" ejaculated scully. "kill you! what are you talkin'?" the swede made the gesture of a martyr. scully wheeled sternly upon his son. "what is this, johnnie?" the lad had grown sullen. "damned if i know," he answered. "i can't make no sense to it." he began to shuffle the cards, fluttering them together with an angry snap. "he says a good many men have been killed in this room, or something like that. and he says he's goin' to be killed here too. i don't know what ails him. he's crazy, i shouldn't wonder." scully then looked for explanation to the cowboy, but the cowboy simply shrugged his shoulders. "kill you?" said scully again to the swede. "kill you? man, you're off your nut." "oh, i know." burst out the swede. "i know what will happen. yes, i'm crazy--yes. yes, of course, i'm crazy--yes. but i know one thing--" there was a sort of sweat of misery and terror upon his face. "i know i won't get out of here alive." the cowboy drew a deep breath, as if his mind was passing into the last stages of dissolution. "well, i'm dog-goned," he whispered to himself. scully wheeled suddenly and faced his son. "you've been troublin' this man!" johnnie's voice was loud with its burden of grievance. "why, good gawd, i ain't done nothin' to 'im." the swede broke in. "gentlemen, do not disturb yourselves. i will leave this house. i will go away because"--he accused them dramatically with his glance--"because i do not want to be killed." scully was furious with his son. "will you tell me what is the matter, you young divil? what's the matter, anyhow? speak out!" "blame it!" cried johnnie in despair, "don't i tell you i don't know. he--he says we want to kill him, and that's all i know. i can't tell what ails him." the swede continued to repeat: "never mind, mr. scully; nevermind. i will leave this house. i will go away, because i do not wish to be killed. yes, of course, i am crazy--yes. but i know one thing! i will go away. i will leave this house. never mind, mr. scully; never mind. i will go away." "you will not go 'way," said scully. "you will not go 'way until i hear the reason of this business. if anybody has troubled you i will take care of him. this is my house. you are under my roof, and i will not allow any peaceable man to be troubled here." he cast a terrible eye upon johnnie, the cowboy, and the easterner. "never mind, mr. scully; never mind. i will go away. i do not wish to be killed." the swede moved towards the door, which opened upon the stairs. it was evidently his intention to go at once for his baggage. "no, no," shouted scully peremptorily; but the white-faced man slid by him and disappeared. "now," said scully severely, "what does this mane?" johnnie and the cowboy cried together: "why, we didn't do nothin' to 'im!" scully's eyes were cold. "no," he said, "you didn't?" johnnie swore a deep oath. "why this is the wildest loon i ever see. we didn't do nothin' at all. we were jest sittin' here play in' cards, and he--" the father suddenly spoke to the easterner. "mr. blanc," he asked, "what has these boys been doin'?" the easterner reflected again. "i didn't see anything wrong at all," he said at last, slowly. scully began to howl. "but what does it mane?" he stared ferociously at his son. "i have a mind to lather you for this, me boy." johnnie was frantic. "well, what have i done?" he bawled at his father. iii "i think you are tongue-tied," said scully finally to his son, the cowboy, and the easterner; and at the end of this scornful sentence he left the room. up-stairs the swede was swiftly fastening the straps of his great valise. once his back happened to be half turned towards the door, and, hearing a noise there, he wheeled and sprang up, uttering a loud cry. scully's wrinkled visage showed grimly in the light of the small lamp he carried. this yellow effulgence, streaming upward, colored only his prominent features, and left his eyes, for instance, in mysterious shadow. he resembled a murderer. "man! man!" he exclaimed, "have you gone daffy?" "oh, no! oh, no!" rejoined the other. "there are people in this world who know pretty nearly as much as you do--understand?" for a moment they stood gazing at each other. upon the swede's deathly pale checks were two spots brightly crimson and sharply edged, as if they had been carefully painted. scully placed the light on the table and sat himself on the edge of the bed. he spoke ruminatively. "by cracky, i never heard of such a thing in my life. it's a complete muddle. i can't, for the soul of me, think how you ever got this idea into your head." presently he lifted his eyes and asked: "and did you sure think they were going to kill you?" the swede scanned the old man as if he wished to see into his mind. "i did," he said at last. he obviously suspected that this answer might precipitate an outbreak. as he pulled on a strap his whole arm shook, the elbow wavering like a bit of paper. scully banged his hand impressively on the foot-board of the bed. "why, man, we're goin' to have a line of ilictric street-cars in this town next spring." "'a line of electric street-cars,'" repeated the swede, stupidly. "and," said scully, "there's a new railroad goin' to be built down from broken arm to here. not to mintion the four churches and the smashin' big brick school-house. then there's the big factory, too. why, in two years romper 'll be a _metropolis_." having finished the preparation of his baggage, the swede straightened himself. "mr. scully," he said, with sudden hardihood, "how much do i owe you?" "you don't owe me anythin'," said the old man, angrily. "yes, i do," retorted the swede. he took seventy-five cents from his pocket and tendered it to scully; but the latter snapped his fingers in disdainful refusal. however, it happened that they both stood gazing in a strange fashion at three silver pieces on the swede's open palm. "i'll not take your money," said scully at last. "not after what's been goin' on here." then a plan seemed to strike him. "here," he cried, picking up his lamp and moving towards the door. "here! come with me a minute." "no," said the swede, in overwhelming alarm. "yes," urged the old man. "come on! i want you to come and see a picter--just across the hall--in my room." the swede must have concluded that his hour was come. his jaw dropped and his teeth showed like a dead man's. he ultimately followed scully across the corridor, but he had the step of one hung in chains. scully flashed the light high on the wall of his own chamber. there was revealed a ridiculous photograph of a little girl. she was leaning against a balustrade of gorgeous decoration, and the formidable bang to her hair was prominent. the figure was as graceful as an upright sled-stake, and, withal, it was of the hue of lead. "there," said scully, tenderly, "that's the picter of my little girl that died. her name was carrie. she had the purtiest hair you ever saw! i was that fond of her, she--" turning then, he saw that the swede was not contemplating the picture at all, but, instead, was keeping keen watch on the gloom in the rear. "look, man!" cried scully, heartily. "that's the picter of my little gal that died. her name was carrie. and then here's the picter of my oldest boy, michael. he's a lawyer in lincoln, an' doin' well. i gave that boy a grand eddycation, and i'm glad for it now. he's a fine boy. look at 'im now. ain't he bold as blazes, him there in lincoln, an honored an' respicted gintleman. an honored an' respicted gintleman," concluded scully with a flourish. and, so saying, he smote the swede jovially on the back. the swede faintly smiled. "now," said the old man, "there's only one more thing." he dropped suddenly to the floor and thrust his head beneath the bed. the swede could hear his muffled voice. "i'd keep it under me piller if it wasn't for that boy johnnie. then there's the old woman--where is it now? i never put it twice in the same place. ah, now come out with you!" presently he backed clumsily from under the bed, dragging with him an old coat rolled into a bundle. "i've fetched him," he muttered. kneeling on the floor, he unrolled the coat and extracted from its heart a large yellow-brown whiskey bottle. his first maneuver was to hold the bottle up to the light. reassured, apparently, that nobody had been tampering with it, he thrust it with a generous movement towards the swede. the weak-kneed swede was about to eagerly clutch this element of strength, but he suddenly jerked his hand away and cast a look of horror upon scully. "drink," said the old man affectionately. he had risen to his feet, and now stood facing the swede. there was a silence. then again scully said: "drink!" the swede laughed wildly. he grabbed the bottle, put it to his mouth, and as his lips curled absurdly around the opening and his throat worked, he kept his glance, burning with hatred, upon the old man's face. iv after the departure of scully the three men, with the card-board still upon their knees, preserved for a long time an astounded silence. then johnnie said: "that's the dod-dangest swede i ever see." "he ain't no swede," said the cowboy, scornfully. "well, what is he then?" cried johnnie. "what is he then?" "it's my opinion," replied the cowboy deliberately, "he's some kind of a dutchman." it was a venerable custom of the country to entitle as swedes all light-haired men who spoke with a heavy tongue. in consequence the idea of the cowboy was not without its daring. "yes, sir," he repeated. "it's my opinion this feller is some kind of a dutchman." "well, he says he's a swede, anyhow," muttered johnnie, sulkily. he turned to the easterner: "what do you think, mr. blanc?" "oh, i don't know," replied the easterner. "well, what do you think makes him act that way?" asked the cowboy. "why, he's frightened." the easterner knocked his pipe against a rim of the stove. "he's clear frightened out of his boots." "what at?" cried johnnie and cowboy together. the easterner reflected over his answer. "what at?" cried the others again. "oh, i don't know, but it seems to me this man has been reading dime-novels, and he thinks he's right out in the middle of it--the shootin' and stabbin' and all." "but," said the cowboy, deeply scandalized, "this ain't wyoming, ner none of them places. this is nebrasker." "yes," added johnnie, "an' why don't he wait till he gits _out west?_" the travelled easterner laughed. "it isn't different there even--not in these days. but he thinks he's right in the middle of hell." johnnie and the cowboy mused long. "it's awful funny," remarked johnnie at last. "yes," said the cowboy. "this is a queer game. i hope we don't git snowed in, because then we'd have to stand this here man bein' around with us all the time. that wouldn't be no good." "i wish pop would throw him out," said johnnie. presently they heard a loud stamping on the stairs, accompanied by ringing jokes in the voice of old scully, and laughter, evidently from the swede. the men around the stove stared vacantly at each other. "gosh!" said the cowboy. the door flew open, and old scully, flushed and anecdotal, came into the room. he was jabbering at the swede, who followed him, laughing bravely. it was the entry of two roisterers from a banquet-hall. "come now," said scully sharply to the three seated men, "move up and give us a chance at the stove." the cowboy and the easterner obediently sidled their chairs to make room for the new-comers. johnnie, however, simply arranged himself in a more indolent attitude, and then remained motionless. "come! git over, there," said scully. "plenty of room on the other side of the stove," said johnnie. "do you think we want to sit in the draught?" roared the father. but the swede here interposed with a grandeur of confidence. "no, no. let the boy sit where he likes," he cried in a bullying voice to the father. "all right! all right!" said scully, deferentially. the cowboy and the easterner exchanged glances of wonder. the five chairs were formed in a crescent about one side of the stove. the swede began to talk; he talked arrogantly, profanely, angrily. johnnie, the cowboy, and the easterner maintained a morose silence, while old scully appeared to be receptive and eager, breaking in constantly with sympathetic ejaculations. finally the swede announced that he was thirsty. he moved in his chair, and said that he would go for a drink of water. "i'll git it for you," cried scully at once. "no," said the swede, contemptuously. "i'll get it for myself." he arose and stalked with the air of an owner off into the executive parts of the hotel. as soon as the swede was out of hearing scully sprang to his feet and whispered intensely to the others: "up-stairs he thought i was tryin' to poison 'im." "say," said johnnie, "this makes me sick. why don't you throw 'im out in the snow?" "why, he's all right now," declared scully. "it was only that he was from the east, and he thought this was a tough place. that's all. he's all right now." the cowboy looked with admiration upon the easterner. "you were straight," he said. "you were on to that there dutchman." "well," said johnnie to his father, "he may be all right now, but i don't see it. other time he was scared, but now he's too fresh." scully's speech was always a combination of irish brogue and idiom, western twang and idiom, and scraps of curiously formal diction taken from the story-books and newspapers, he now hurled a strange mass of language at the head of his son. "what do i keep? what do i keep? what do i keep?" he demanded, in a voice of thunder. he slapped his knee impressively, to indicate that he himself was going to make reply, and that all should heed. "i keep a hotel," he shouted. "a hotel, do you mind? a guest under my roof has sacred privileges. he is to be intimidated by none. not one word shall he hear that would prejudice him in favor of goin' away. i'll not have it. there's no place in this here town where they can say they iver took in a guest of mine because he was afraid to stay here." he wheeled suddenly upon the cowboy and the easterner. "am i right?" "yes, mr. scully," said the cowboy, "i think you're right." "yes, mr. scully," said the easterner, "i think you're right." v at six-o'clock supper, the swede fizzed like a fire-wheel. he sometimes seemed on the point of bursting into riotous song, and in all his madness he was encouraged by old scully. the easterner was incased in reserve; the cowboy sat in wide-mouthed amazement, forgetting to eat, while johnnie wrathily demolished great plates of food. the daughters of the house, when they were obliged to replenish the biscuits, approached as warily as indians, and, having succeeded in their purpose, fled with ill-concealed trepidation. the swede domineered the whole feast, and he gave it the appearance of a cruel bacchanal. he seemed to have grown suddenly taller; he gazed, brutally disdainful, into every face. his voice rang through the room. once when he jabbed out harpoon-fashion with his fork to pinion a biscuit, the weapon nearly impaled the hand of the easterner which had been stretched quietly out for the same biscuit. after supper, as the men filed towards the other room, the swede smote scully ruthlessly on the shoulder. "well, old boy, that was a good, square meal." johnnie looked hopefully at his father; he knew that shoulder was tender from an old fall; and, indeed, it appeared for a moment as if scully was going to flame out over the matter, but in the end he smiled a sickly smile and remained silent. the others understood from his manner that he was admitting his responsibility for the swede's new view-point. johnnie, however, addressed his parent in an aside. "why don't you license somebody to kick you down-stairs?" scully scowled darkly by way of reply. when they were gathered about the stove, the swede insisted on another game of high five. scully gently deprecated the plan at first, but the swede turned a wolfish glare upon him. the old man subsided, and the swede canvassed the others. in his tone there was always a great threat. the cowboy and the easterner both remarked indifferently that they would play. scully said that he would presently have to go to meet the 6.58 train, and so the swede turned menacingly upon johnnie. for a moment their glances crossed like blades, and then johnnie smiled and said, "yes, i'll play." they formed a square, with the little board on their knees. the easterner and the swede were again partners. as the play went on, it was noticeable that the cowboy was not board-whacking as usual. meanwhile, scully, near the lamp, had put on his spectacles and, with an appearance curiously like an old priest, was reading a newspaper. in time he went out to meet the 6.58 train, and, despite his precautions, a gust of polar wind whirled into the room as he opened the door. besides scattering the cards, it dulled the players to the marrow. the swede cursed frightfully. when scully returned, his entrance disturbed a cosey and friendly scene. the swede again cursed. but presently they were once more intent, their heads bent forward and their hands moving swiftly. the swede had adopted the fashion of board-whacking. scully took up his paper and for a long time remained immersed in matters which were extraordinarily remote from him. the lamp burned badly, and once he stopped to adjust the wick. the newspaper, as he turned from page to page, rustled with a slow and comfortable sound. then suddenly he heard three terrible words: "you are cheatin'!" such scenes often prove that there can be little of dramatic import in environment. any room can present a tragic front; any room can be comic. this little den was now hideous as a torture-chamber. the new faces of the men themselves had changed it upon the instant. the swede held a huge fist in front of johnnie's face, while the latter looked steadily over it into the blazing orbs of his accuser. the easterner had grown pallid; the cowboy's jaw had dropped in that expression of bovine amazement which was one of his important mannerisms. after the three words, the first sound in the room was made by scully's paper as it floated forgotten to his feet. his spectacles had also fallen from his nose, but by a clutch he had saved them in air. his hand, grasping the spectacles, now remained poised awkwardly and near his shoulder. he stared at the card-players. probably the silence was while a second elapsed. then, if the floor had been suddenly twitched out from under the men they could not have moved quicker. the five had projected themselves headlong towards a common point. it happened that johnnie, in rising to hurl himself upon the swede, had stumbled slightly because of his curiously instinctive care for the cards and the board. the loss of the moment allowed time for the arrival of scully, and also allowed the cowboy time to give the swede a great push which sent him staggering back. the men found tongue together, and hoarse shouts of rage, appeal, or fear burst from every throat. the cowboy pushed and jostled feverishly at the swede, and the easterner and scully clung wildly to johnnie; but, through the smoky air, above the swaying bodies of the peace-compellers, the eyes of the two warriors ever sought each other in glances of challenge that were at once hot and steely. of course the board had been overturned, and now the whole company of cards was scattered over the floor, where the boots of the men trampled the fat and painted kings and queens as they gazed with their silly eyes at the war that was waging above them. scully's voice was dominating the yells. "stop now? stop, i say! stop, now--" johnnie, as he struggled to burst through the rank formed by scully and the easterner, was crying, "well, he says i cheated! he says i cheated! i won't allow no man to say i cheated! if he says i cheated, he's a -----------!" the cowboy was telling the swede, "quit, now! quit, d'ye hear--" the screams of the swede never ceased: "he did cheat! i saw him! i saw him--" as for the easterner, he was importuning in a voice that was not heeded: "wait a moment, can't you? oh, wait a moment. what's the good of a fight over a game of cards? wait a moment--" in this tumult no complete sentences were clear. "cheat"--"quit"--"he says"--these fragments pierced the uproar and rang out sharply. it was remarkable that, whereas scully undoubtedly made the most noise, he was the least heard of any of the riotous band. then suddenly there was a great cessation. it was as if each man had paused for breath; and although the room was still lighted with the anger of men, it could be seen that there was no danger of immediate conflict, and at once johnnie, shouldering his way forward, almost succeeded in confronting the swede. "what did you say i cheated for? what did you say i cheated for? i don't cheat, and i won't let no man say i do!" the swede said, "i saw you! i saw you!" "well," cried johnnie, "i'll fight any man what says i cheat!" "no, you won't," said the cowboy. "not here." "ah, be still, can't you?" said scully, coming between them. the quiet was sufficient to allow the easterner's voice to be heard. he was repealing, "oh, wait a moment, can't you? what's the good of a fight over a game of cards? wait a moment!" johnnie, his red face appearing above his father's shoulder, hailed the swede again. "did you say i cheated?" the swede showed his teeth. "yes." "then," said johnnie, "we must fight." "yes, fight," roared the swede. he was like a demoniac. "yes, fight! i'll show you what kind of a man i am! i'll show you who you want to fight! maybe you think i can't fight! maybe you think i can't! i'll show you, you skin, you card-sharp! yes, you cheated! you cheated! you cheated!" "well, let's go at it, then, mister," said johnnie, coolly. the cowboy's brow was beaded with sweat from his efforts in intercepting all sorts of raids. he turned in despair to scully. "what are you goin' to do now?" a change had come over the celtic visage of the old man. he now seemed all eagerness; his eyes glowed. "we'll let them fight," he answered, stalwartly. "i can't put up with it any longer. i've stood this damned swede till i'm sick. we'll let them fight." vi the men prepared to go out-of-doors. the easterner was so nervous that he had great difficulty in getting his arms into the sleeves of his new leather coat. as the cowboy drew his fur cap down over his cars his hands trembled. in fact, johnnie and old scully were the only ones who displayed no agitation. these preliminaries were conducted without words. scully threw open the door. "well, come on," he said. instantly a terrific wind caused the flame of the lamp to struggle at its wick, while a puff of black smoke sprang from the chimney-top. the stove was in mid-current of the blast, and its voice swelled to equal the roar of the storm. some of the scarred and bedabbled cards were caught up from the floor and dashed helplessly against the farther wall. the men lowered their heads and plunged into the tempest as into a sea. no snow was falling, but great whirls and clouds of flakes, swept up from the ground by the frantic winds, were streaming southward with the speed of bullets. the covered land was blue with the sheen of an unearthly satin, and there was no other hue save where, at the low, black railway station--which seemed incredibly distant--one light gleamed like a tiny jewel. as the men floundered into a thigh deep drift, it was known that the swede was bawling out something. scully went to him, put a hand on his shoulder and projected an ear. "what's that you say?" he shouted. "i say," bawled the swede again, "i won't stand much show against this gang. i know you'll all pitch on me." scully smote him reproachfully on the arm. "tut, man!" he yelled. the wind tore the words from scully's lips and scattered them far alee. "you are all a gang of--" boomed the swede, but the storm also seized the remainder of this sentence. immediately turning their backs upon the wind, the men had swung around a corner to the sheltered side of the hotel. it was the function of the little house to preserve here, amid this great devastation of snow, an irregular v-shape of heavily incrusted grass, which crackled beneath the feet. one could imagine the great drifts piled against the windward side. when the party reached the comparative peace of this spot it was found that the swede was still bellowing. "oh, i know what kind of a thing this is! i know you'll all pitch on me. i can't lick you all!" scully turned upon him panther fashion. "you'll not have to whip all of us. you'll have to whip my son johnnie. an' the man what troubles you durin' that time will have me to dale with." the arrangements were swiftly made. the two men faced each other, obedient to the harsh commands of scully, whose face, in the subtly luminous gloom, could be seen set in the austere impersonal lines that are pictured on the countenances of the roman veterans. the easterner's teeth were chattering, and he was hopping up and down like a mechanical toy. the cowboy stood rock-like. the contestants had not stripped off any clothing. each was in his ordinary attire. their fists were up, and they eyed each other in a calm that had the elements of leonine cruelty in it. during this pause, the easterner's mind, like a film, took lasting impressions of three men--the iron-nerved master of the ceremony; the swede, pale, motionless, terrible; and johnnie, serene yet ferocious, brutish yet heroic. the entire prelude had in it a tragedy greater than the tragedy of action, and this aspect was accentuated by the long, mellow cry of the blizzard, as it sped the tumbling and wailing flakes into the black abyss of the south. "now!" said scully. the two combatants leaped forward and crashed together like bullocks. there was heard the cushioned sound of blows, and of a curse squeezing out from between the tight teeth of one. as for the spectators, the easterner's pent-up breath exploded from him with a pop of relief, absolute relief from the tension of the preliminaries. the cowboy bounded into the air with a yowl. scully was immovable as from supreme amazement and fear at the fury of the fight which he himself had permitted and arranged. for a time the encounter in the darkness was such a perplexity of flying arms that it presented no more detail than would a swiftly revolving wheel. occasionally a face, as if illumined by a flash of light, would shine out, ghastly and marked with pink spots. a moment later, the men might have been known as shadows, if it were not for the involuntary utterance of oaths that came from them in whispers. suddenly a holocaust of warlike desire caught the cowboy, and he bolted forward with the speed of a broncho. "go it, johnnie! go it! kill him! kill him!" scully confronted him. "kape back," he said; and by his glance the cowboy could tell that this man was johnnie's father. to the easterner there was a monotony of unchangeable fighting that was an abomination. this confused mingling was eternal to his sense, which was concentrated in a longing for the end, the priceless end. once the fighters lurched near him, and as he scrambled hastily backward he heard them breathe like men on the rack. "kill him, johnnie! kill him! kill him! kill him!" the cowboy's face was contorted like one of those agony masks in museums. "keep still," said scully, icily. then there was a sudden loud grunt, incomplete, cut short, and johnnie's body swung away from the swede and fell with sickening heaviness to the grass. the cowboy was barely in time to prevent the mad swede from flinging himself upon his prone adversary. "no, you don't," said the cowboy, interposing an arm. "wait a second." scully was at his son's side. "johnnie! johnnie, me boy!" his voice had a quality of melancholy tenderness. "johnnie! can you go on with it?" he looked anxiously down into the bloody, pulpy face of his son. there was a moment of silence, and then johnnie answered in his ordinary voice, "yes, i--it--yes." assisted by his father he struggled to his feet. "wait a bit now till you git your wind," said the old man. a few paces away the cowboy was lecturing the swede. "no, you don't! wait a second!" the easterner was plucking at scully's sleeve. "oh, this is enough," he pleaded. "this is enough! let it go as it stands. this is enough!" "bill," said scully, "git out of the road." the cowboy stepped aside. "now." the combatants were actuated by a new caution as they advanced towards collision. they glared at each other, and then the swede aimed a lightning blow that carried with it his entire weight. johnnie was evidently half stupid from weakness, but he miraculously dodged, and his fist sent the over-balanced swede sprawling. the cowboy, scully, and the easterner burst into a cheer that was like a chorus of triumphant soldiery, but before its conclusion the swede had scuffled agilely to his feet and come in berserk abandon at his foe. there was another perplexity of flying arms, and johnnie's body again swung away and fell, even as a bundle might fall from a roof. the swede instantly staggered to a little wind-waved tree and leaned upon it, breathing like an engine, while his savage and flame-lit eyes roamed from face to face as the men bent over johnnie. there was a splendor of isolation in his situation at this time which the easterner felt once when, lifting his eyes from the man on the ground, he beheld that mysterious and lonely figure, waiting. "arc you any good yet, johnnie?" asked scully in a broken voice. the son gasped and opened his eyes languidly. after a moment he answered, "no--i ain't--any good--any--more." then, from shame and bodily ill he began to weep, the tears furrowing down through the blood-stains on his face. "he was too--too--too heavy for me." scully straightened and addressed the waiting figure. "stranger," he said, evenly, "it's all up with our side." then his voice changed into that vibrant huskiness which is commonly the tone of the most simple and deadly announcements. "johnnie is whipped." without replying, the victor moved off on the route to the front door of the hotel. the cowboy was formulating new and un-spellable blasphemies. the easterner was startled to find that they were out in a wind that seemed to come direct from the shadowed arctic floes. he heard again the wail of the snow as it was flung to its grave in the south. he knew now that all this time the cold had been sinking into him deeper and deeper, and he wondered that he had not perished. he felt indifferent to the condition of the vanquished man. "johnnie, can you walk?" asked scully. "did i hurt--hurt him any?" asked the son. "can you walk, boy? can you walk?" johnnie's voice was suddenly strong. there was a robust impatience in it. "i asked you whether i hurt him any!" "yes, yes, johnnie," answered the cowboy, consolingly; "he's hurt a good deal." they raised him from the ground, and as soon as he was on his feet he went tottering off, rebuffing all attempts at assistance. when the party rounded the corner they were fairly blinded by the pelting of the snow. it burned their faces like fire. the cowboy carried johnnie through the drift to the door. as they entered some cards again rose from the floor and beat against the wall. the easterner rushed to the stove. he was so profoundly chilled that he almost dared to embrace the glowing iron. the swede was not in the room. johnnie sank into a chair, and, folding his arms on his knees, buried his face in them. scully, warming one foot and then the other at a rim of the stove, muttered to himself with celtic mournfulness. the cowboy had removed his fur cap, and with a dazed and rueful air he was running one hand through his tousled locks. from overhead they could hear the creaking of boards, as the swede tramped here and there in his room. the sad quiet was broken by the sudden flinging open of a door that led towards the kitchen. it was instantly followed by an inrush of women. they precipitated themselves upon johnnie amid a chorus of lamentation. before they carried their prey off to the kitchen, there to be bathed and harangued with that mixture of sympathy and abuse which is a feat of their sex, the mother straightened herself and fixed old scully with an eye of stern reproach. "shame be upon you, patrick scully!" she cried. "your own son, too. shame be upon you!" "there, now! be quiet, now!" said the old man, weakly. "shame be upon you, patrick scully!" the girls, rallying to this slogan, sniffed disdainfully in the direction of those trembling accomplices, the cowboy and the easterner. presently they bore johnnie away, and left the three men to dismal reflection. vii "i'd like to fight this here dutchman myself," said the cowboy, breaking a long silence. scully wagged his head sadly. "no, that wouldn't do. it wouldn't be right. it wouldn't be right." "well, why wouldn't it?" argued the cowboy. "i don't see no harm in it." "no," answered scully, with mournful heroism. "it wouldn't be right. it was johnnie's fight, and now we mustn't whip the man just because he whipped johnnie." "yes, that's true enough," said the cowboy; "but--he better not get fresh with me, because i couldn't stand no more of it." "you'll not say a word to him," commanded scully, and even then they heard the tread of the swede on the stairs. his entrance was made theatric. he swept the door back with a bang and swaggered to the middle of the room. no one looked at him. "well," he cried, insolently, at scully, "i s'pose you'll tell me now how much i owe you?" the old man remained stolid. "you don't owe me nothin'." "huh!" said the swede, "huh! don't owe 'im nothin'." the cowboy addressed the swede. "stranger, i don't see how you come to be so gay around here." old scully was instantly alert. "stop!" he shouted, holding his hand forth, fingers upward. "bill, you shut up!" the cowboy spat carelessly into the sawdust box. "i didn't say a word, did i?" he asked. "mr. scully," called the swede, "how much do i owe you?" it was seen that he was attired for departure, and that he had his valise in his hand. "you don't owe me nothin'," repeated scully in his same imperturbable way. "huh!" said the swede. "i guess you're right. i guess if it was any way at all, you'd owe me somethin'. that's what i guess." he turned to the cowboy. "'kill him! kill him! kill him!'" he mimicked, and then guffawed victoriously. "'kill him!'" he was convulsed with ironical humor. but he might have been jeering the dead. the three men were immovable and silent, staring with glassy eyes at the stove. the swede opened the door and passed into the storm, giving one derisive glance backward at the still group. as soon as the door was closed, scully and the cowboy leaped to their feet and began to curse. they trampled to and fro, waving their arms and smashing into the air with their fists. "oh, but that was a hard minute!" wailed scully. "that was a hard minute! him there leerin' and scoffin'! one bang at his nose was worth forty dollars to me that minute! how did you stand it, bill?" "how did i stand it?" cried the cowboy in a quivering voice. "how did i stand it? oh!" the old man burst into sudden brogue. "i'd loike to take that swade," he wailed, "and hould 'im down on a shtone flure and bate 'im to a jelly wid a shtick!" the cowboy groaned in sympathy. "i'd like to git him by the neck and ha-ammer him "--he brought his hand down on a chair with a noise like a pistol-shot--"hammer that there dutchman until he couldn't tell himself from a dead coyote!" "i'd bate 'im until he--" "i'd show _him_ some things--" and then together they raised a yearning, fanatic cry--"oh-o-oh! if we only could--" "yes!" "yes!" "and then i'd--" "o-o-oh!" viii the swede, tightly gripping his valise, tacked across the face of the storm as if he carried sails. he was following a line of little naked, gasping trees, which he knew must mark the way of the road. his face, fresh from the pounding of johnnie's fists, felt more pleasure than pain in the wind and the driving snow. a number of square shapes loomed upon him finally, and he knew them as the houses of the main body of the town. he found a street and made travel along it, leaning heavily upon the wind whenever, at a corner, a terrific blast caught him. he might have been in a deserted village. we picture the world as thick with conquering and elate humanity, but here, with the bugles of the tempest pealing, it was hard to imagine a peopled earth. one viewed the existence of man then as a marvel, and conceded a glamour of wonder to these lice which were caused to cling to a whirling, fire-smote, ice-locked, disease-stricken, space-lost bulb. the conceit of man was explained by this storm to be the very engine of life. one was a coxcomb not to die in it. however, the swede found a saloon. in front of it an indomitable red light was burning, and the snow-flakes were made blood color as they flew through the circumscribed territory of the lamp's shining. the swede pushed open the door of the saloon and entered. a sanded expanse was before him, and at the end of it four men sat about a table drinking. down one side of the room extended a radiant bar, and its guardian was leaning upon his elbows listening to the talk of the men at the table. the swede dropped his valise upon the floor, and, smiling fraternally upon the barkeeper, said, "gimme some whiskey, will you?" the man placed a bottle, a whiskey-glass, and a glass of ice-thick water upon the bar. the swede poured himself an abnormal portion of whiskey and drank it in three gulps. "pretty bad night," remarked the bartender, indifferently. he was making the pretension of blindness which is usually a distinction of his class; but it could have been seen that he was furtively studying the half-erased blood-stains on the face of the swede. "bad night," he said again. "oh, it's good enough for me," replied the swede, hardily, as he poured himself some more whiskey. the barkeeper took his coin and maneuvered it through its reception by the highly nickelled cash-machine. a bell rang; a card labelled "20 cts." had appeared. "no," continued the swede, "this isn't too bad weather. it's good enough for me." "so?" murmured the barkeeper, languidly. the copious drams made the swede's eyes swim, and he breathed a trifle heavier. "yes, i like this weather. i like it. it suits me." it was apparently his design to impart a deep significance to these words. "so?" murmured the bartender again. he turned to gaze dreamily at the scroll-like birds and bird-like scrolls which had been drawn with soap upon the mirrors back of the bar. "well, i guess i'll take another drink," said the swede, presently. "have something?" "no, thanks; i'm not drinkin'," answered the bartender. afterwards he asked, "how did you hurt your face?" the swede immediately began to boast loudly. "why, in a fight. i thumped the soul out of a man down here at scully's hotel." the interest of the four men at the table was at last aroused. "who was it?" said one. "johnnie scully," blustered the swede. "son of the man what runs it. he will be pretty near dead for some weeks, i can tell you. i made a nice thing of him, i did. he couldn't get up. they carried him in the house. have a drink?" instantly the men in some subtle way incased themselves in reserve. "no, thanks," said one. the group was of curious formation. two were prominent local business men; one was the district-attorney; and one was a professional gambler of the kind known as "square." but a scrutiny of the group would not have enabled an observer to pick the gambler from the men of more reputable pursuits. he was, in fact, a man so delicate in manner, when among people of fair class, and so judicious in his choice of victims, that in the strictly masculine part of the town's life he had come to be explicitly trusted and admired. people called him a thoroughbred. the fear and contempt with which his craft was regarded was undoubtedly the reason that his quiet dignity shone conspicuous above the quiet dignity of men who might be merely hatters, billiard markers, or grocery-clerks. beyond an occasional unwary traveller, who came by rail, this gambler was supposed to prey solely upon reckless and senile farmers, who, when flush with good crops, drove into town in all the pride and confidence of an absolutely invulnerable stupidity. hearing at times in circuitous fashion of the despoilment of such a farmer, the important men of romper invariably laughed in contempt of the victim, and, if they thought of the wolf at all, it was with a kind of pride at the knowledge that he would never dare think of attacking their wisdom and courage. besides, it was popular that this gambler had a real wife and two real children in a neat cottage in a suburb, where he led an exemplary home life; and when any one even suggested a discrepancy in his character, the crowd immediately vociferated descriptions of this virtuous family circle. then men who led exemplary home lives, and men who did not lead exemplary home lives, all subsided in a bunch, remarking that there was nothing more to be said. however, when a restriction was placed upon him--as, for instance, when a strong clique of members of the new pollywog club refused to permit him, even as a spectator, to appear in the rooms of the organization--the candor and gentleness with which he accepted the judgment disarmed many of his foes and made his friends more desperately partisan. he invariably distinguished between himself and a respectable romper man so quickly and frankly that his manner actually appeared to be a continual broadcast compliment. and one must not forget to declare the fundamental fact of his entire position in romper. it is irrefutable that in all affairs outside of his business, in all matters that occur eternally and commonly between man and man, this thieving card-player was so generous, so just, so moral, that, in a contest, he could have put to flight the consciences of nine-tenths of the citizens of romper. and so it happened that he was seated in this saloon with the two prominent local merchants and the district-attorney. the swede continued to drink raw whiskey, meanwhile babbling at the barkeeper and trying to induce him to indulge in potations. "come on. have a drink. come on. what--no? well, have a little one, then. by gawd, i've whipped a man to-night, and i want to celebrate. i whipped him good, too. gentlemen," the swede cried to the men at the table, "have a drink?" "ssh!" said the barkeeper. the group at the table, although furtively attentive, had been pretending to be deep in talk, but now a man lifted his eyes towards the swede and said, shortly, "thanks. we don't want any more." at this reply the swede ruffled out his chest like a rooster. "well," he exploded, "it seems i can't get anybody to drink with me in this town. seems so, don't it? well!" "ssh!" said the barkeeper. "say," snarled the swede, "don't you try to shut me up. i won't have it. i'm a gentleman, and i want people to drink with me. and i want 'em to drink with me now. _now_--do you understand?" he rapped the bar with his knuckles. years of experience had calloused the bartender. he merely grew sulky. "i hear you," he answered. "well," cried the swede, "listen hard then. see those men over there? well, they're going to drink with me, and don't you forget it. now you watch." "hi!" yelled the barkeeper, "this won't do!" "why won't it?" demanded the swede. he stalked over to the table, and by chance laid his hand upon the shoulder of the gambler. "how about this?" he asked, wrathfully. "i asked you to drink with me." the gambler simply twisted his head and spoke over his shoulder. "my friend, i don't know you." "oh, hell!" answered the swede, "come and have a drink." "now, my boy," advised the gambler, kindly, "take your hand off my shoulder and go 'way and mind your own business." he was a little, slim man, and it seemed strange to hear him use this tone of heroic patronage to the burly swede. the other men at the table said nothing. "what! you won't drink with me, you little dude? i'll make you then! i'll make you!" the swede had grasped the gambler frenziedly at the throat, and was dragging him from his chair. the other men sprang up. the barkeeper dashed around the corner of his bar. there was a great tumult, and then was seen a long blade in the hand of the gambler. it shot forward, and a human body, this citadel of virtue, wisdom, power, was pierced as easily as if it had been a melon. the swede fell with a cry of supreme astonishment. the prominent merchants and the district attorney must have at once tumbled out of the place backward. the bartender found himself hanging limply to the arm of a chair and gazing into the eyes of a murderer. "henry," said the latter, as he wiped his knife on one of the towels that hung beneath the bar-rail, "you tell 'em where to find me. i'll be home, waiting for 'em." then he vanished. a moment afterwards the barkeeper was in the street dinning through the storm for help, and, moreover, companionship. the corpse of the swede, alone in the saloon, had its eyes fixed upon a dreadful legend that dwelt atop of the cash-machine: "this registers the amount of your purchase." ix months later, the cowboy was frying pork over the stove of a little ranch near the dakota line, when there was a quick thud of hoofs outside, and presently the easterner entered with the letters and the papers. "well," said the easterner at once, "the chap that killed the swede has got three years. wasn't much, was it?" "he has? three years?" the cowboy poised his pan of pork, while he ruminated upon the news. "three years. that ain't much." "no. it was a light sentence," replied the easterner as he unbuckled his spurs. "seems there was a good deal of sympathy for him in romper." "if the bartender had been any good," observed the cowboy, thoughtfully, "he would have gone in and cracked that there dutchman on the head with a bottle in the beginnin' of it and stopped all this here murderin'." "yes, a thousand things might have happened," said the easterner, tartly. the cowboy returned his pan of pork to the fire, but his philosophy continued. "it's funny, ain't it? if he hadn't said johnnie was cheatin' he'd be alive this minute. he was an awful fool. game played for fun, too. not for money. i believe he was crazy." "i feel sorry for that gambler," said the easterner. "oh, so do i," said the cowboy. "he don't deserve none of it for killin' who he did." "the swede might not have been killed if everything had been square." "might not have been killed?" exclaimed the cowboy. "everythin' square? why, when he said that johnnie was cheatin' and acted like such a jackass? and then in the saloon he fairly walked up to git hurt?" with these arguments the cowboy browbeat the easterner and reduced him to rage. "you're a fool!" cried the easterner, viciously. "you're a bigger jackass than the swede by a million majority. now let me tell you one thing. let me tell you something. listen! johnnie _was_ cheating!" "'johnnie,'" said the cowboy, blankly. there was a minute of silence, and then he said, robustly, "why, no. the game was only for fun." "fun or not," said the easterner, "johnnie was cheating. i saw him. i know it. i saw him. and i refused to stand up and be a man. i let the swede fight it out alone. and you--you were simply puffing around the place and wanting to fight. and then old scully himself! we are all in it! this poor gambler isn't even a noun. he is kind of an adverb. every sin is the result of a collaboration. we, five of us, have collaborated in the murder of this swede. usually there are from a dozen to forty women really involved in every murder, but in this case it seems to be only five men--you, i, johnnie, old scully, and that fool of an unfortunate gambler came merely as a culmination, the apex of a human movement, and gets all the punishment." the cowboy, injured and rebellious, cried out blindly into this fog of mysterious theory: "well, i didn't do anythin', did i?" -----his new mittens i little horace was walking home from school, brilliantly decorated by a pair of new red mittens. a number of boys were snowballing gleefully in a field. they hailed him. "come on, horace! we're having a battle." [illustration: "little horace"] horace was sad. "no," he said, "i can't. i've got to go home." at noon his mother had admonished him: "now, horace, you come straight home as soon as school is out. do you hear? and don't you get them nice new mittens all wet, either. do you hear?" also his aunt had said: "i declare, emily, it's a shame the way you allow that child to ruin his things." she had meant mittens. to his mother, horace had dutifully replied, "yes'm." but he now loitered in the vicinity of the group of uproarious boys, who were yelling like hawks as the white balls flew. [illustration: "...yelling like hawks as the white balls flew"] some of them immediately analyzed this extraordinary hesitancy. "hah!" they paused to scoff, "afraid of your new mittens, ain't you?" some smaller boys, who were not yet so wise in discerning motives, applauded this attack with unreasonable vehemence. "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens! a-fray-ed of his mit-tens." they sang these lines to cruel and monotonous music which is as old perhaps as american childhood, and which it is the privilege of the emancipated adult to completely forget. "afray-ed of his mit-tens!" horace cast a tortured glance towards his playmates, and then dropped his eyes to the snow at his feet. presently he turned to the trunk of one of the great maple-trees that lined the curb. he made a pretence of closely examining the rough and virile bark. to his mind, this familiar street of whilomville seemed to grow dark in the thick shadow of shame. the trees and the houses were now palled in purple. "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" the terrible music had in it a meaning from the moonlit war-drums of chanting cannibals. [illustration: "horace: i've got to go home."] at last horace, with supreme effort, raised his head. "'tain't them i care about," he said, gruffly. "i've got to go home. that's all." whereupon each boy held his left forefinger as if it were a pencil and began to sharpen it derisively with his right forefinger. they came closer, and sang like a trained chorus, "a-fray-ed of his mittens!" when he raised his voice to deny the charge it was simply lost in the screams of the mob. he was alone, fronting all the traditions of boyhood held before him by inexorable representatives. to such a low state had he fallen that one lad, a mere baby, outflanked him and then struck him in the cheek with a heavy snowball. the act was acclaimed with loud jeers. horace turned to dart at his assailant, but there was an immediate demonstration on the other flank, and he found himself obliged to keep his face towards the hilarious crew of tormentors. the baby retreated in safety to the rear of the crowd, where he was received with fulsome compliments upon his daring. horace retreated slowly up the walk. he continually tried to make them heed him, but the only sound was the chant, "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" in this desperate withdrawal the beset and haggard boy suffered more than is the common lot of man. [illustration: "when he raised his voice to deny the charge"] being a boy himself, he did not understand boys at all. he had, of course, the dismal conviction that they were going to dog him to his grave. but near the corner of the field they suddenly seemed to forget all about it. indeed, they possessed only the malevolence of so many flitter-headed sparrows. the interest had swung capriciously to some other matter. in a moment they were off in the field again, carousing amid the snow. some authoritative boy had probably said, "aw, come on!" [illustration: "aw, come on!"] as the pursuit ceased, horace ceased his retreat. he spent some time in what was evidently an attempt to adjust his self respect, and then began to wander furtively down towards the group. he, too, had undergone an important change. perhaps his sharp agony was only as durable as the malevolence of the others. in this boyish life obedience to some unformulated creed of manners was enforced with capricious but merciless rigor. however, they were, after all, his comrades, his friends. they did not heed his return. they were engaged in an altercation. it had evidently been planned that this battle was between indians and soldiers. the smaller and weaker boys had been induced to appear as indians in the initial skirmish, but they were now very sick of it, and were reluctantly but steadfastly, affirming their desire for a change of caste. the larger boys had all won great distinction, devastating indians materially, and they wished the war to go on as planned. they explained vociferously that it was proper for the soldiers always to thrash the indians. the little boys did not pretend to deny the truth of this argument; they confined themselves to the simple statement that, in that case, they wished to be soldiers. each little boy willingly appealed to the others to remain indians, but as for himself he reiterated his desire to enlist as a soldier. the larger boys were in despair over this dearth of enthusiasm in the small indians. they alternately wheedled and bullied, but they could not persuade the little boys, who were really suffering dreadful humiliation rather than submit to another onslaught of soldiers. they were called all the baby names that had the power of stinging deep into their pride, but they remained firm. then a formidable lad, a leader of reputation, one who could whip many boys that wore long trousers, suddenly blew out his checks and shouted, "well, all right then. i'll be an indian myself. now." the little boys greeted with cheers this addition to their wearied ranks, and seemed then content. but matters were not mended in the least, because all of the personal following of the formidable lad, with the addition of every outsider, spontaneously forsook the flag and declared themselves indians. there were now no soldiers. the indians had carried everything unanimously. the formidable lad used his influence, but his influence could not shake the loyalty of his friends, who refused to fight under any colors but his colors. plainly there was nothing for it but to coerce the little ones. the formidable lad again became a soldier, and then graciously permitted to join him all the real fighting strength of the crowd, leaving behind a most forlorn band of little indians. then the soldiers attacked the indians, exhorting them to opposition at the same time. the indians at first adopted a policy of hurried surrender, but this had no success, as none of the surrenders were accepted. they then turned to flee, bawling out protests. the ferocious soldiers pursued them amid shouts. the battle widened, developing all manner of marvellous detail. horace had turned towards home several times, but, as a matter of fact, this scene held him in a spell. it was fascinating beyond anything which the grown man understands. he had always in the back of his head a sense of guilt, even a sense of impending punishment for disobedience, but they could not weigh with the delirium of this snow-battle. ii one of the raiding soldiers, espying horace, called out in passing, "a-fray-ed of his mit-tens!" horace flinched at this renewal, and the other lad paused to taunt him again. horace scooped some snow, moulded it into a ball, and flung it at the other. "ho!" cried the boy, "you're an indian, are you? hey, fellers, here's an indian that ain't been killed yet." he and horace engaged in a duel in which both were in such haste to mould snowballs that they had little time for aiming. horace once struck his opponent squarely in the chest. "hey," he shouted, "you're dead. you can't fight any more, pete. i killed you. you're dead." the other boy flushed red, but he continued frantically to make ammunition. "you never touched me!" he retorted, glowering. "you never touched me! where, now?" he added, defiantly. "where did you hit me?" "on the coat! right on your breast! you can't fight any more! you're dead!" "you never!" "i did, too! hey, fellers, ain't he dead? i hit 'im square!" "he never!" nobody had seen the affair, but some of the boys took sides in absolute accordance with their friendship for one of the concerned parties. horace's opponent went about contending, "he never touched me! he never came near me! he never came near me!" the formidable leader now came forward and accosted horace. "what was you? an indian? well, then, you're dead--that's all. he hit you. i saw him." "me?" shrieked horace. "he never came within a mile of me----" at that moment he heard his name called in a certain familiar tune of two notes, with the last note shrill and prolonged. he looked towards the sidewalk, and saw his mother standing there in her widow's weeds, with two brown paper parcels under her arm. a silence had fallen upon all the boys. horace moved slowly towards his mother. she did not seem to note his approach; she was gazing austerely off through the naked branches of the maples where two crimson sunset bars lay on the deep blue sky. at a distance of ten paces horace made a desperate venture. "oh, ma," he whined, "can't i stay out for a while?" "no," she answered solemnly, "you come with me." horace knew that profile; it was the inexorable profile. but he continued to plead, because it was not beyond his mind that a great show of suffering now might diminish his suffering later. he did not dare to look back at his playmates. it was already a public scandal that he could not stay out as late as other boys, and he could imagine his standing now that he had been again dragged off by his mother in sight of the whole world. he was a profoundly miserable human being. aunt martha opened the door for them. light streamed about her straight skirt. "oh," she said, "so you found him on the road, eh? well, i declare! it was about time!" horace slunk into the kitchen. the stove, straddling out on its four iron legs, was gently humming. aunt martha had evidently just lighted the lamp, for she went to it and began to twist the wick experimentally. [illustration: "let's see them mittens."] "now," said the mother, "let's see them mittens." horace's chin sank. the aspiration of the criminal, the passionate desire for an asylum from retribution, from justice, was aflame in his heart. "i--i--don't--don't know where they are." he gasped finally, as he passed his hand over his pockets. "horace," intoned his mother, "you are tellin' me a story!" "'tain't a story," he answered, just above his breath. he looked like a sheep-stealer. his mother held him by the arm, and began to search his pockets. almost at once she was able to bring forth a pair of very wet mittens. "well, i declare!" cried aunt martha. the two women went close to the lamp, and minutely examined the mittens, turning them over and over. afterwards, when horace looked up, his mother's sad-lined, homely face was turned towards him. he burst into tears. his mother drew a chair near the stove. "just you sit there now, until i tell you to git off." he sidled meekly into the chair. his mother and his aunt went briskly about the business of preparing supper. they did not display a knowledge of his existence; they carried an effect of oblivion so far that they even did not speak to each other. presently they went into the dining and living room; horace could hear the dishes rattling. his aunt martha brought a plate of food, placed it on a chair near him, and went away without a word. [illustration: "brought a plate of food"] horace instantly decided that he would not touch a morsel of the food. he had often used this ruse in dealing with his mother. he did not know why it brought her to terms, but certainly it sometimes did. the mother looked up when the aunt returned to the other room. "is he eatin' his supper?" she asked. the maiden aunt, fortified in ignorance, gazed with pity and contempt upon this interest. "well, now, emily, how do i know?" she queried. "was i goin' to stand over 'im? of all the worryin' you do about that child! it's a shame the way you're bringin' up that child." "well, he ought to eat somethin'. it won't do fer him to go without eatin'," the mother retorted, weakly. aunt martha, profoundly scorning the policy of concession which these words meant, uttered a long, contemptuous sigh. iii alone in the kitchen, horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food. for a long time he betrayed no sign of yielding. his mood was adamantine. he was resolved not to sell his vengeance for bread, cold ham, and a pickle, and yet it must be known that the sight of them affected him powerfully. the pickle in particular was notable for its seductive charm. he surveyed it darkly. [illustration: "horace stared with sombre eyes at the plate of food"] but at last, unable to longer endure his state, his attitude in the presence of the pickle, he put out an inquisitive finger and touched it, and it was cool and green and plump. then a full conception of the cruel woe of his situation swept upon him suddenly, and his eyes filled with tears, which began to move down his cheeks. he sniffled. his heart was black with hatred. he painted in his mind scenes of deadly retribution. his mother would be taught that he was not one to endure persecution meekly, without raising an arm in his defence. and so his dreams were of a slaughter of feelings, and near the end of them his mother was pictured as coming, bowed with pain, to his feet. weeping, she implored his charity. would he forgive her? no; his once tender heart had been turned to stone by her injustice. he could not forgive her. she must pay the inexorable penalty. the first item in this horrible plan was the refusal of the food. this he knew by experience would work havoc in his mother's heart. and so he grimly waited. but suddenly it occurred to him that the first part of his revenge was in danger of failing. the thought struck him that his mother might not capitulate in the usual way. according to his recollection, the time was more than due when she should come in, worried, sadly affectionate, and ask him if he was ill. it had then been his custom to hint in a resigned voice that he was the victim of secret disease, but that he preferred to suffer in silence and alone. if she was obdurate in her anxiety, he always asked her in a gloomy, low voice to go away and leave him to suffer in silence and alone in the darkness without food. he had known this maneuvering to result even in pie. but what was the meaning of the long pause and the stillness? had his old and valued ruse betrayed him? as the truth sank into his mind, he supremely loathed life, the world, his mother. her heart was beating back the besiegers; he was a defeated child. he wept for a time before deciding upon the final stroke. he would run away. in a remote corner of the world he would become some sort of bloody-handed person driven to a life of crime by the barbarity of his mother. she should never know his fate. he would torture her for years with doubts and doubts, and drive her implacably to a repentant grave. nor would aunt martha escape. some day, a century hence, when his mother was dead, he would write to his aunt martha, and point out her part in the blighting of his life. for one blow against him now he would, in time, deal back a thousand--aye, ten thousand. [illustration: "some sort of bloody-handed person"] he arose and took his coat and cap. as he moved stealthily towards the door he cast a glance backward at the pickle. he was tempted to take it, but he knew that if he left the plate inviolate his mother would feel even worse. a blue snow was falling. people, bowed forward, were moving briskly along the walks. the electric lamps hummed amid showers of flakes. as horace emerged from the kitchen, a shrill squall drove the flakes around the corner of the house. he cowered away from it, and its violence illumined his mind vaguely in new directions. he deliberated upon a choice of remote corners of the globe. he found that he had no plans which were definite enough in a geographical way, but without much loss of time he decided upon california. he moved briskly as far as his mother's front gate on the road to california. he was off at last. his success was a trifle dreadful; his throat choked. [illustration: "people, bowed forward"] but at the gate he paused. he did not know if his journey to california would be shorter if he went down niagara avenue or off through hogan street. as the storm was very cold and the point was very important, he decided to withdraw for reflection to the wood-shed. he entered the dark shanty, and took seat upon the old chopping-block upon which he was supposed to perform for a few minutes every afternoon when he returned from school. the wind screamed and shouted at the loose boards, and there was a rift of snow on the floor to leeward of a crack. here the idea of starting for california on such a night departed from his mind, leaving him ruminating miserably upon his martyrdom. he saw nothing for it but to sleep all night in the wood-shed and start for california in the morning bright and early. thinking of his bed, he kicked over the floor and found that the innumerable chips were all frozen tightly, bedded in ice. later he viewed with joy some signs of excitement in the house. the flare of a lamp moved rapidly from window to window. then the kitchen door slammed loudly and a shawled figure sped towards the gate. at last he was making them feel his power. the shivering child's face was lit with saturnine glee as in the darkness of the wood-shed he gloated over the evidences of consternation in his home. the shawled figure had been his aunt martha dashing with the alarm to the neighbors. the cold of the wood-shed was tormenting him. he endured only because of the terror he was causing. but then it occurred to him that, if they instituted a search for him, they would probably examine the wood-shed. he knew that it would not be manful to be caught so soon. he was not positive now that he was going to remain away forever, but at any rate he was bound to inflict some more damage before allowing himself to be captured. if he merely succeeded in making his mother angry, she would thrash him on sight. he must prolong the time in order to be safe. if he held out properly, he was sure of a welcome of love, even though he should drip with crimes. evidently the storm had increased, for when he went out it swung him violently with its rough and merciless strength. panting, stung, half blinded with the driving flakes, he was now a waif, exiled, friendless, and poor. with a bursting heart, he thought of his home and his mother. to his forlorn vision they were as far away as heaven. iv horace was undergoing changes of feeling so rapidly that he was merely moved hither and then thither like a kite. he was now aghast at the merciless ferocity of his mother. it was she who had thrust him into this wild storm, and she was perfectly indifferent to his fate, perfectly indifferent. the forlorn wanderer could no longer weep. the strong sobs caught at his throat, making his breath come in short, quick snuffles. all in him was conquered save the enigmatical childish ideal of form, manner. this principle still held out, and it was the only thing between him and submission. when he surrendered, he must surrender in a way that deferred to the undefined code. he longed simply to go to the kitchen and stumble in, but his unfathomable sense of fitness forbade him. presently he found himself at the head of niagara avenue, staring through the snow into the blazing windows of stickney's butcher-shop. stickney was the family butcher, not so much because of a superiority to other whilomville butchers as because he lived next door and had been an intimate friend of the father of horace. rows of glowing pigs hung head downward back of the tables, which bore huge pieces of red beef. clumps of attenuated turkeys were suspended here and there. stickney, hale and smiling, was bantering with a woman in a cloak, who, with a monster basket on her arm, was dickering for eight cents' worth of some thing. horace watched them through a crusted pane. when the woman came out and passed him, he went towards the door. he touched the latch with his finger, but withdrew again suddenly to the sidewalk. inside stickney was whistling cheerily and assorting his knives. [illustration: "eight cents worth of something"] finally horace went desperately forward, opened the door, and entered the shop. his head hung low. stickney stopped whistling. "hello, young man," he cried, "what brings you here?" [illustration: "his head hung low"] horace halted, but said nothing. he swung one foot to and fro over the saw-dust floor. stickney had placed his two fat hands palms downward and wide apart on the table, in the attitude of a butcher facing a customer, but now he straightened. "here," he said, "what's wrong? what's wrong, kid?" "nothin'," answered horace, huskily. he labored for a moment with something in his throat, and afterwards added, "o'ny----i've----i've run away, and--" "run away!" shouted stickney. "run away from what? who?" "from----home," answered horace. "i don't like it there any more. i----" he had arranged an oration to win the sympathy of the butcher; he had prepared a table setting forth the merits of his case in the most logical fashion, but it was as if the wind had been knocked out of his mind. "i've run away. i----" stickney reached an enormous hand over the array of beef, and firmly grappled the emigrant. then he swung himself to horace's side. his face was stretched with laughter, and he playfully shook his prisoner. "come----come----come. what dashed nonsense is this? run away, hey? run away?" whereupon the child's long-tried spirit found vent in howls. "come, come," said stickney, busily. "never mind now, never mind. you just come along with me. it'll be all right. i'll fix it. never you mind." five minutes later the butcher, with a great ulster over his apron, was leading the boy homeward. at the very threshold, horace raised his last flag of pride. "no----no," he sobbed. "i don't want to. i don't want to go in there." he braced his foot against the step and made a very respectable resistance. "now, horace," cried the butcher. he thrust open the door with a bang. "hello there!" across the dark kitchen the door to the living-room opened and aunt martha appeared. "you've found him!" she screamed. "we've come to make a call," roared the butcher. at the entrance to the living-room a silence fell upon them all. upon a couch horace saw his mother lying limp, pale as death, her eyes gleaming with pain. there was an electric pause before she swung a waxen hand towards horace. "my child," she murmured, tremulously. whereupon the sinister person addressed, with a prolonged wail of grief and joy, ran to her with speed. "mam-ma! mam-ma! oh, mam-ma!" she was not able to speak in a known tongue as she folded him in her weak arms. [illustration: "'mam-ma! mam-ma! oh, mam-ma!'"] aunt martha turned defiantly upon the butcher because her face betrayed her. she was crying. she made a gesture half military, half feminine. "won't you have a glass of our root-beer, mr. stickney? we make it ourselves." transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_. to and through nebraska. by a pennsylvania girl. this little work, which claims no merit but truth is humbly dedicated to the many dear friends, who by their kindness made the long journey and work pleasant to _the author_, frances i. sims fulton. lincoln, neb. journal company, state printers, 1884. a word to the reader. if you wish to read of the going and settling of the nebraska mutual aid colony, of bradford, pa., in northwestern neb., their trials and triumphs, and of the elkhorn, niobrara, and keya paha rivers and valleys, read chapter i. of the country of the winding elkhorn, chapter ii. of the great platte valley, chapter iii. of the beautiful big blue and republican, chapter iv. of nebraska's history and resources in general, her climate, school and liquor laws, and capital, chapter v. if you wish a car-window view of the big kinzua bridge (highest in the world), and niagara falls and canada, chapter vi. and now, a word of explanation, that you may clearly understand _just why_ this little book--if such it may be called, came to be written. we do not want it to be thought an emigration scheme, but only what a pennsylvania girl heard, saw, and thought of nebraska. and to make it more interesting we will give our experience with all the fun thrown in, for we really thought we had quite an enjoyable time and learned lessons that may be useful for others to know. and simply give everything just as they were, and the true color to all that we touch upon, simply stating facts as we gathered them here and there during a stay of almost three months of going up and down, around and across the state from dakota to kansas--306 miles on the s.c. & p.r.r., 291 on the u.p.r.r., and 289 on the b. & m.r.r., the three roads that traverse the state from east to west. it is truly an unbiased work, so do not chip and shave at what may seem incredible, but, as you read, remember you read only truth. my brother, c. t. fulton, was the originator of the colony movement; and he with father, an elder brother, and myself were members. my parents, now past the hale vigor of life, consented to go, providing the location was not chosen too far north, and all the good plans and rules were fully carried out. father made a tour of the state in 1882, and was much pleased with it, especially central nebraska. i was anxious to "claim" with the rest that i might have a farm to give to my youngest brother, now too young to enter a claim for himself--claimants must be twenty-one years of age. when he was but twelve years old, i promised that for his abstaining from the use of tobacco and intoxicating drinks in every shape and form, until he was twenty-one years old, i would present him with a watch and chain. the time of the pledge had not yet expired, but he had faithfully kept his promise thus far, and i knew he would unto the end. he had said: "for a gold watch, sister, i will make it good for life;" but now insisted that he did not deserve anything for doing that which was only right he should do; yet i felt it would well repay me for a life pledge did i give him many times the price of a gold watch. what could be better than to put him in possession of 160 acres of rich farming land that, with industry, would yield him an independent living? with all this in view, i entered with a zeal into the spirit of the movement, and with my brothers was ready to go with the rest. as father had served in the late war, his was to be a soldier's claim, which brother charles, invested with the power of attorney, could select and enter for him. but our well arranged plans were badly spoiled when the location was chosen so far north, and so far from railroads. my parents thought they could not go there, and we children felt we could not go without them, yet they wrote c. and i to go, see for ourselves, and if we thought best they would be with us. when the time of going came c. was unavoidably detained at home, but thought he would be able to join me in a couple of weeks, and as i had friends among the colonists on whom i could depend for care it was decided that i should go. when a little girl of eleven summers i aspired to the writing of a "yellow backed novel," after the pattern of beadle's dime books, and as a matter of course planned my book from what i had read in other like fiction of the same color. but already tired of reading of perfection i never saw, or heard tell of except in story, my heroes and heroines were to be only common, every-day people, with common names and features. the plan, as near as i can remember, was as follows: a squatter's cabin hid away in a lonely forest in the wild west. the squatter is a sort of out-law, with two daughters, mary and jane, good, sensible girls, and each has a lover; not handsome, but brave and true, who with the help of the good dog "danger," often rescues them from death by preying wolves, bears, panthers, and prowling indians. the concluding chapter was to be, "the reclaiming of the father from his wicked ways. a double wedding, and together they all abandon the old home, and the old life, and float down a beautiful river to a better life in a new home." armed with slate and pencil, and hid away in the summer-house, or locked in the library, i would write away until i came to a crack mid-way down the slate, and there i would always pause to read what i had written, and think what to say next. but i would soon be called to my neglected school books, and then would hastily rub out what i had written, lest others would learn of my secret project; yet the story would be re-written as soon as i could again steal away. but the crack in my slate was a bridge i never crossed with my book. ah! what is the work that has not its bridges of difficulties to cross? and how often we stop there and turning back, rub out all we have done? "rome was not built in a day," yet i, a child, thought to write a book in a day, when no one was looking. i have since learned that it takes lesson and lessons, read and re-read, and many too that are not learned from books, and then the book will be--only a little pamphlet after all. through nebraska. chapter i. going and settling of the nebraska mutual aid colony of bradford, pa., in northern nebraska--a description of the country in which they located, which embraces the elkhorn, niobrara and keya paha valleys--their first summer's work and harvest. true loyalty, as well as true charity, begins at home. then allow us to begin this with words of love of our own native land,--the state of all that proud columbia holds within her fair arms the nearest and dearest to us; the land purchased from the dusky but rightful owners, then one vast forest, well filled with game, while the beautiful streams abounded with fish. but this rich hunting ground they gave up in a peaceful treaty with the noble quaker, william penn; in after years to become the "keystone," and one of the richest states of all the union. inexhaustible mineral wealth is stored away among her broad mountain ranges, while her valleys yield riches to the farmer in fields of golden grain. indeed, the wealth in grain, lumber, coal, iron, and oil that are gathered from her bosom cannot be told--affording her children the best of living; but they have grown, multiplied, and gathered in until the old home can no longer hold them all; and some must needs go out from her sheltering arms of law, order, and love, and seek new homes in the "far west," to live much the same life our forefathers lived in the land where william penn said: "i will found a free colony for all mankind." away in the northwestern part of the state, in mckean county, a pleasant country village was platted, a miniature philadelphia, by daniel kingbury, in or about the year 1848. lying between the east and west branches of the tunagwant--or big cove--creek, and hid away from the busy world by the rough, rugged hills that surround it, until in 1874, when oil was found in flowing wells among the hills, and in the valleys, and by 1878 the quiet little village of 500 inhabitants was transformed into a perfect beehive of 18,000 busy people, buying and selling oil and oil lands, drilling wells that flowed with wealth, until the owners scarce knew what to do with their money; and, forgetting it is a long lane that has no turning, and a deep sea that has no bottom, lived as though there was no bottom to their wells, in all the luxury the country could afford. and even to the laboring class money came so easily that drillers and pumpers could scarce be told from a member of the standard oil company. bradford has been a home to many for only a few years. yet years pass quickly by in that land of excitement: building snug, temporary homes, with every convenience crowded in, and enjoying the society of a free, social, intelligent people. bradford is a place where all can be suited. the principal churches are well represented; the theaters and operas well sustained. the truly good go hand in hand; those who live for society and the world can find enough to engross their entire time and attention, while the wicked can find depth enough for the worst of living. we have often thought it no wonder that but few were allowed to carry away wealth from the oil country; for, to obtain the fortune sought, many live a life contrary to their hearts' teachings, and only for worldly gain and pleasure. bradford is nicely situated in the valley "where the waters meet," and surrounded by a chain or net-work of hills, that are called spurs of the alleghany mountains, which are yet well wooded by a variety of forest trees, that in autumn show innumerable shades and tinges. from among the trees many oil derricks rear their "crowned heads" seventy-five feet high, which, if not a feature of beauty, is quite an added interest and wealth to the rugged hills. from many of those oil wells a flow of gas is kept constantly burning, which livens the darkest night. thus bradford has been the center of one of the richest oil fields, and like former oil metropolis has produced wealth almost beyond reckoning. many have come poor, and gone rich. but the majority have lived and spent their money even more lavishingly than it came--so often counting on and spending money that never reached their grasp. but as the tubing and drills began to touch the bottom of this great hidden sea of oil, when flowing wells had to be pumped, and dry holes were reported from territory that had once shown the best production, did they begin to reckon their living, and wonder where all their money had gone. then new fields were tested, some flashing up with a brilliancy that lured many away, only to soon go out, not leaving bright coals for the deluded ones to hover over; and they again were compelled to seek new fields of labor and living, until now bradford boasts of but 12,000 inhabitants. thus people are gathered and scattered by life in the oil country. and to show how fortunes in oil are made and lost, we quote the great excitement of nov., 1882, when oil went up, up, and oil exchanges, not only at bradford, but from new york to cincinnati, were crowded with the rich and poor, old and young, strong men and weak women, investing their every dollar in the rapidly advancing oil. many who had labored hard, and saved close, invested their _all_; dreaming with open eyes of a still advancing price, when they would sell and realize a fortune in a few hours. many rose the morning of the 9th, congratulating themselves upon the wealth the day would bring. what a world of pleasure the anticipation brought. but as the day advanced, the "bears" began to bear down, and all the tossing of the "bulls of the ring" could not hoist the bears with the standard on top. so from $1.30 per barrel oil fell to $1.10. the bright pictures and happy dreams of the morning were all gone, and with them every penny, and often more than their own were swept. men accustomed to oil-exchange life, said it was the hardest day they had ever known there. one remarked, that there were not only pale faces there, but faces that were _green_ with despair. this was only one day. fortunes are made and lost daily, hourly. when the market is "dull," quietness reigns, and oil-men walk with a measured tread. but when it is "up" excitement is more than keeping pace with it. tired of this fluctuating life of ups and downs, many determined to at last take horace greeley's advice and "go west and grow up with the country," and banded themselves together under the title of "the nebraska mutual aid colony." first called together by c. t. fulton, of bradford pa., in january, 1883, to which about ten men answered. a colony was talked over, and another meeting appointed, which received so much encouragement by way of interest shown and number in attendance, that pompelion hall was secured for further meetings. week after week they met, every day adding new names to the list, until they numbered about fifty. then came the electing of the officers for the year, and the arranging and adopting of the constitution and by-laws. allow me to give you a summary of the colony laws. every name signed must be accompanied by the paying of two dollars as an initiation fee; but soon an assessment was laid of five dollars each, the paying of which entitled one to a charter membership. this money was to defray expenses, and purchase 640 acres of land to be platted into streets and lots, reserving necessary grounds for churches, schools, and public buildings. each charter member was entitled to two lots--a business and residence lot, and a pro rata share of, and interest in the residue of remaining lots. every member taking or buying lands was to do so within a radius of ten miles of the town site. "the manufacture and sale of spirituous or malt liquors shall forever be prohibited as a beverage. also the keeping of gambling houses." on the 13th of march, when the charter membership numbered seventy-three, a committee of three was sent to look up a location. the committee returned april 10th; and 125 members gathered to hear their report, and where they had located. when it was known it was in northern nebraska, instead of in the platte valley, as was the general wish, and only six miles from the dakota line, in the new county of brown, an almost unheard of locality, many were greatly disappointed, and felt they could not go so far north, and so near the sioux indian reservation, which lay across the line in southern dakota. indeed, the choosing of the location in this unthought-of part of the state, where nothing but government land is to be had, was a general upsetting of many well laid plans of the majority of the people. but at last, after many meetings, much talking, planning, and voting, transportation was arranged for over the lake shore and michigan southern, chicago and northwestern, and sioux city and pacific r. rs., and the 24th of april appointed for the starting of the first party of colonists. we wonder, will those of the colony who are scattered over the plains of nebraska, tell, in talking over the "meeting times" when anticipation showed them their homes in the west, and hopes ran high for a settlement and town all their own, tell how they felt like eager pilgrims getting ready to launch their "mayflower" to be tossed and landed on a wild waste of prairie, they knew not where? we need scarce attempt a description of the "getting ready," as only those who have left dear old homes, surrounded by every strong hold kindred, church, school, and our social nature can tie, can realize what it is to tear away from these endearments and follow stern duty, and live the life they knew the first years in their new home would bring them; and, too, people who had known the comforts and luxuries of the easy life, that only those who have lived in the oil country can know, living and enjoying the best their money could bring them, some of whom have followed the oil since its first advent in venango county, chasing it in a sort of butterfly fashion, flitting from venango to crawford, butler, clarion, and mckean counties (all of penna.); making and losing fortune after fortune, until, heart-sick and poorer than when they began, they resolve to spend their labor upon something more substantial, and where they will not be crowded out by standard or monopoly. the good-bye parties were given, presents exchanged, packing done, homes broken up, luncheon prepared for a three days' journey, and many sleepless heads were pillowed late monday night to wake early tuesday morning to "hurry and get ready." 'twas a cold, cheerless morning; but it mattered not; no one stopped to remark the weather; it was only the going that was thought or talked of by the departing ones and those left behind. and thus we gathered with many curious ones who came only to see the exodus, until the depot and all about was crowded. some laughing and joking, trying to keep up brave hearts, while here and there were companies of dear friends almost lost in the sorrow of the "good-bye" hour. the departing ones, going perhaps to never more return, leaving those behind whom they could scarce hope to again see. the aged father and mother, sisters and brothers, while wives and children were left behind for a season. and oh! the multitude of dear friends formed by long and pleasant associations to say "good bye" to forever, and long letters to promise telling all about the new life in the new home. one merry party of young folks were the center of attraction for the hilarity they displayed on this solemn occasion, many asking, "are they as merry as they appear?" while they laughed and chattered away, saying all the funny things they could summon to their tongues' end, and all just to keep back the sobs and tears. again and again were the "good byes" said, the "god bless you" repeated many times, and, as the hour-hand pointed to ten, we knew we soon must go. true to time the train rolled up to the depot, to take on its load of human freight to be landed 1,300 miles from home. another clasping of hands in the last hurried farewell, the good wishes repeated, and we were hustled into the train, that soon started with an ominous whistle westward; sending back a wave of tear-stained handkerchiefs, while we received the same, mingled with cheers from encouraging ones left behind. the very clouds seemed to weep a sad farewell in flakes of pure snow, emblematic of the pure love of true friends, which indeed is heaven-born. then faster came the snow-flakes, as faster fell the tears until a perfect shower had fallen; beautifying the earth with purity, even as souls are purified by love. we were glad to see the snow as it seemed more befitting the departing hour than bright sunshine. looking back we saw the leader of the merry party, and whose eyes then sparkled with assumed joyousness, now flooded with tears that coursed down the cheeks yet pale with pent up emotion. ah! where is the reader of hearts, by the smiles we wear, and the songs we sing? around and among the hills our train wound and bradford was quickly lost sight of. but, eager to make the best of the situation, we dried our tears and busied ourselves storing away luggage and lunch baskets, and arranging everything for comfort sake. this accomplished, those of us who were strangers began making friends, which was an easy task, for were we not all bound together under one bond whose law was mutual aid? all going to perhaps share the same toil and disadvantages, as well as the same pleasures of the new home? then we settled down and had our dinners from our baskets. we heard a number complain of a lump in their throat that would scarcely allow them to swallow a bite, although the baskets were well filled with all the good things a lunch basket can be stored with. when nearing jamestown, n.y., we had a good view of lake chautauqua, now placid and calm, but when summer comes will bear on her bosom people from almost everywhere; for it is fast becoming one of the most popular summer resorts. the lake is eighteen miles long and three miles wide. then down into pennsylvania, again. as we were nearing meadville, we saw the best farming land of all seen during the day. no hills to speak of after leaving jamestown; perhaps they were what some would call hills, but to us who are used to real up-and-down hills, they lose their significance. the snow-storm followed us to meadville, where we rested twenty minutes, a number of us employing the time in the childish sport of snow-balling. we thought it rather novel to snow-ball so near the month of buds and blossoms, and supposed it would be the last "ball" of the season, unless one of dakota's big snow-storms would slide over the line, just a little ways, and give us a taste of dakota's clime. as we were now "all aboard" from the different points, we went calling among the colonists and found we numbered in all sixty-five men, women, and children, and pearl payne the only colony babe. each one did their part to wear away the day, and, despite the sad farewells of the morning, really seemed to enjoy the picnic. smiles and jokes, oranges and bananas were in plenty, while cigars were passed to the gentlemen, oranges to the ladies, and chewing gum to the children. even the canaries sang their songs from the cages hung to the racks. thus our first day passed, and evening found us nearing cleveland--leaving darkness to hide from our view the beautiful city and lake erie. we felt more than the usual solemnity of the twilight hour, when told we were going over the same road that was once strewn with flowers for him whom columbia bowed her head in prayers and tears, such as she never but once uttered or shed before, and brought to mind lines i then had written: bloom now most beautiful, ye flowers, your loveliness we'll strew from washington to cleveland's soil, the funeral cortege through. in that loved land that gave him birth we lay him down to rest, 'tis but his mangled form alone, his soul is with the blest. not cleveland's soil alone is moist with many a falling tear, a mist is over all this land for him we loved most dear. "nearer, my god, to thee," we sing; in mournful strains and slow, while in the tomb we gently lay, our martyred garfield low. songs sang in the early even-tide were never a lullaby to me, but rather the midnight hoot of the owl, so, while others turn seats, take up cushions and place them crosswise from seat to seat, and cuddled down to wooing sleep, i will busy myself with my pen. and as this may be read by many who never climbed a mountain, as well as those who never trod prairie land, i will attempt a description of the land we leave behind us. but mr. clark disturbs me every now and then, getting hungry, and thinking "it's most time to eat," and goes to hush mr. fuller to sleep, and while doing so steals away his bright, new coffee pot, in which his wife has prepared a two days' drinking; but mr. c's generosity is making way with it in treating all who will take a sup, until he is now rinsing the grounds. thus fun is kept going by a few, chasing sleep away from many who fain would dream of home. "home!" the word we left behind us, and the word we go to seek; the word that charms the weary wandering ones more than all others, for there are found the sweetest if not the richest comforts of life. and of home i now would write; but my heart and hand almost fail me. i know i cannot do justice to the grand old mountains and hills, the beautiful valleys and streams that have known us since childhood's happy days, when we learned to love them with our first loving. everyone goes, leaving some spot dearer than all others behind. 'tis not that we do not love our homes in the east, but a hope for a better in a land we may learn to love, that takes us west, and also the same spirit of enterprise and adventure that has peopled all parts of the world. when the sun rose wednesday morning it found us in indiana. we were surprised to see the low land, with here and there a hill of white sand, on which a few scrubby oaks grew. it almost gave me an ague chill to see so much ground covered with water that looked as though it meant to stay. yet this land held its riches, for the farm houses were large and well built, and the fields were already quite green. but these were quickly lost sight of for a view of lake michigan, second in size of the five great lakes, and the only one lying wholly in the u.s. area, 24,000 square miles; greatest length, 340 miles, and greatest width, 88 miles. the waters seemed to come to greet us, as wave after wave rolled in with foamy crest, only to die out on the sandy shore, along which we bounded. and, well, we could only look and look again, and speed on, with a sigh that we must pass the beautiful waters so quickly by, only to soon tread the busy, thronged streets of chicago. the height of the buildings of brick and stone gives the streets a decidedly narrow appearance. a party of sight-seers was piloted around by mr. gibson, who spared no pains nor lost an opportunity of showing his party every attention. but our time was so limited that it was but little of chicago we saw. can only speak of the great court house, which is built of stone, with granite pillars and trimmings. the chicago river, of dirty water, crowded with fishing and towing boats, being dressed and rigged by busy sailors, was quite interesting. it made us heartsick to see the poor women and children, who were anxiously looking for coal and rags, themselves only a mere rag of humanity. i shook my head and said, "wouldn't like to live here," and was not sorry when we were seated in a clean new coach of the s.c. & p.r.r., and rolled out on the c. & n.w. road. over the switches, past the dirty flagmen, with their inseparable pipe (wonder if they are the husbands and fathers of the coal and rag pickers?) out on to the broad land of illinois--rolling prairie, we would call it, with scarcely a slump or stone. farmers turning up the dark soil, and herds of cattle grazing everywhere in the great fields that were fenced about with board, barb-wire, and neatly trimmed hedge fence, the hedge already showing green. the farms are larger than our eastern farms, for the houses are so far apart; but here there are no hills to separate neighbors. crossed the mississippi river about four p.m., and when mid-way over was told, "now, we are in iowa." river rather clear, and about a mile in width. iowa farmers, too, were busy: some burning off the old grass, which was a novel sight to us. daylight left us when near cedar rapids. how queer! it always gets dark just when we come to some interesting place we wanted so much to see. well, all were tired enough for a whole night's rest, and looking more like a delegation from "blackville"--from the soot and cinder-dirt--than a "party from bradford," and apparently as happy as darkies at a camp-meeting, we sought our rest early, that we might rise about three o'clock, to see the hills of the coal region of boone county by moonlight. i pressed my face close to the window, and peered out into the night, so anxious to see a hill once more. travelers from the east miss the rough, rugged hills of home! the sun rose when near denison, iowa,--as one remarked, "not from behind a hill, but right out of the ground"--ushering in another beautiful day. at missouri valley we were joined by mr. j. r. buchanan, who came to see us across the missouri river, which was done in transfer boats--three coaches taken across at a time. as the first boat was leaving, we stood upon the shore, and looked with surprise at the dull lead-color of the water. we knew the word missouri signified muddy, and have often read of the unchanging muddy color of the water, yet we never realize what we read as what we see. we searched the sandy shore in vain for a pebble to carry away as a memento of the "big muddy," but "nary a one" could we find, so had to be content with a little sand. was told the water was healthy to drink, but as for looks, we would not use it for mopping our floors with. the river is about three-fourths of a mile in width here. a bridge will soon be completed at this point, the piers of which are now built, and then the boats will be abandoned. when it came our turn to cross, we were all taken on deck, where we had a grand view. looking north and south on the broad, rolling river, east to the bluffy shores of iowa we had just left, and west to the level lands of nebraska, which were greeted with "three rousing huzzahs for the state that was to be the future home of so many of our party." yet we knew the merry shouts were echoed with sighs from sad hearts within. some, we knew, felt they entered the state never to return, and know no other home. to those who had come with their every earthly possession, and who would be almost compelled to stay whether they were pleased or not, it certainly was a moment of much feeling. how different with those of us who carried our return tickets, and had a home to return to! it was not expected that all would be pleased; some would no doubt return more devoted to the old home than before. we watched the leaden waves roll by, down, on down, just as though they had not helped to bear us on their bosom to--we did not know what. how little the waves knew or cared! and never a song they sang to us; no rocks or pebbles to play upon. truly, "silently flow the deep waters." only the plowing through the water of the boat, and the splash of the waves against its side as we floated down and across. how like the world are the waters! we cross over, and the ripple we cause dies out on the shore; the break of the wave is soon healed, and they flow on just as before. but, reader, do we not leave footprints upon the shores that show whence we came, and whither we have gone? and where is the voyager upon life's sea that does not cast wheat and chaff, roses and thorns upon the waves as they cross over? grant, father, that it may be more of the wheat than chaff, more of the roses than thorns we cast adrift upon the sea of _our_ life; and though they may be tempest tossed, yet in thy hands they will be gathered, not lost. when we reached the shore, we were again seated in our coach, and switched on to nebraska's _terra firma_. mr. j. r. buchanan refers to beaver county, pa., as his birth-place, but had left his native state when yet a boy, and had wandered westward, and now resides in missouri valley, the general passenger agent of the s.c. & p.r.r. co., which office we afterward learned he fills with true dignity and a generosity becoming the company he represents. he spoke with tenderness of the good old land of pennsylvania, and displayed a hearty interest in the people who had just come from there. indeed, there was much kindness expressed for "the colony going to the niobrara country" all the way along, and many were the compliments paid. do not blame us for self praise; we flattered ourselves that we _did_ well sustain the old family honors of "the keystone." while nearing blair, the singers serenaded mr. b. with "ten thousand miles away" and other appropriate songs in which he joined, and then with an earnest "god bless you," left us. reader, i will have to travel this road again, and then i will tell you all about it. i have no time or chance to write now. the day is calm and bright, and more like a real picnic or pleasure excursion than a day of travel to a land of "doubt." when the train stopped any time at a station, a number of us would get off, walk about, and gather half-unfolded cottonwood and box elder leaves until "all aboard" was sung out, and we were on with the rest--to go calling and visit with our neighbors until the next station was reached. this relieved the monotony of the constant going, and rested us from the jog and jolt of the cars. one of the doings of the day was the gathering of a button string; mementos from the colony folks, that i might remember each one. i felt i was going only to soon leave them--they to scatter over the plains, and i to return perhaps never to again see nebraska, and 'twas with a mingling of sadness with all the fun of the gathering, that i received a button from this one, a key or coin from that one, and scribbled down the name in my memorandum. i knew they would speak to me long after we had separated, and tell how the givers looked, or what they said as they gave them to me, thinking, no doubt, it was only child's play. mr. gibson continued with the party, just as obliging as ever, until we reached fremont, where he turned back to look after more travelers from the east, as he is eastern passenger agent of the s.c. & p.r.r. he received the thanks of all for the kindness and patience he displayed in piloting a party of impatient emigrants through a three days' journey. mr. familton, who joined us at denison, iowa, and was going to help the claim hunters, took pity on our empty looking lunch baskets, and kindly had a number to take dinner at west point and supper at neligh with him. it was a real treat to eat a meal from a well spread table again. i must say i was disappointed; i had fancied the prairies would already be in waving grass; instead, they were yet brown and sere with the dead grass of last year excepting where they had been run over with fire, and that i could scarcely tell from plowed ground--it has the same rough appearance, and the soil is so very dark. yet, the farther west we went, the better all seemed to be pleased. thus, with song and sight-seeing, the day passed. "old sol" hid his smiling face from us when near clearwater, and what a grand "good night" he bade us! and what beauty he spread out before us, going down like a great ball of fire, setting ablaze every little sheet of water, and windows in houses far away! indeed, the windows were all we could see of the houses. we were all wide awake to the lovely scene so new to us. lizzie saw this, laura that, and al, if told to look at the lovely sunset (but who had a better taste for wild game) would invariably exclaim: oh! the prairie chickens! the ducks! the ducks! and wish for his gun to try his luck. thus nothing was lost, but everything enjoyed, until we stopped at a small town where a couple of intoxicated men, claiming to be cow-boys, came swaggering through our car to see the party of "tenderfeet," as new arrivals from the east are termed by some, but were soon shown that their company was not congenial and led out of the car. my only defense is in flight and in getting out of the way; so i hid between the seats and held my ears. oh! dear! why did i come west? i thought; but the train whistle blew and away we flew leaving our tormenters behind, and no one hurt. thus ended our first battle with the much dreaded cow-boys; yet we were assured by others that they were not cow-boys, as they, with all their wildness, would not be guilty of such an act. about 11 o'clock, thursday night, we arrived at our last station, stuart, holt county. our coach was switched on a side-track, doors locked, blinds pulled down, and there we slept until the dawning of our first morning in nebraska. the station agent had been apprised of our coming, and had made comfortable the depot and a baggage car with a good fire; that the men who had been traveling in other coaches and could not find room in the two hotels of the town, could find a comfortable resting place for the night. we felt refreshed after a night of quiet rest, and the salubrious air of the morning put us in fine spirits, and we flocked from the car like birds out of a cage, and could have flown like freed birds to their nests, some forty miles farther north-west, where the colonists expected to find their nests of homes. but instead, we quietly walked around the depot, and listened to a lark that sang us a sweet serenade from amid the grass close by; but we had to chase it up with a "shoo," and a flying clod before we could see the songster. then by way of initiation into the life of the "wild west," a mark was pinned to a telegraph pole; and would you believe it, reader, the spirit of the country had so taken hold of us already that we took right hold of a big revolver, took aim, pulled the trigger, and after the smoke had cleared away, looked--and--well--we missed paper and pole, but hit the prairie beyond; where most of the shots were sown that followed. a number of citizens of stuart had gathered about to see the "pack of irish and german emigrants," expected, while others who knew what kind of people were coming, came with a hearty welcome for us. foremost among these were messrs. john and james skirving, merchants and stockmen, who, with their welcome extended an invitation to a number to breakfast. but before going, several of us stepped upon the scales to note the effect the climate would have upon our avoirdupois. as i wrote down 94 lbs., i thought, "if my weight increases to 100 lbs., i will sure come again and stay." then we scattered to look around until breakfast was ready. we espied a great red-wheeled something--i didn't know what, but full of curiosity went to see. a gentleman standing near asked: "are you ladies of the colony that arrived last night?" "yes, sir, and we are wondering what this is." "why, that's an ox plow, and turns four furrows at one time." "oh! we didn't know but that it was a western sulky." it was amusing to hear the guesses made as to what the farming implements were we saw along the way, by these new farmers. but we went to breakfast at mr. john skirving's wiser than most of them as far as ox-plows were concerned. what a breakfast! and how we did eat of the bread, ham, eggs, honey, and everything good. just felt as though we had never been to breakfast before, and ate accordingly. that noted western appetite must have made an attack upon us already, for soon after weighing ourselves to see if the climate had affected a change yet, the weight slipped on to--reader, i promised you i would tell you the truth and the whole truth; but it is rather hard when it comes right down to the point of the pen to write ninety-six. and some of the others that liked honey better than i did, weighed more than two pounds heavier. now what do you think of a climate like that? but we must add that we afterwards tested the difference in the scales, and in reality we had only eaten--i mean we had only gained one and a half pound from the salubrious air of the morning. dinner and supper were the same in place, price, and quality, but not in quantity. when we went to the car for our luggage, we found mr. clark lying there trying to sleep. "home-sick?" we asked. "no, but i'm nigh sick abed; didn't get any sleep last night." no, he was not homesick, only he fain would sleep and dream of home. first meeting of the n.m.a.c. was held on a board pile near the depot, to appoint a committee to secure transportation to the location. the coming of the colony from pennsylvania had been noised abroad through the papers, and people were coming from every direction to secure a home near them, and the best of the land was fast being claimed by strangers, and the colonists felt anxious to be off on the morrow. the day was pleasant, and our people spent it in seeing what was to be seen in and about stuart, rendering a unanimous "pleased" in the evening. mr. john skirving kindly gave three comfortable rooms above his store to the use of the colonists, and the ladies and children with the husbands went to house-keeping there friday evening. _saturday morning._ pleasant. all is bustle and stir to get the men started to the location, and at last with oxen, horses, mules, and ponies, eight teams in all, attached to wagons and hacks, and loaded with the big tent and provisions, they were off. while the ladies who were disappointed at being left behind; merrily waved each load away. but it proved quite fortunate that we were left behind, as saturday was the last of the pleasant days. sunday was cool, rained some, and that western wind commenced to blow. we wanted to show that we were keepers of the sabbath by attending services at the one church of the town. but, as the morning was unpleasant, we remained at the colony home and wrote letters to the dear ones of home, telling of our safe arrival. many were the letters sent post haste from stuart the following day to anxious ones in the east. in the afternoon it was pleasant enough for a walk across the prairie, about a quarter of a mile, to the elkhorn river. when we reached the river i looked round and exclaimed: why! what town is that? completely turned already and didn't know the town i had just left. the river has its source about fifteen miles south-west of stuart, and is only a brook in width here, yet quite deep and very swift. the water is a smoky color, but so clear the fish will not be caught with hook and line, spears and seine are used instead. like all the streams we have noticed in nebraska it is very crooked, yet we do not wonder that the water does not know where to run, there is no "up or down" to this country; it is all just over to us; so the streams cut across here, and wind around there, making angles, loops, and turns, around which the water rushes, boiling and bubbling,--cross i guess because it has so many twists and turns to make; don't know what else would make it flow so swiftly in this level country. but hear what prof. aughey says: "the elkhorn river is one of the most beautiful streams of the state. it rises west of holt and elkhorn counties. near its source the valley widens to a very great breadth, and the bluffs bordering it are low and often inappreciable. the general direction of the main river approximates to 250 miles. its direction is southeast. it empties into the platte in the western part of sarpy county. for a large part of its course the elkhorn flows over rock bottom. it has considerable fall, and its steady, large volume of waters will render it a most valuable manufacturing region." we had not realized that as we went west from the missouri river we made a constant ascent of several feet to the mile, else we would not have wondered at the rapid flow of the river. the clearness of the water is owing to its being gathered from innumerable lakelets; while the smoky color is from the dead grass that cover its banks and some places its bed. then going a little farther on we prospected a sod house, and found it quite a decent affair. walls three feet thick, and eight feet high; plastered inside with native lime, which makes them smooth and white; roof made of boards, tarred paper, and a covering of sod. the lady of the house tells me the house is warm in winter, and cool in summer. had a drink of good water from the well which is fifteen feet deep, and walled up with barrels with the ends knocked out. the common way of drawing water is by a rope, swung over a pulley on a frame several feet high, which brings to the top a zinc bucket the shape and length of a joint of stove pipe, with a wooden bottom. in the bottom is a hole over which a little trap door or valve is fastened with leather hinges. you swing the bucket over a trough, and let it down upon a peg fastened there, that raises the trap door and leaves the water out. some use a windlass. it seemed awkward to us at first, but it is a cheap pump, and one must get used to a good many inconveniences in a new country. but we who are used to dipping water from springs, are not able to be a judge of pumps. am told the water is easily obtained, and generally good; though what is called hard water. the country is almost a dead level, without a tree or bush in sight. but when on a perfect level the prairie seems to raise around you, forming a sort of dish with you in the center. can see the sand hills fifteen miles to the southwest quite distinctly. farm houses, mostly sod, dot the surrounding country. _monday, 30th._ cool, with some rain, high wind, and little sunshine. for the sake of a quiet place where i could write, i sought and found a very pleasant stopping place with the family of mr. john skirving, of whom i have before spoken, and who had but lately brought his family from jefferson city, iowa. _tuesday._ a very disagreeable day; driving rain, that goes through everything, came down all day. do wonder how the claim hunters in camp near the keya paha river will enjoy this kind of weather, with nothing but their tent for shelter. _wednesday._ about the same as yesterday, cold and wet; would have snowed, but the wind blew the flakes to pieces and it came down a fine rain. mrs. s. thinks she will go back to iowa, and i wonder if it rains at home. _thursday._ and still it rains and blows! _friday._ a better day. last night the wind blew so hard that i got out of bed and packed my satchel preparatory to being blown farther west, and dressed ready for the trip. the mode of travel was so new to me i scarcely knew what to wear. everything in readiness, i lay me down and quietly waited the going of the roof, but found myself snug in bed in the morning, and a roof over me. the wind was greatly calmed, and i hastened to view the ruins of the storm of the night, but found nothing had been disturbed, only my slumber. the wind seems to make more noise than our eastern winds of the same force; and eastern people seem to make more noise about the wind than western people do. don't think that i was frightened; there is nothing like being ready for emergencies! i had heard so much of the storms and winds of the west, that i half expected a ride on the clouds before i returned. the clouds cleared away, and the sun shone out brightly, and soon the wind had the mud so dried that it was pleasant walking. the soil is so mixed with sand that the mud is never more than a couple of inches deep here, and is soon dried. when dry a sandy dust settles over everything, but not a dirty dust. a number of the colony men returned to-day. _saturday._ pleasant. the most of the men have returned. the majority in good heart and looking well despite the weather and exposure they have been subject to, and have selected claims. but a few are discouraged and think they will look for lands elsewhere. they found the land first thought of so taken that they had to go still farther northwest--some going as far west as holt creek, and so scattered that but few of them can be neighbors. this is a disappointment not looked for, they expected to be so located that the same church and school would serve them all. emigrant wagons have been going through stuart in numbers daily, through wind and rain, all going in that direction, to locate near the colony. the section they had selected for a town plot had also been claimed by strangers. yet, i am told, the colonists might have located more in a body had they gone about their claim-hunting more deliberately. and the storm helped to scatter them. the tent which was purchased with colony funds, and a few individual dollars, proved to be a poor bargain. when first pitched there was a small rent near the top, which the wind soon whipped into a disagreeably large opening. but the wind brought the tent to the ground, and it was rightly mended, and hoisted in a more sheltered spot. but, alas! down came the tent again, and as many as could found shelter in the homes of the old settlers. some selected their claims, plowed a few furrows, and laid four poles in the shape of a pen, or made signs of improvement in some way, and then went east to niobrara city, or west to long pine, to a land office and had the papers taken out for their claims. others, thinking there was no need of such hurried precautions, returned to stuart to spend the sabbath, and lost their claims. one party selected a claim, hastened to a land office to secure it, and arrived just in time to see a stranger sign his name to the necessary documents making it his. will explain more about claim-taking when i have learned more about it. _sunday, 6 may._ bright and warm. would not have known there had been any rain during the past week by the ground, which is nicely dried, and walking pleasant. a number of us attended sunday school and preaching in the forenoon, and were well entertained and pleased with the manner in which the sunday school was conducted, while the organ in the corner made it quite home-like. we were glad to know there were earnest workers even here, where we were told the sabbath was not observed; and but for our attendance here would have been led to believe it were so. teams going, and stores open to people who come many miles to do their trading on this day; yet it is done quietly and orderly. the minister rose and said, with countenance beaming with earnestness: "i thank god there are true christians to be found along this elkhorn valley, and these strangers who are with us to-day show by their presence they are not strangers to christ; god's house will always be sought and found by his people." while our hearts were filled with thanksgiving, that the god we love is very god everywhere, and unto him we can look for care and protection at all times. in the evening we again gathered, and listened to a sermon on temperance, which, we were glad to know, fell upon a temperance people, as far as we knew our brother and sister colonists. after joining in "what a friend we have in jesus" we went away feeling refreshed from "the fountain that freely flows for all," and walked home under the same stars that made beautiful the night for friends far away. ah! we had begun to measure the distance from home already, and did not dare to think how far we were from its shelter. but, as the stars are, so is god high over all; and the story of his love is just the same the wide world over. _monday._ pleasant. colonists making preparation to start to the location to-morrow, with their families. some who have none but themselves to care for, have started. _tuesday._ rains. folks disappointed. _wednesday._ rains and blows. discouraging. _thursday._ blows and rains. _very_ discouraging. the early settlers say they never knew such a long rain at this season. guess it is raining everywhere; letters are coming telling of a snow in some places nine and ten inches deep, on the 25th of april; of hard frozen ground, and continuous rains. it is very discouraging for the colony folks to be so detained; but they are thankful they are snug in comfortable quarters, in stuart, instead of out they scarcely know where. some have prepared muslin tents to live in until they can build their log or sod houses. they are learning that those who left their families behind until a home was prepared for them, acted wisely. i cannot realize as they do the disappointment they have met with, yet i am greatly in sympathy with them. with the first letter received from home came this word from father: "i feel that my advanced years will not warrant me in changing homes." well, that settled the matter of my taking a claim, even though the land proved the best. yet i am anxious to see and know all, now that i am here, for history's sake, and intend going to the colony grounds with the rest. brother charley has written me from plum creek, dawson county, to meet him at fremont as soon as i can, and he will show me some of the beauties of the platte valley; but i cannot leave until i have done this part of nebraska justice. mr. and mrs. s. show me every kindness, and in such a way that i am made to feel perfectly at home; in turn i try to assist mrs. s. with her household duties, and give every care and attention to wee nellie, who is quite ill. i started on my journey breathing the prayer that god would take me into his own care and keeping, and raise up kind friends to make the way pleasant. i trusted all to him, and now in answer, am receiving their care and protection as one of their own. thus the time passes pleasantly, while i eat and sleep with an appetite and soundness i never knew before--though i fancy mrs. s's skill as a cook has a bearing on my appetite, as well as the climate--yet every one experiences an increase of appetite, and also of weight. one of our party whom we had called "the pale man" for want of his right name, had thrown aside his "soft beaver" and adopted a stockman's wide rimmed sombrero traded his complexion to the winds for a bronze, and gained eight pounds in the eleven days he has been out taking the weather just as it came, and wherever it found him. _friday._ rain has ceased and it shows signs of clearing off. it does not take long for ground and grass to dry off enough for a prairie fire, and they have been seen at distances all around stuart at night, reminding us of the gas-lights on the bradford hills. the prairies look like new mown hay-fields; but they are not the hay-fields of pennsylvania; a coarse, woody grass that must be burnt off, to allow the young grass to show itself when it comes in the spring. have seen some very poor and neglected looking cattle that have lived all winter upon the prairie without shelter. i am told that, not anticipating so long a winter, many disposed of their hay last fall, and now have to drive their cattle out to the "divides,"--hills between rivers--to pasture on the prairie; and this cold wet weather has been very hard on them, many of the weak ones dying. it has been a novel sight, to watch a little girl about ten years old herding sheep near town; handling her pony with a masterly hand, galloping around the herd if they begin to scatter out, and driving them, into the corral. i must add that i have also seen some fine looking cattle. i must tell you all the bad with the good. during all this time, and despite the disagreeable weather, emigrants keep up the line of march through stuart, all heading for the niobrara country, traveling in their "prairie schooners," as the great hoop-covered wagon is called, into which, often are packed their every worldly possession, and have room to pile in a large family on top. sometimes a sheet-iron stove is carried along at the rear of the wagon, which, when needed, they set up inside and put the pipe through a hole in the covering. those who do not have this convenience carry wood with them and build a fire on the ground to cook by; cooking utensils are generally packed in a box at the side or front. the coverings of the wagons are of all shades and materials; muslin, ducking, ticking, overall stuff, and oil-cloth. when oil-cloth is not used they are often patched over the top with their oil-cloth table covers. the women and children generally do the driving, while the men and boys bring up the rear with horses and cattle of all grades, from poor weak calves that look ready to lay them down and die, to fine, fat animals, that show they have had a good living where they came from. many of these people are from iowa, are intelligent and show a good education. one lady we talked with was from michigan; had four bright little children with her, the youngest about a year old; had come from missouri valley in the wagon; but told us of once before leaving michigan and trying life in texas; but not being suited with the country, had returned, as they were now traveling, in only a wagon, spending ten weeks on the way. she was driver and nurse both, while her husband attended to several valuable texas horses. another lady said: "oh! we are from mizzurie; been on the way three weeks." "how can you travel through such weather?" "oh! we don't mind it, we have a good ducking cover that keeps out the rain, and when the wind blows very hard we tie the wagon down." "never get sick?" "no." "not even a cold?" "oh! no, feel better now than when we started." "how many miles can you go in a day?" "we average about twenty." the sun and wind soon tans their faces a reddish brown, but they look healthy, happy, and contented. thus you see, there is a needed class of people in the west that think no hardship to pick up and thus go whither their fancy may lead them, and to this class in a great measure we owe the opening up of the western country. _saturday morning._ cloudy and threatened more storm, but cleared off nicely after a few stray flakes of "beautiful snow" had fallen. all getting ready to make a start to the colony location. hearing that mr. lewis, one of the colonists, would start with the rest with a team of oxen, i engaged a passage in his wagon. i wanted to go west as the majority go, and enter into the full meaning and spirit of it all; so, much to the surprise of many, i donned a broad brimmed sombrero, and left stuart about one o'clock, perched on the spring seat of a double bed wagon, in company with mrs. gilman, who came from bradford last week. mr. lewis finds it easier driving, to walk, and is accompanied by mr. boggs, who i judge has passed his three score years. thinking i might get hungry on the way or have to tent out, mrs. s. gave me a loaf of bread, some butter, meat, and stewed currants to bring along; but the first thing done was the spilling of the juice off the currants. come, reader, go with me on my first ride over the plains of nebraska behind oxen; of course they do not prance, pace, gallop, or trot; i think they simply walk, but time will tell how fast they can jog along. sorry we cannot give you the shelter of a "prairie schooner," for the wind does not forget to blow, and it is a little cool. mr. l. has already named his matched brindles, "brock and broady," and as they were taken from the herd but yesterday, and have not been under the yoke long, they are rather untutored; but mr. l. is tutoring them with a long lash whip, and i think he will have them pretty well trained by the time we reach the end of our journey. "whoa, there broady! get up! it's after one and dear only knows how far we have got to go. don't turn 'round so, you'll upset the wagon!" we are going directly north-west. this, that looks like great furrows running parallel with the road, i am told, is the old wagon train road running from omaha to the black hills. it runs directly through stuart, but i took it to be a narrow potato patch all dug up in deep rows. i see when they get tired of the old ruts, they just drive along side and make a new road which soon wears as deep as the old. no road taxes to pay or work done on the roads here, and never a stone to cause a jolt. the jolting done is caused in going from one rut to another. here we are four miles from stuart, and wading through a two-mile stretch of wet ground, all standing in water. no signs of habitation, not even stuart to be seen from this point. mr. lewis wishes for a longer whip-stock or handle; i'll keep a look out and perhaps i will find one. now about ten miles on our way and stuart in plain view. there must be a raise and fall in the ground that i cannot notice in going over it. land is better here mr. b. says, and all homesteaded. away to our right are a few little houses, sod and frame. while to the left, 16 miles away, are to be seen the sand-hills, looking like great dark waves. the walking is so good here that i think i will relieve the--oxen of about 97 pounds. you see i have been gaining in my avoirdupois. i enjoy walking over this old road, gathering dried grasses and pebbles, wishing they could speak and tell of the long emigrant trains that had tented at night by the wayside; of travelers going west to find new homes away out on the wild plains; of the heavy freight trains carrying supplies to the indian agencies and the black hills; of the buffalo stampede and indian "whoop" these prairies had echoed with, but which gave way to civilization only a few years ago, and now under its protection, we go over the same road in perfect safety, where robbery and massacres have no doubt been committed. oh! the change of time! twelve miles from stuart, why would you believe it, here's a real little hill with a small stream at the bottom. ash creek it is called, but i skip it with ease, and as i stop to play a moment in the clear water and gather a pebble from its gravelly bed, i answer j. g. holland in kathrina with: surely, "the crystal brooks _are_ sweeter for singing to the thirsty brutes that dip their bearded muzzles in their foam," and thought what a source of delight this little stream is to the many that pass this way. then viewed the remains of a sod house on the hillside, and wondered what king or queen of the prairie had reigned within this castle of the west, the roof now tumbled in and the walls falling. ah! there is plenty of food for thought, and plenty of time to think as the oxen jog along, and i bring up the rear, seeing and hearing for your sake, reader. only a little way from the creek, and we pass the first house that stands near the road, and that has not been here long, for it is quite new. the white-haired children playing about the door will not bother their neighbors much, or get out of the yard and run off for awhile at least, as there is no other house in sight, and the boundless prairie is their dooryard. happy mother! happy children! now we are all aboard the wagon, and i have read what i have written of the leave taking of home; mr. b. wipes his eyes as it brings back memories of the good byes to him; mr. l. says, "that's very truly written," and mrs. g. whispers, "i must have one of your books, sims." all this is encouraging, and helps me to keep up brave heart, and put forth every effort to the work i have begun, and which is so much of an undertaking for me. "oh! mr. lewis, there it is!" "is what?" "why, that stick for a whip-handle." i had been watching all the way along, and it was the only stick i had seen, and some poor unfortunate had lost it. the sun is getting low, and mr. l. thinks we had better stop over night at this old log-house, eighteen miles from stuart, and goes to talk to the landlord about lodging. i view the prospects without and think of way-side inns i have read of in story, but never seen before, and am not sorry when he returns and reports: "already crowded with travelers," and flourishing his new whip starts brock and broady, though tired and panting, into a trot toward the niobrara, and soon we are nearing another little stream called willow creek, named from the few little willow bushes growing along its banks, the first bushes seen all the way along. it is some wider than ash creek, and as there is no bridge we must ride across. mr. l. is afraid the oxen are thirsty and will go straight for the water and upset the wagon. oh, dear! i'll just shut my eyes until we are on the other side. there, mr. b. thinks he sees a nest of prairie chicken eggs and goes to secure some for a novelty, but changes his mind and thinks he'll not disturb that nest of white puff-balls, and returns to the wagon quite crestfallen. heavy looking clouds gathering in the west, obscure the setting sun, which is a real disappointment. the dawning and fading of the days in nebraska are indeed grand, and i did so want a sunset feast this evening, for i could view it over the bluffy shores of the niobrara river. getting dark again, just when the country is growing most interesting. mr. b. and l. say, "bad day to-morrow, more rain sure;" i consult my barometer and it indicates fair weather. if it is correct i will name it vennor, if not i shall dub it wiggins. thermometer stands at 48â°, think i had better walk and get warmed up; a heavy cloth suit, mohair ulster and gossamer is scarcely sufficient to keep the chilly wind out. one mile further on and darkness overtakes us while sticking on the banks of rock creek, a stream some larger than willow creek, and bridged with poles for pedestrians, on which we crossed; but the oxen, almost tired out, seemed unequal for the pull up the hill. mr. l. uses the whip, while mr. b. pushes, and mrs. g. and i stand on a little rock that juts out of the hill--first stone or rock seen since we entered the state, and pity the oxen, but there they stick. ah! here is a man coming with an empty wagon and two horses; now he will help us up the hill. "can you give me a lift?" mr. l. asks. "i'm sorry i can't help you gentlemen, but that off-horse is _terribly weak_. the other horse is all right, but you can see for yourself, gentlemen, how weak that off-horse is." and away he goes, rather brisk for a weak horse. while we come to the conclusion that he has not been west long enough to learn the ways of true western kindness. (we afterwards learned he was lately from pennsylvania.) but here comes mr. ross and mr. connelly who have walked all the way from stuart. again the oxen pull, the men push, but not a foot gained; wagon only settling firmer into the mud. the men debate and wonder what to do. "why not unload the trunks and carry them up the hill?" i ask. spoopendike like, someone laughed at my suggestion, but no sooner said than mr. l. was handing down a trunk with, "that's it--only thing we can do; here help with this trunk," and a goodly part of the load is carried to the top of the hill by the men, while i carry the guns. how brave we are growing, and how determined to go west; and the oxen follow without further trouble. when within a mile and a half of the river, those of us who can, walk, as it is dangerous driving after dark, and we take across, down a hill, across a little canyon, at the head of which stands a little house with a light in the window that looks inviting, but on we go, across a narrow channel of the river, on to an island covered with diamond willow bushes, and a few trees. see a light from several "prairie schooners" that have cast anchor amid the bushes, and which make a very good harbor for these ships of the west. "what kind of a shanty is this?" "why that is a wholesale and retail store, but the merchant doesn't think worth while to light up in the evening." on we walk over a sort of corduroy road made of bushes, and so tired i can scarcely take another step. "well, is this the place?" i asked as we stopped to look in at the open door of a double log house, on a company of people who are gathered about an organ and singing, "what a friend we have in jesus." "no, just across the river where you see that light." another bridge is crossed, and we set us down in aunty slack's hotel about 9 o'clock. tired? yes, and _so glad_ to get to _somewhere_. mr. john newell, who lives near the keya paha, left stuart shortly after we did, with mrs. and miss lizzie, laura, and verdie ross, in his hack, but soon passed us with his broncho ponies and had reached here before dark. three other travelers were here for the night, a keya paha man, a mr. philips, of iowa, and mr. truesdale, of bradford, pa. "how did the rest get started?" mrs. r. asks of her husband. "well, mr. morrison started with his oxen, with willie taylor, and mrs. m. and mrs. taylor rode in the buggy tied to the rear end of the wagon. mr. barnwell and several others made a start with his team of oxen. but mr. taylor's horses would not pull a pound, so he will have to take them back to the owner and hunt up a team of oxen." we had expected to all start at the same time, and perhaps tent out at night. a good supper is refreshing to tired travelers, but it is late before we get laid down to sleep. at last the ladies are given two beds in a new apartment just erected last week, and built of cedar logs with a sod roof, while the men throw themselves down on blankets and comforts on the floor, while the family occupies the old part. about twelve o'clock the rain began to patter on the sod shingles of the roof over head, which by dawn was thoroughly soaked, and gently pouring down upon the sleepers on the floor, causing a general uprising, and driving them from the room. it won't leak on our side of the house, so let's sleep awhile longer; but just as we were dropping into the arms of morpheus, spat! came a drop on our pillow, which said, "get up!" in stronger terms than mother ever did. i never saw a finer shower inside a house before. what a crowd we made for the little log house, 14ã�16 feet, built four years ago, and which served as kitchen, dining room, chamber, and parlor, and well crowded with furniture, without the addition of fourteen rain-bound travelers, beside the family, which consisted of mrs. slack, proprietress, a daughter and son-in-law, and a hired girl, 18 heads in all to be sheltered by this old sod roof made by a heavy ridge pole, or log laid across at the comb, which supports slabs or boards laid from the wall, then brush and dried grass, and then the sod. the walls are well chinked and whitened. the door is the full height of the wall, and the tallest of the men have to strictly observe etiquette, and bow as they enter and leave the house. mr. boggs invariably strikes a horse shoe suspended to the ceiling with his head, and keeps "good luck" constantly on the swing over us. the roof being old and well settled, keeps it from leaking badly; but mrs. s. says there is danger of it sliding off or caving in. dear me! i feel like crawling under the table for protection. rain! rain! think i will give the barometer the full name of r. stone wiggins! have a mind to throw him into the river by way of immersion, but fear he would stick in a sand-bar and never predict another storm, so will just hang him on the wall out side to be sprinkled. the new house is entirely abandoned, fires drowned out, organ, sewing machine, lunch baskets, and bedding protected as well as can be with carpet and rubber coats. how glad i am that i have no luggage along to get soaked. my butter and meat was lost out on the prairie or in the river--hope it is meat cast adrift for some hungry traveler--and some one has used my loaf for a cushion, and how sad its countenance! don't care if it does get wet! so i just pin my straw hat to the wall and allow it to rain on, as free from care as any one can be under such circumstances. i wanted experience, and am being gratified, only in a rather dampening way. some find seats on the bed, boxes, chairs, trunk, and wood-box, while the rest stand. we pass the day talking of homes left behind and prospects of the new. seven other travelers came in for dinner, and went again to their wagons tucked around in the canyons. the house across the river is also crowded, and leaking worse than the _hotel_ where we are stopping. indeed, we feel thankful for the shelter we have as we think of the travelers unprotected in only their wagons, and wonder where the rest of our party are. the river is swollen into a fretful stream and the sound of the waters makes us even more homesick. "more rain, more grass," "more rain, more rest," we repeated, and every thing else that had a jingle of comfort in it; but oftener heard, "i _do wish_ it would stop!" "when _will_ it clear off?" "does it _always_ rain here?" it did promise to clear off a couple of times, only to cloud up again, and so the day went as it came, leaving sixteen souls crowded in the cabin to spend the night as best we could. just how was a real puzzle to all. but midnight solves the question. reader, i wish you were here, seated on this spring wagon seat with me by the stove, i then would be spared the pain of a description. did you ever read mark twain's "roughing it?" or "innocents abroad?" well, there are a few _innocents abroad_, just now, _roughing it_ to their hearts' content. the landlady, daughter, and maid, with laura, have laid them down crosswise on the bed. the daughter's husband finds sleep among some blankets, on the floor at the side of the bed. mr. ross, almost sick, sticks his head under the table and feet under the cupboard and snores. mrs. ross occupies the only rocker--there, i knew she would rock on mr. philips who is stretched out on a one blanket just behind her! double up, mr. p., and stick your knees between the rockers and you'll stand a better chance. if you was a real birdie, mrs. gilman, or even a chicken, you might perch on the side of that box. to sleep in that position would be dangerous; dream of falling sure and might not be all a dream, and then, mr. boggs would be startled from his slumbers. poor man! we do pity him! six feet two inches tall; too much to get all of himself fixed in a comfortable position at one time. now bolt upright on a chair, now stretched out on the floor, now doubled up; and now he is on two chairs looking like the last grasshopper of the raid. hush! lizzie, you'll disturb the thirteen sleepers. mr. lewis has turned the soft side of a chair up for a pillow before the stove, and list--he snores a dreamy snore of home-sweet-ho-om-me. mr. truesdale is rather fidgety, snugly tucked in behind the stove on a pile of kindling wood. i'm afraid he will black his ears on the pots and kettles that serve as a back ground for his head, but better that than nothing. am afraid mr. newell, who is seated on an inverted wooden pail, will loose his head in the wood-box, for want of a head rest, if he doesn't stop nodding so far back. hold tight to your book, mr. n., you may wake again and read a few more words of kathrina. here, laura, get up and let your little sister, verdie, lie down on the bed. "that table is better to eat off than sleep on," lizzie says, and crawls down to claim a part of my wagon seat in which i have been driving my thoughts along with pencil and paper, and by way of a jog, give the stove a punch with a stick of wood, every now and then; casting a sly glance to see if the old lady looks cross in her sleep, because we are burning all her dry wood up, and dry wood is a rather scarce article just now. but can't be helped. the feathery side of these boards are down, the covers all wet in the other room, and these sleepers must be kept warm. roll over, mr. lewis, and give mrs. ross room whereon to place her feet and take a little sleep! now mrs. r.'s feet are not large if she does weigh over two hundred pounds; small a plenty; but not quite as small as the unoccupied space, that's all. well, it's monday now, 'tis one o'clock, dear me; wonder what ails my eyes; feels like there's sand in them. i wink, and wink, but the oftener, the longer. do believe i'm getting sleepy too! what will i do? to sleep here would insure a nod over on the stove; no room on the floor without danger of kicks from booted sleepers. lizzie, says, "get up on the table, sims," it will hold a little thing like you. so i leave the seat solely to her and mount the table, fully realizing that "necessity is the mother of invention," and that western people do just as they can, mostly. so all cuddled up together, in a little weenty heap, i double up my pillow and laugh myself to sleep. i know you will not blame me if i dream of home so bright- i'll see you in the morning so now a kind "good night". as there is no room for the muses to visit me here i'll not attempt further poetizing but go to sleep and dream i am snug in my own little bed at home. glad father and mother do not know where their daughter is seeking rest for to-night. "get up, sims, it's five o'clock and mrs. s. wants to set the table for breakfast," and i start up, rubbing my eyes, wishing i could sleep longer, and wondering why i hadn't come west long ago, and hadn't always slept on a table? i only woke once during the night, and as the lamp was left burning, could see that mrs. r. had found a place for her feet, and all were sound asleep. empty stomachs, weariness, and dampened spirits are surely three good opiates which, taken together, will make one sleep in almost any position. do wonder if "mark" ever slept on an extension table when he was out west? don't think he did, believe he'd use the dirty floor before he'd think of the table; so i am ahead in this chapter. well, the fun was equal to the occasion, and i think no one will ever regret the time spent in the little log house at "morrison's bridge," and cheerfully paid their $1.75 for their four meals and two nights' lodging, only as we jogged along through the cold next day, all thought they would have had a bite of supper, and not gone hungry to the floor, to sleep. _monday morning._ cold, cloudy, and threatening more rain. start about eight o'clock for the keya paha, mr. n. with the ross ladies ahead, while the walkers stay with our "span of brindles" to help push them up the hill, and i walk to relieve them of my weight. but we have reached the table-land, and as i have made my impress in the sand and mud of this hill of science, i gladly resume my seat in the wagon with mrs. gilman, who is freezing with a blanket pinned on over her shawl. boo! the wind blows cold, and it sprinkles and tries to snow, and soon i too am almost freezing with all my wraps on, my head well protected with fascinator, hat, and veil. how foolish i was to start on such a trip without good warm mittens. "let's get back on the trunks, mrs. g., and turn our backs to the wind." but that is not all sufficient and mr. l. says he cannot wear his overcoat while walking and kindly offers it to me, and i right willingly crawl into it, and pull it up over my ears, and draw my hands up in the sleeves, and try hard to think i am warm. i can scarcely see out through all this bundling, but i must keep watch and see all i can of the country as i pass along. yet, it is just the same all the way, with the only variation of, from level, to slightly undulating prairie land. not a tree, bush, stump, or stone to be seen. followed the old train road for several miles and then left it, and traveled north over an almost trackless prairie. during the day's travel we met but two parties, both of whom were colonists on their way to long pine to take claims in that neighborhood. passed close to two log houses just being built, and two squads of tenters who peered out at us with their sunburnt faces looking as contented as though they were perfectly satisfied with their situation. the oxen walked right along, although the load was heavy and the ground soft, and we kept up a steady line of march toward the keya paha, near where most of the colonists had selected their claims, and as we neared their lands, the country took on a better appearance. the wind sweeps straight across, and the misting rain from clouds that look to be resting upon the earth, makes it a very gloomy outlook, and very disagreeable. yet i would not acknowledge it. i was determined, if possible, to make the trip without taking cold. so mrs. g. and i kept up the fun until we were too cold to laugh, and then began to ask: "how much farther do we have to go? when will we reach there?" until we were ashamed to ask again, so sat quiet, wedged down between trunks and a plow, and asked no more questions. "oh, joy! mrs. g., there's a house; and i do believe that is mrs. ross with lizzie and laura standing at the door. i'll just wave them a signal of distress, and they will be ready to receive us with open arms." and soon we are safely landed at mr. j. newell's door, where a married brother lives. they gave us a kindly welcome, and a good warm dinner. after we had rested, mr. n. took the ladies three miles farther on to the banks of the keya paha river, which is 18 miles from the niobrara and 48 from stuart, arriving there about four p.m. mr. and mrs. john kuhn, with whom the party expected to make their home until they could get their tents up, received us very kindly, making us feel quite at home. mrs. k. is postmistress of brewer postoffice, and her table was well supplied with good reading matter. i took up a copy of "our continent" to read while i rested, and opened directly to a poem by h. a. lavely: "the sweetest songs are never sung; the fairest pictures never hung; the fondest hopes are never told- they are the heart's most cherished gold." they were like a voice directly from the pleasant days of last summer, when the author with his family was breathing mountain air at dubois city, pa., when we exchanged poems of our own versing, and mrs. l. added her beautiful children's stories. he had sent them to me last christmas time, just after composing them, and now i find them in print away on the very frontier of civilization. how little writers know how far the words they pen for the public to read, will reach out! were they prophetic for our colonists? _tuesday, 15th of may_, dawned without a cloud, and how bright everything looks when the clouds have rolled away. why, the poor backward buds look as though they would smile right open. what a change from that of yesterday! reader, i wish i could tell you all about my may day, but the story is a long one--too long for the pages of my little book. and now mrs. ross and the girls are ready with baskets to go with me to gather what we can find in the way of flowers and leaves along the hillside and valley of the keya paha. for flowers we gather blossoms of the wild plum, cherry, and currant, a flower they call buffalo beans, and one little violet. but the leaves were not forgotten, and twigs were gathered of every different tree and bush then in leaf. they were of the box elder, wild gooseberry, and buck bush or snow berry. visited the spring where mr. kuhn's family obtained their water; a beautiful place, with moss and overhanging trees and bushes, and altogether quite homelike. then to the river where we gathered pebbles of almost every color from the sandy shore. we threw, and threw, to cast a stone on the dakota side, and when this childish play was crowned with success, after we had made many a splash in the water, we returned to the house where mr. j. newell waited for us with a spring wagon, and in which, lizzie, laura and i took seats, and were off to visit the stone butte, twelve miles west. up on the table-land we drove, then down into the valley; and now close to the river, and now up and down over the spurrs of the bluff; past the colonists' tent, and now mr. n. has invited a miss sibolt and miss minn to join our maying party. the bottom land shows a luxuriant growth of grass of last year's growing, and acres of wild plum and choke cherry bushes, now white with blossoms, and so mingled that i cannot tell them apart. if they bear as they blossom, there will be an abundance of both. a few scattered trees, mostly burr or scrub oak and elms are left standing in the valley; but not a tree on the table-land over which the road ran most of the way. the stone butte is an abrupt hill, or mound, which stands alone on a slightly undulating prairie. it covers a space of about 20 acres at the base; is 300 feet from base to the broad top; it is covered with white stones that at a distance give it the appearance of a snow capped mountain, and can be seen for many miles. some say they are a limestone, and when burnt, make a good quality of lime; others that they are only a sand-stone. they leave a chalky mark with the touch, and to me are a curious formation, and look as though they had been boiled up and stirred over from some great mush pot, and fell in a shower of confusion just here, as there are no others to be seen but those on the butte. oh! what a story they could tell to geologists; tell of ages past when these strange features of this wonderful country were formed! but they are all silent to me, and i can only look and wonder, and turn over and look under for some poor indian's hidden treasure, but all we found were pieces of petrified wood and bone, a moss agate, and a little indian dart. lizzie found a species of dandelion, the only flower found on the butte, and gave it to me, for i felt quite lost without a dear old dandelion in my hand on my may day, and which never failed me before. i have termed them "earth's stars," for they will peep through the grassy sod whenever the clouds will allow. it is the same in color, but single, and the leaves different. we called and hallooed, ah echo coming back to us from, we did not know where; surely not from raymond's buttes, which we can see quite distinctly, though they are thirty-five miles away. maybe 'twas a war whoop from a sioux brave hid among the bluffs, almost four miles to the north, and we took it for an echo to our own voice. the view obtained from this elevated point was grand. a wide stretch of rolling prairie, with the keya paha river to the north. though the river is but two and one-half miles away, yet the water is lost to view, and we look beyond to the great range of bluffs extending far east and west along its northern banks, and which belong to the sioux indian reservation, they are covered with grass, but without shrubbery of any kind, yet on their sides a few gray stones or rocks can be seen even from here. south of the butte a short distance is a small stream called holt creek. near it we can see two "claim takers" preparing their homes; aside from these but two other houses, a plowman, and some cattle are the only signs of life. mr. n. tells me the butte is on the claim taken by mr. tiffiny, and messrs. fuller's and wood's and others of the colony are near. after all the sight-seeing and gathering is done, i sit me down on a rock all alone, to have a quiet think all to myself. do you wonder, reader, that i feel lonely and homesick, amid scenes so strange and new? wonder will our many friends of the years agone think of me and keep the day for me in places where, with them, i have gathered the wild flowers and leaves of spring? but mr. n. comes up and interrupts me with: "do you know, miss fulton, your keeping a may-day seems so strange to me? do not think our western girls would think of such a thing!" "since you wonder at it, i will tell you, very briefly, my story. it was instituted by mere accident by me in 1871, and i have kept the 15th of may of every year since then in nature's untrained gardens, gathering of all the different flowers and leaves that are in bloom, or have unfolded, and note the difference in the seasons, and also the difference in the years to me. no happier girl ever sang a song than did i on my first may-day; and the woodland was never more beautiful, dressed in the bright robes of an early spring. every tree in full leaf, every wild flower of spring in bloom, and i could not but gather of all--even the tiniest. the next 15th of may, i, by mere happening, went to the woods, and remembering it was the anniversary of my accidental maying of the previous year, i stopped to gather as before; but the flowers were not so beautiful, nor the leaves so large. then, too, i was very sad over the serious illness of a loved sister. i cannot tell of all the years, but in '74 i searched for may flowers with tear-dimmed eyes--sister may was dead, and everywhere it was desolate. '75. "a belated snow cloud shook to the ground" a few flakes, and we gathered only sticks for bouquets, with buds scarcely swollen. in '81, i climbed point mccoy near bellefont, pa., a peak of the muncy mountains and a range of the alleghanys, and looked for miles, and miles away, over mountains and vales, and gathered of flowers that almost painted the mountain side, they were so plentiful and bright. last year i gathered the flowers of home with my own dear mother, and shared them with may, by laying them on her grave. to-day, all things have been entirely new and strange; but while i celebrate it on the wild boundless plains of nebraska, yet almost untouched by the hand of man, dear father and mother are visiting the favorite mossy log, the spring in the wood, and the moss covered rocks where we children played at "house-keeping," and in my name, will gather and put to press leaves and flowers for me. ah! yes! and are so lonely thinking of their daughter so far away. the sweetest flower gathered in all the years was myrtle--sister maggie's oldest child--who came to me for a may-flower in '76. but while the flowers bloomed for my gathering in '81, the grass was growing green upon her grave. and i know sister will not forget to gather and place on the sacred mound, "auntie pet's" tribute of love. thus it is with a mingling of pleasures and pains, of smiles and tears that i am queen of my maying, with no brighter eyes to usurp my crown, for it is all my own day and of all the days of the year the dearest to me. "i think, mr. newell, we can live _good_ lives and yet not make the _most_ of life; our lives need crowding with much that is good and useful; and this is only the crowding in of a day that is very good and useful to me. for on this day i retrospect the past, and think of the hopes that bloomed and faded with the flowers of other years, and prospect the future, and wonder what will the harvest be that is now budding with the leaves for me and which i alone must garner." after a last look at the wide, wide country, that in a few years will be fully occupied with the busy children of earth, we left "stone butte," carrying from its stony, grassy sides and top many curious mementos of our may-day in nebraska. then i went farther north-west to visit the home of a "squaw man"--the term used for indians who cannot endure the torture of the sun dance, and also white men that marry indian maidens. on our way we passed a neatly built sod house, in which two young men lived who had lately come from delaware, and were engaged in stock-raising, and enjoyed the life because they were doing well, as one of them remarked to mr. n. i tell these little things that those who do not already know, may understand how nebraska is populated with people from everywhere. soon we halted at the noble (?) white man's door, and all but lizzie ventured in, and by way of excuse asked for a drink or _minnie_ in the sioux language. "mr. squaw" was not at home, and "mrs. squaw," poor woman, acted as though she would like to hide from us, but without a word handed us a dipper of water from which we very lightly sipped, and then turned her back to us, and gave her entire attention to a bright, pretty babe which she held closely in her arms, and wrapped about it a new shawl which hung about her own shoulders. the children were bright and pretty, with brown, curly hair, and no one would guess there was a drop of indian blood in their veins. but the mother is only a half-breed, as her father was a frenchman. yet in features, at least, the indian largely predominates. large powerful frame, dusky complexion, thin straight hair neatly braided into two jet black braids, while the indispensable brass ear drops dangled from her ears. her dress was a calico wrapper of no mean color or make-up. we could not learn much of the expression of her countenance, as she kept her face turned from us, and we did not wish to be rude. but standing thus she gave us a good opportunity to take a survey of their _tepee_. the house was of sod with mother earth floors, and was divided into two apartments by calico curtains. the first was the kitchen with stove, table, benches, and shelves for a cupboard. the room contained a bed covered with blankets, which with a bench was all that was to be seen except the walls, and they looked like a sort of harness shop. the furniture was all of home make, but there was an air of order and neatness i had not expected. the woman had been preparing kinnikinic tobacco for her white chief to smoke. it is made by scraping the bark from the red willow, then drying, and usually mixing with an equal quantity of natural leaf tobacco, and is said to make "pleasant smoking." ah, well! i thought, it is only squaws that will go to so much pains to supply their liege lords with tobacco. she can, but will not speak english, as her husband laughs at her awkward attempts. so not a word could we draw from her. she answered our "good bye," with a nod of the head and a motion of the lips. i know she was glad when the "pale faces" were gone, and we left feeling so sorry for her and indignant, all agreeing that any man who would marry a squaw is not worthy of even a squaw's love and labor; labor is what they expect and demand of them, and as a rule, the squaw is the better of the two. their husbands are held in great favor by those of their own tribe, and they generally occupy the land allowed by the government to every indian, male or female, but which the indians are slow to avail themselves of. they receive blankets and clothing every spring and fall, meat every ten days, rations of sugar, rice, coffee, tobacco, bread and flour every week. indians are not considered as citizens of the united states, and have no part in our law-making, yet are controlled by them. they are kept as uncle sam's unruly subjects, unfit for any kind of service to him. why not give them whereon to place their feet on an equal footing with the white children and made to work or starve; "to sink or swim; live or die; survive or perish?" what a noble motto that would be for them to adopt! we then turn for our homeward trip, a distance of fifteen miles, but no one stops to count miles here, where roads could not be better. when within six miles of mr. kuhn's, we stopped by invitation given in the morning, and took tea with mrs. w., who received us with: "you don't know how much good it does me to have you ladies come!" then led the way into her sod house, saying, "i wish we had our new house built, so we could entertain you better." but her house was more interesting to us with its floorless kitchen, and room covered with a neat rag carpet underlaid with straw. the room was separated from the kitchen by being a step higher, and two posts where the door would have been had the partition been finished. the beds and chairs were of home manufacture, but the chairs were cushioned, and the beds neatly arranged with embroidered shams, and looked so comfortable that while the rest of the party prospected without, i asked to lie down and rest, and was soon growing drowsy with my comfortable position when mrs. w. roused me with: "i cannot spare your company long enough for you to go to sleep. no one knows how i long for company; indeed, my very soul grows hungry at times for society." poor woman! she looked every word she spoke, and my heart went right out to her in pity, and i asked her to tell us her experience. i will quote her words and tell her story, as it is the language and experience of many who come out from homes of comfort, surrounded by friends, to build up and regain their lost fortunes in the west. mrs. w's. appearance was that of a lady of refinement, and had once known the comforts and luxuries of a good home in the east. but misfortunes overtook them, and they came to the west to regain what they had lost. had settled there about three years before and engaged in stock raising. the first year the winter was long and severe, and many of their cattle died; but were more successful the succeeding years, and during the coming summer were ready to build a new house, not of sod, but of lumber. "we had been thinking of leaving this country, but this colony settling here will help it so much, and now we will stay." her books of poems were piled up against the plastered wall, showing she had a taste for the beautiful. after a very pleasant couple of hours we bade her good-bye, and made our last start for home. the only flowers found on the way were the buffalo beans and a couple of clusters of white flowers that looked like daisies, but are almost stemless. on our way we drove over a prairie dog town, frightening the little barkers into their underground homes. here and there a doggie sentinel kept his position on the roof of his house which is only a little mound, barking with a fine squeaky bark to frighten us away and warn others to keep inside; but did we but turn toward him and wink, he wasn't there any more. stopped for a few moments at the colony tent and found only about six of the family at home, including a gentleman from new jersey who had joined them. the day had been almost cloudless and pleasantly warm, and as we finished our journey it was made thrice beautiful by the setting sun, suggesting the crowning thought: will i have another may-day, and where? wednesday was pleasant, and i spent it writing letters and sending to many friends pressed leaves and flowers and my maying in nebraska. the remainder of the week was bright; but showery. "wiggins" was kept hanging on a tree in the door yard, to be consulted with about storms, and he generally predicted one, and a shower would come. we did so want the rain to cease long enough for the river to fall that we might cross over on horse-back to the other side and take a ramble over the bluffs of dakota, and perhaps get a sight of a sioux. as it kept so wet the colonists did not pitch their tents, and mr. kuhn's house was well filled with weather stayed emigrants. mr. and mrs. morrison, mrs. taylor, and will came tuesday. they had not come to any stopping place when darkness settled upon them saturday night and the ladies slept in the buggy, and men under the wagon. when daylight came they found they were not far from the first house along the way where they spent sunday. monday they went to the niobrara river and stopped at the little house at the bridge; and tuesday finished the journey. their faces were burnt with the sun and wind; but the ladies dosed them with sweet cream, which acted admirably. mr. taylor returned his horses to their former owner, bought a team of oxen, and left stuart on monday, but over-fed them, and was all the week coming with sick oxen. mr. barnwell's oxen stampeded one night and were not found for over a week. such were the trials of a few of the n.m.a.c. perhaps you can learn from their experiences. i have already learned that, if possible, it is best to have your home selected, and a shelter prepared, and then bring your family and household goods. bring what you really need, rather than dispose of it at a sacrifice. do not expect to, anywhere, find a land of perpetual sunshine or a country just the same as the one you left. do not leave pa. expecting to find the same old "keystone" in nebraska; were it just the same you would not come. expect disappointments and trials, and do not be discouraged when they come, and wish yourself "back to the good old home." adopt for your motto, "what _others_ have done _i_ can do." allow me to give you mr. and mrs. k.'s story; it will tell you more than any of the colonists can ever tell, as they have lived through the disadvantages of the first opening of this country. mr. k. says: "april of '79 i came to this country to look up a home where i could have good cattle range. when we came to this spot we liked it and laid some logs crosswise to look like a foundation and mark the spot. went further west, but returned and pitched our tent; and in a week, with the help of a young man who accompanied us, the kitchen part of our house was under roof. while we worked at the house mrs. k. and our two girls made garden. we then returned thirty-five miles for our goods and stock, and came back in may to find the garden growing nicely. brought a two months' supply of groceries with us, as there was no town nearer than keya paha, thirty miles east at the mouth of the river; there in fact, was about the nearest house. "ours was the first house on the south side of the river, and i soon had word sent me by spotted tail, chief of the sioux, to get off his reservation. i told the bearer of his message to tell mr. spotted tail, that i was not on his land but in nebraska, and on surveyed land; so to come ahead. but was never disturbed in any way by the indians, whose reservation lay just across the river. they often come, a number together, and want to trade clothing and blankets furnished them by the government, giving a blanket for a mere trinket or few pounds of meat, and would exchange a pony for a couple quarts of whisky. but it is worth more than a pony to put whisky into their hands, as it is strictly prohibited, and severely punished by law, as it puts them right on the war-path. "the next winter a mail route was established, and our house was made burton post-office, afterwards changed to brewer. it was carried from keya paha here and on to the rose bud agency twice a week. after a time it was dropped, but resumed again, and now goes west to valentine, a distance of about sixty miles. "the nearest church and school was at keya paha. now we have a school house three miles away, where they also have preaching, the minister (m.e.) coming from keya paha." mrs. k. who is brave as woman can be, and knows well the use of firearms, says: "i have stayed for a week at a time with only mr. k.'s father, who is blind and quite feeble, for company. had only the lower part of our windows in then, and never lock our doors. have given many a meal to the indians, who go off with a "thank you," or a grunt of satisfaction. they do not always ask for a meal, but i generally give them something to eat as our cattle swim the river and graze on reservation lands. anyway, kindness is never lost. my two daughters have gone alone to keya paha often. i have made the trip without meeting a soul on the way. "the latch string of our door has always hung out to every one. the indians would be more apt to disturb us if they thought we were afraid of them." it was a real novelty and carried me back to my grandmother's days, to "pull the string and hear the latch fly up" on their kitchen door. their house, a double log, is built at the foot of the bluff and about seventy rods from the river, and is surrounded by quite a grove of burr oak and other trees. they came with twelve head of cattle and now have over eighty, which could command a good price did they wish to sell. thus, with sunshine and showers the week passes quickly enough, and brought again the sabbath bright and clear, but windy. a number of us took a walk one and one-half miles up the valley to the colony tent; went by way of a large oak tree, in the branches of which the body of an indian chief had been laid to rest more than four years ago. from the bleached bones and pieces of clothing and blanket that were yet strewn about beneath the tree, it was evident he had been of powerful frame, and had been dressed in a coat much the same as a soldier's dress coat, with the usual decoration of brass buttons. wrapped in his blanket and buffalo robe, he had been tied with thongs to the lower limbs, which were so low that the wolves had torn the body down. when we reached the tent under which they had expected to hold their meetings and sabbath-school, we found it, like many of their well-meant plans, now flat on the ground. it had come down amid the rain and wind of last night on the sleepers, and we found the tenters busy with needles trying to get it in order for pitching. none busier prodding their finger ends than was mr. clark. "what have you been doing all this time, mr. c.?" i asked. "what have i been doing? why it has just kept me busy to keep from drowning, blowing away, freezing, and starving to death. it is about all a man can attend to at one time. haven't been idling any time away, i can tell you." we felt sorry for the troubles of the poor men, but learned this lesson from their experience--never buy a tent so old and rotten that it won't hold to the fastenings, to go out on the prairies of nebraska with; it takes good strong material to stand the wind. in the afternoon we all went up on to the table-land to see the prairies burn. a great sheet of flame sweeping over the prairie is indeed a grand sight, but rather sad to see what was the tall waving grass of last year go up in a blaze and cloud of smoke only to leave great patches of blackened earth. yet it is soon brightened by the new growth of grass which could not show itself for so long if the old was not burnt. some say it is necessary to burn the old grass off, and at the same time destroy myriads of grasshoppers and insects of a destructive nature, and also give the rattlesnake a scorching. while others say, burning year after year is hurtful to the soil, and burns out the grass roots; also that decayed vegetation is better than ashes for a sandy soil. these fires have been a great hindrance to the growth of forest trees. fire-brakes are made by plowing a number of furrows, which is often planted in corn or potatoes. i fancy i would have a good wide potato patch all round my farm if i had one, and never allow fire on it. to prevent being caught in a prairie fire, one should always carry a supply of matches. if a fire is seen coming, start a fire which of course will burn from you, and in a few minutes after the fire has passed over the ground, it can be walked over, and you soon have a cleared spot, where the fire cannot reach you. _monday, 21st._ bright and pleasant, and mr. k. finishes his corn planting. a description of the country in which the colony located. as this is to be my last day here, i must tell you all there is yet to be told of this country. there are so many left behind that will be interested in knowing all about the country their friends have gone to, so i will try to be very explicit, and state clearly all i have learned and seen of it. allow me to begin with the great range of bluffs that closely follow the north side of the river. we can only see their broken, irregular, steep, and sloping sides, now green with grass, on which cattle are grazing--that swim the river to pasture off the "soo" (as sioux is pronounced) lands. the reservation is very large, and as the agency is far west of this, they do not occupy this part much, only to now and then take a stroll over it. the difference between a hill and a bluff is, that a bluff is only half a hill, or hill only on one side. the ground rises to a height, and then maintains that height for miles and miles, which is called table-land. then comes the keya paha river, which here is the dividing line between dakota and nebraska. it is 125 miles long. at its mouth, where it empties into the niobrara, it is 165 feet wide. here, thirty-five miles north-west, it is about 75 feet wide, and 6 feet deep. the water flows swiftly over its sandy bed, but mr. k. says "there is rock bottom here." the sand is very white and clean, and the water is clear and pleasant to the taste. the banks are fringed with bushes, principally willow. the valley on the south side is from one-fourth to one and one half-miles wide, and from the growth of grass and bushes would think the soil is quite rich. the timber is pine, burr oak, and cottonwood principally, while there are a few cedar, elm, ash, box elder and basswood to be found. the oak, elm, and box elder are about all i have seen, as the timber is hid in the canyons. scarcely a tree to be seen on the table-lands. wild plums, choke cherries, and grapes are the only fruits of the country. no one has yet attempted fruit culture. the plums are much the same in size and quality as our cultivated plums. they grow on tall bushes, instead of trees, and are so interwoven with the cherry bushes, and in blossom so much alike, i cannot tell plum from cherry bush. they both grow in great patches along the valley, and form a support for the grape vines that grow abundantly, which are much the same as the "chicken grapes" of pennsylvania. i must not over-look the dwarf or sand-hill cherry, which, however, would not be a hard matter, were it not for the little white blossoms that cover the crooked little sticks, generally about a foot in height, that come up and spread in every direction. it is not choice of its bed, but seems to prefer sandy soil. have been told they are pleasant to the taste and refreshing. then comes the wild gooseberry, which is used, but the wild black currants are not gathered. both grow abundantly as does also the snowberry, the same we cultivate for garden shrubbery. wild hops are starting up every where, among the bushes and ready to climb; are said to be equally as good as the poled hops of home. "beautiful wild flowers will be plenty here in a couple of weeks," mrs. k. says, but i cannot wait to see them. the most abundant, now, is the buffalo bean, of which i have before spoken, also called ground plum, and prairie clover: plum from the shape of the pod it bears in clusters, often beautifully shaded with red, and prairie clover from the flower, that resembles a large clover head in shape, and often in color, shading from a dark violet to a pale pink, growing in clusters, and blooming so freely, it makes a very pretty prairie flower. it belongs to the pulse order, and the beans it bears can be cooked as ordinary beans and eaten--if at starvation point. of the other flowers gathered mention was made on my may-day. mr. k. has a number of good springs of water on his farm, and it is easily obtained on the table-land. it cannot be termed soft water, yet not very hard. about one-half of the land i am told is good tillable land, the other half too sandy for anything but pasture lands. soil is from eighteen inches to two feet deep. i will here quote some of the objections to the country offered by those who were not pleased. time only can tell how correct they are. "it is too far north. will never be a general farming or fruit growing country. summer season will be too short for corn to ripen. too spotted with sand hills to ever be thickly settled. afraid of drouth. too far from railroad and market, and don't think it will have a railroad nearer soon. those sioux are not pleasant neighbors. winters will be long and cold." but all agree that it is a healthy country, and free from malaria. others say, "beautiful country. not as cold as in pennsylvania. of course we can raise fruit; where wild fruit will grow tame fruit can be cultivated. those sand hills are just what we want; no one will take them, and while our cattle are grazing on them, we will cultivate our farms." we feel like quoting a copy often set for us to scribble over when a little girl at school, with only a little alteration. "many men of many minds, many lands of many kinds"--to scatter over--and away some have gone, seeking homes elsewhere. those who have remained are getting breaking done, and making garden and planting sod corn and potatoes, which with broom corn is about all they can raise on new ground the first summer. next will come the building of their log and sod shanties, and setting out of their timber culture, which is done by plowing ten acres of ground and sticking in cuttings from the cottonwood, which grows readily and rapidly. there are a few people scattered over the country who have engaged in stock raising, but have done little farming and improving. so you see it is almost untouched, and not yet tested as to what it will be as a general farming country. years of labor and trials of these new-comers will tell the story of its worth. i sincerely hope it will prove to be all that is good for their sake! i hide myself away from the buzz and hum of voices below, in the quiet of an upper room that i may tell you these things which have been so interesting to me to learn, and hope they may be interesting to read. but here comes lizzie saying, "why, sims, you look like a witch hiding away up here; do come down." and i go and take a walk with mrs. k. down to see their cattle corral. the name of corral was so foreign i was anxious to know all about it. it is a square enclosure built of heavy poles, with sheds on the north and west sides with straw or grass roof for shelter, and is all the protection from the cold the cattle have during the winter. only the milk cows are corraled during the summer nights. a little log stable for the horses completes the corral, while of course hay and straw are stacked near. then she took me to see a dugout in the side of a hill, in a sheltered ravine, or draw, and surrounded by trees. it is not a genuine dugout, but enough of the real to be highly interesting to me. it was occupied by a middle-aged man who is mr. k.'s partner in the stock business, and a french boy, their herder. the man was intelligent, and looked altogether out of place as he sat there in the gloom of the one little room, lighted only by a half window and the open door, and, too, he was suffering from asthma. i asked: "do you not find this a poor house for an asthmatic?" "no, i do not find that it has that effect; i am as well here as i was before i came west." the room was about 10ã�12, and 6 feet high. the front of the house and part of the roof was built of logs and poles, and the rest was made when god made the hill. they had only made the cavity in which they lived, floor enough for the pole bed to stand on. to me it seemed too lonely for any enjoyment except solitude--so far removed from the busy throngs of the world. but the greater part of the stockman's time is spent in out-door life, and their homes are only retreats for the night. we then climbed the hill that i might have a last view of sunset on the keya paha. i cannot tell you of its beauty, as i gaze in admiration and wonder, for sun, moon, and stars, have all left their natural course, or else i am turned all wrong. _tuesday._ another pleasant day. mrs. k., whom i have learned to regard as a dear friend, and i, take our last walk and talk together, going first to the grave of a granddaughter on the hill, enclosed with a railing and protected from the prairie wolves by pieces of iron. oh! i thought, as i watched the tears course down mrs. k's. cheek as she talked of her "darling," there is many a sacred spot unmarked by marble monument on these great broad plains of nebraska. "you see there is no doctor nearer than keya paha, and by the time we got him here he could do her no good." another disadvantage early settlers labor under. then to the river that i might see it flow for the last time, and gather sand and pebbles of almost every color that mingle with it. i felt it was my last goodbye to this country and i wished to carry as much of it away in my satchel and in memory as possible. we then returned to the house, and soon mr. newell who was going to stuart, came, and with whom i had made sure of a passage back. mrs. k. and all insisted my stay was not near long enough, but letters had been forwarded to me from stuart from brother c. asking me to join him. and miss cody, with whom i had been corresponding for some time, insisted on my being with her soon; so i was anxious to be on my way, and improved the first opportunity to be off. so, chasing lizzie for a kiss, who declared, "i cannot say good-bye to sims," and bidding them all a last farewell, with much surface merriment to hide sadness, and soon the little group of friends were left behind. i wonder did they see through my assuming and know how sorry i was to part from them?--mrs. k., who had been so kind, and the colony people all? i felt i had an interest in the battle that had already begun with them. had i not anticipated a share of the battle and also of the spoils when i thought of being one with them. i did feel so sorry that the location was such that the majority had not been pleased, and our good plans could not be carried out. it was not supposed as night after night the hall was crowded with eager anxious ones, that all would reach the land of promise. but even had those who come been settled together there would have been quite a nice settlement of people. the territory being so spotted with sand hills was the great hindrance to a body of people settling down as the colony had expected to, all together as one settlement. one cannot tell, to look over it, just where the sandy spots are, as it is all covered with grass. they are only a slight raise in the ground and are all sizes, from one to many acres. one-half section would be good claimable land, and the other half no good. in some places i can see the sand in the road that drifts off the unbroken ground. we stopped for dinner at mr. newell's brother's, whose wife is a daughter of mr. kuhn's, and then the final start is made for the niobrara. the country looks so different to me now as i return over the same road behind horses, and the sun is bright and warm. the tenters have gone to building log houses, and there are now four houses to be seen along the way. am told most of the land is taken. we pass close to one of the houses, where the husband is plowing and the wife dropping seed corn; and we stop for a few minutes, that i may learn one way of planting sod corn. the dropper walks after the plow and drops the corn close to the edge of the furrow, and it comes up between the edges of the sod. another way is to cut a hole in the sod with an ax, and drop the corn in the hole, and step on it while you plant the next hill--i mean hole--of corn. one little, lone, oak tree was all the tree seen along the road, and not a stone. i really miss the jolting of the stones of pennsylvania roads. but strewed all along are pebbles, and in places perfect beds of them. i cannot keep my eyes off the ground for looking at them, and, at last, to satisfy my wishing for "a lot of those pretty pebbles to carry home," mr. n. stops, and we both alight and try who can find the prettiest. as i gather, i cannot but wonder how god put these pebbles away up here! reader, if all this prairie land was waters, it would make a good sized sea, not a storm tossed sea but water in rolling waves. it looks as though it had been the bed of a body of water, and the water leaked out or ran down the niobrara river, cutting out the canyons as it went, and now the sea has all gone to grass. mr. n. drives close to the edge of an irregular series of canyons that i may have a better view. "i do wish you would tell me, mr. n., how these canyons have been made?" "why, by the action of the wind and water." "yes, i suppose; but looks more like the work of an immense scoop-shovel, and all done in the dark; they are so irregular in shape, size, and depth." most that i see on this side of the river are dry, grassy, and barren of tree or bush, while off on the other side, can be seen many well filled with burr oak, pine, and cedar. views such as i have had from the stone butte, along the keya paha, on the broad plains, and now of the valley of the niobrara well repays me for all my long rides, and sets my mind in a perfect query of how and when was all this wonderful work done? i hope i shall be permitted to some day come again, and if i cannot get over the ground any other way, i will take another ride behind oxen. several years ago these canyons afforded good hiding places for stray(?) ponies and horses that strayed from their owners by the maneuvering of "doc." middleton, and his gang of "pony boys," as those who steal or run off horses from the indians are called. but they did not confine themselves to indian ponies alone, and horses and cattle were stolen without personal regard for the owner. but their leader has been safe in the penitentiary at lincoln for some time, and the gang in part disbanded; yet depredations are still committed by them, which has its effect upon some of the colonists, who feel that they do not care to settle where they would be apt to lose their horses so unceremoniously. a one-armed traveler, who took shelter from the storm with a sick wife on the island, had one of his horses stolen last week, which is causing a good deal of indignation. their favorite rendezvous before the band was broken was at "morrison's bridge," where we spent the rainy sabbath. oh, dear! would i have laid me down so peacefully to sleep on the table that night had i known more of the history of the little house and the dark canyons about? but the house has another keeper, and nothing remains but the story of other days to intimidate us now, and we found it neat and clean, and quite inviting after our long ride. after supper i went out to take a good look at the niobrara river, or _running water_. boiling and surging, its muddy waves hurried by, as though it was over anxious to reach the missouri, into which it empties. it has its source in wyoming, and is 460 miles long. where it enters the state, it is a clear, sparkling stream, only 10 feet wide; but by the time it gathers and rushes over so much sand, which it keeps in a constant stir, changing its sand bars every few hours, it loses its clearness, and at this point is about 165 feet wide. like the missouri river, its banks are almost entirely of a dark sand, without a pebble. so i gathered sand again, and after quite a search, found a couple of little stones, same color of the sand, and these i put in my satchel to be carried to pennsylvania, to help recall this sunset picture on the "running water," and, for a more substantial lean for memory i go with mr. n. on to the island to look for a diamond willow stick to carry home to father for a cane. the island is almost covered with these tall willow bushes. the bridge was built about four years ago. the piers are heavy logs pounded deep into the sand of the river bed, and it is planked with logs, and bushes and sod. it has passed heavy freight trains bound for the indian agency and the black hills, and what a mingling of emigrants from every direction have paid their toll and crossed over to find new homes beyond! three wagons pass by this evening, and one of the men stopped to buy milk from mrs. slack "to make turn-over cake;" and made enquiry, saying: "where is that colony from pennsylvania located? we would like to get near it." it is quite a compliment to the colony that so many come so far to settle near them; but has been quite a hindrance. long before the colony arrived, people were gathering in and occupying the best of the land, and thus scattering the little band of colonists. indeed the fame of the colony will people this country by many times the number of actual settlers it itself will bring. mrs. s. insists that i "give her some music on the organ," and i attempt "home sweet, home," but my voice fails me, and i sing "sweet hour of prayer," as more befitting. home for me is not on the niobrara, and in early morn we leave it to flow on just as before, and we go on toward stuart, casting back good-bye glances at its strangely beautiful valley. the bluffs hug the river so close that the valley is not wide, but the canyons that cut into the bluffs help to make it quite an interesting picture. there is not much more to be told about the country on the south side of the river. it is not sought after by the claim-hunters as the land on the north is. a few new houses can be seen, showing that a few are persuaded to test it. the grass is showing green, and where it was burnt off on the north side of the valley, and was only black, barren patches a little more than a week ago, now are bright and green. a few new flowers have sprung up by the way-side. the sweetest in fragrance is what they call the wild onion. the root is the shape and taste of an onion, and also the stem when bruised has quite an onion smell; but the tiny, pale pink flower reminds me of the old may pinks for fragrance. another tiny flower is very much like mother's treasured pink oxalis; but is only the bloom of wood sorrel. it opens in morning and closes at evening, and acts so much like the oxalis, i could scarcely be persuaded it was not; but the leaves convinced me. i think the setting sun of nebraska must impart some of its rays to the flowers, that give them a different tinge; and, too, the flowers seem to come with the leaves, and bloom so soon after peeping through the sod. the pretty blue and white starlike iris was the only flower to be found about stuart when i left. we have passed a number of emigrant wagons, and--"oh, horror! mr. newell, look out for the red-skins!" "where, miss fulton, where?" "why there, on the wagon and about it, and see, they are setting fire to the prairie; and oh dear! one of them is coming toward us with some sort of a weapon in his hand. guess i'll wrap this bright red indian blanket around me and perhaps they will take me for a 'soo' and spare me scalp." reader i have a mind to say "continued in the next" or "subscribe for the ledger and read the rest," but that would be unkind to leave you in suspense, though i fear you are growing sleepy over this the first chapter even, and i would like to have some thrilling adventure to wake you up. but the "look out for the red skins," was in great red letters on a prairie schooner, and there they were, men with coats and hats painted a bright red, taking their dinner about a fire which the wind is trying to carry farther, and one is vigorously stamping it out. another, a mere boy with a stick in his hand, comes to inquire the road to the bridge "where you don't have to pay toll?" poor men, they look as though they hadn't ten cents to spare. so ends my adventure with the "red skins." but here comes another train of emigrants; ladies traveling in a covered carriage, while the horses, cattle, people, and all show they come from a land of plenty, and bring a goodly share of worldly goods along. they tell mr. n. they came from hall county, nebraska, where vegetation is at least two weeks ahead of this country, but came to take up government land. so it is, some go with nothing, while others sell good homes and go with a plenty to build up another where they can have the land for the claiming of it. the sun has not been so bright, and the wind is cool and strong, but i have been well protected by this thick warm indian blanket, yet i am not sorry when i alight at mr. skirvings door and receive a hearty welcome, and "just in time for a good dinner." the colonists' first summer's work and harvest. it would not do to take the colonists to their homes on the frontier, and not tell more of them. i shall copy from letters received. from a letter received from one whom i know had nothing left after reaching there but his pluck and energy, i quote: "brewer, p.o. brown co., neb., "december 23, '83. "our harvest has been good. every man of the colony is better satisfied than they were last spring, as their crops have done better than they expected. my sod corn yielded 20 bushels (shelled) per acre. potatoes 120 bushels. beans 5, and i never raised larger vegetables than we did this summer on sod. on old ground corn 40, wheat 20 to 35, and oats 40 to 60 bushels per acre. after the first year we can raise all kinds of grain. for building a sod house, it costs nothing besides the labor, but for the floor, doors and windows. i built one to do me for the summer, and was surprised at the comfort we took in it; and now have a log house ready for use, a sod barn of two rooms, one for my cow, and the other for the chickens and ducks, a good cave, and a well of good water at eight feet. "there are men in the canyons that take out building logs. they charge from twenty-five to thirty-five dollars per forty logs, sixteen and twenty feet long. to have these logs hauled costs two and two and one-half dollars per day, and it takes two days to make the trip. but those who have the time and teams can do their own hauling and get their own logs, as the trees belong to "uncle sam." "the neighbors all turn out and help at the raising. the timber in the canyons are mostly pine. our first frost was 24th september, and our first cold weather began last week. a number of the colonists built good frame houses. i have been offered $600.00 for my claims, but i come to stay, and stay i will." from another: "we are all in good health and like our western homes. yet we have some drawbacks; the worst is the want of society, and fruit. are going to have a reunion 16 february." "brewer, jan., 8. "you wished to know what we can do in the winter. i have been getting wood, and sitting by the fire. weather beautiful until 15th december, but the thermometer has said "below zero," ever since christmas. the lowest was twenty degrees. the land is all taken around here (near the stone butte) and we expect in a couple of years to have schools and plenty of neighbors." those who located near stuart and long pine, are all doing well, and no sickness reported from climating. i have not heard of one being out of employment. one remarked: "this is a good country for the few of us that came." i believe that the majority of the first party took claims; but the little handful of colonists are nothing in number to the settlers that have gathered in from everywhere, and occupy the land with them. of the horse thieves before spoken of i would add, that the "vigilantes" have been at work among them, hanging a number to the nearest tree, and lodging a greater number in jail. it is to be hoped that these severe measures will be all sufficient to rid the country of these outlaws. may the "colonists" dwell in peace and prosperity, and may the harvest of the future prove rich in all things good! chapter ii. over the sioux city & pacific r.r. from valentine to the missouri valley.--a visit to ft. niobrara. i was advised to go to valentine, the present terminus of the s.c. & p.r.r., and also to visit fort niobrara only a few miles from valentine, as i would find much that was interesting to write about. long pine was also spoken of as a point of interest, and as mr. buchanan, gen. pass. agt. of the road, had so kindly prepared my way by sending letters of introduction to lieut. davis, quartermaster at the fort, and also to the station agent at valentine, i felt i would not give it up as others advised me to, as valentine is considered one of the wicked places of nebraska, on account of the cow-boys of that neighborhood making it their head-quarters. i had been so often assured of the respect the cow boys entertain for ladies, that i put aside all fears, and left on a freight train, friday evening, may 25th, taking mrs. peck, a quiet middle-aged lady with me for company. passenger trains go through stuart at night, and we availed ourselves of the freight caboose in order to see the country by daylight. a quiet looking commercial agent, and a "half-breed" who busies himself with a book, are the only passengers besides mrs. peck and i. there is not much to tell of this country. it is one vast plain with here a house, and there a house, and here and there a house, and that's about all; very little farming done, no trees, no bushes, no nothing but prairie. there, the cars jerk, jerk, jerk, and shake, shake, shake! must be going up grade! mrs. p. is fat, the agent lean and i am neither; but we all jerk, shake and nod. mrs. p. holds herself to the chair, the agent braces himself against the stove, and i--well i just shake and laugh. it isn't good manners, i know, but mrs. p. looks so frightened, and the agent so queer, that my facial muscles will twitch; so i hide my face and enjoy the fun. there, we are running smooth now. agent remarks that his wife has written him of a terrible cyclone in kansas city last sunday. cyclone last sunday! what if it had passed along the niobrara and upset the little house with all aboard into the river. one don't know when to be thankful, do they? newport and bassett are passed, but they are only mere stations, and not worthy the name of town. the indian has left our company for that of the train-men, and as mrs. p.'s husband is a merchant, and she is prospecting for a location for a store, she and the agent, who seems quite pleasant, find plenty to talk about. there, puffing up grade again! and the jerking, nodding and shaking begins. mrs. p. holds her head, the agent tries to look unconcerned, and as though he didn't shake one bit, and i just put my head out of the window, and watch the country. saw three antelope running at a distance; are smaller than deer. the land is quite level, but we are seldom out of sight of sand-hills or bluffs. country looks better and more settled as we near long pine, where several of the colonists have located, and i have notified them of our coming, and there! i see a couple of them coming to the depot to meet us. as the sun has not yet hid behind the "rockies," we proposed a walk to long pine creek, not a mile away. the tops of the tallest trees that grow along it, tower just enough above the table-land to be seen from the cars; and as we did not expect to stop on our return, we made haste to see all we could. but by the time we got down to the valley it was so dark we could only see enough to make us very much wish to see more. so we returned disappointed to the hotel, to wait for the regular passenger train, which was not due until about midnight. the evening was being pleasantly passed with music and song, when my eyes rested upon a couple of pictures that hung on the wall, and despite the company about me, i was carried over a bridge of sad thoughts to a home where pictures of the same had hung about a little bed, and in fancy i am tucking little niece "myrtle" away for the night, after she has repeated her evening prayer to me, and i hear her say: "oh! auntie! i forgot to say, "god bless everybody." the prayer is repeated, good-night kisses given, and "mollie doll" folded close in her arms to go to sleep, too. but the sweet voice is silent now, "mollie" laid away with the sacred playthings, the playful hands closer folded, and the pictures look down on me, far, so far from home; and i leave the singers to their songs while i think. to add to my loneliness, mrs. p. says she is afraid to venture to valentine, and i do not like to insist, lest something might occur, and the rest try to persuade me not to go. i had advised lieut. davis of my coming, and he had written me to telephone him on my arrival at the depot, and he would have me conveyed to the fort immediately. but better than all, came the thought, "the lord, in whose care and protection i left home, has carried me safe and well this far; cannot i trust him all the way?" my faith is renewed, and i said: "you do not need to go with me, mrs. p., i can go alone. the lord has always provided friends for me when i was in need of them, and i know he will not forsake me now." mrs. p. hesitated, but at last, gathering strength from my confidence, says: "well, i believe i will go, after all." "almost train time," the landlady informs us, and we all go down to the depot to meet it. the night is clear and frosty, and the moon just rising. the train stopped for some time, and we talked of colony matters until our friends left us, insisting that we should stop on our return, and spend sunday at long pine. i turn my seat, and read the few passengers. just at my back a fat, fatherly looking old gentleman bows his head in sleep. that gentleman back of mrs. p. looks so thoughtful. how attentive that gentleman across the aisle is to that aged lady! suppose she is his dear old mother! "why there is 'mr. agent!' and there--well, i scarcely know what that is in the back seat." a bushy head rests against the window, and a pair of red shoes swings in the aisle from over the arm of the seat. but while i look at the queer picture, and wonder what it is, it spits a great splash of tobacco juice into the aisle, and the query is solved, it's only a man. always safe in saying there is a man about when you see tobacco juice flying like that. overalls of reddish brown, coat of gray, face to match the overalls in color, and hair to match the coat in gray, while a shabby cap crowns the picture that forms our background. mr. agent tells the thoughtful man a funny story. the old lady wakes up, and the fatherly old gent rouses. "you ladies belong to the colony from pennsylvania, do you not?" he asked. "i am a member of the colony," i replied. "i am glad to have an opportunity to enquire about them; how are they getting along?" i gave him all the information i could, and soon all were conversing as lonely travelers will, without waiting for any ceremonial introductions. but soon "ainsworth" is called out, and the agent leaves us with a pleasant "good evening" to all. the elderly man proves to be j. wesley tucker, receiver at the united states land office, at valentine, but says it is too rough and bad to take his family there, and tells stories of the wild shooting, and of the cow-boy. the thoughtful man is rev. joseph herbert, of union park seminary, chicago, who will spend his vacation in preaching at ainsworth and valentine, and this is his first visit to valentine, and is the first minister that has been bold enough to attempt to hold services there. he asks; "is the colony supplied with a minister? the superintendent of our mission talks of sending one to them if they would wish it." "they have no minister, and are feeling quite lost without preaching, as nearly all are members of some church, and almost every denomination is represented; but i scarcely know where services could be held; no church and no school house nearer than three miles." "oh! we hold services in log or sod houses, anywhere we can get the people together." i then spoke of my mission of writing up the history of the colony, and their settling, and the country they located in, and why i went to valentine, and remarked: "i gathered some very interesting history from----" "well if you believe all old ---tells you, you may just believe everything," came from the man in the back-ground, who had not ventured a word before, and with this he took a seat nearer the rest of us, and listened to mr. t. telling of the country, and of the utter recklessness and desperation of the cow-boys; how they shot at random, not caring where their bullets flew, and taking especial delight in testing the courage of strangers by the "whiz of the bullets about their ears." "is there any place where i can stop and go back, and not go on to valentine," i asked. "no, miss, you are bound for valentine now;" and added for comfort sake, "no danger of you getting shot, _unless_ by _mere accident_. they are very respectful to ladies, in fact, are never known to insult a lady. pretty good hearted boys when sober, but when they are on a spree, they are as _wild_ as _wild_ can be;" with an ominous shake of his head. "do you think they will be on a spree when i get there?" "can't say, indeed; _hope not_." "a man came not long ago, and to test his courage or see how high he could jump, they shot about his feet and cut bullet holes through his hat, and the poor fellow left, not waiting to pick up his overcoat and baggage. a woman is carrying a bullet in her arm now where a stray one lodged that came through the house. after this bit of information was delivered, he went into the other car to take a smoke. i readily understood it was more for his own amusement than ours that he related all this, and that he enjoyed emphasizing the most important words. the gentlemen across the aisle handed me his card with: "i go on the same errand that you do, and visit the chaplain of the fort, so do not be alarmed, that gentleman was only trying to test your courage." i read the card: p. d. mcandrews, editor of storm lake _tribune_, storm lake, iowa. the minister looked interested, but only remarked: "i fear no personal harm, the only fear i have is that i may not be able to do them as much good as others of more experience could." i thought if any one needed to have fear, it was he, as his work would be among them. mrs. p. whispered: "oh! isn't it awful, are you alarmed?" "not as much as i appear to be, the gentleman evidently enjoyed teasing us, and i enjoyed seeing him so amused. we will reach there after sunrise and go as soon as we can to the fort; we will not stop to learn much of valentine, i know all i care to now." the stranger, who by this time i had figured out as a pony boy--i could not think what else would give him such a countenance as he wore--changed the subject with: "that man," referring to judge t., "don't need to say there is no alkali along here, i freighted over this very country long before this railroad was built, and the alkali water has made the horses sick many a time. but i suppose it is wearing out, as the country has changed a good bit since then; there wasn't near as much grass growing over these sand hills then as there is now." then by way of an apology for his appearance, remarked: "i tell you freighting is hard on a man, to drive day after day through all kinds of weather and sleep out at night soon makes a fellow look old. i look to be fifty, and i am only thirty-five years old. my folks all live in ohio, and i am the only one from the old home." poor man! i thought, is that what gives you such a hardened expression; and i have been judging you so harshly. "the only one from the old home," had a tone of sadness that set me to thinking, and i pressed my face close to the window pane, and had a good long think all to myself, while the rest dropped off to sleep. is there not another aboard this train who is the only one away from the old home? and all alone, too. yet i feel many dear ones are with me in heart, and to-night dear father's voice trembled as he breathed an evening benediction upon his children, and invokes the care and protection of him who is god over all upon a daughter, now so far beyond the shelter of the dear old home; while a loving mother whispers a fervent "amen." by brothers and sisters i am not forgotten while remembering their own at the altar, nor by their little ones; and in fancy i see them, white robed for bed, sweetly lisping, "god bless auntie pet, and bring her safe home." and ever lifting my own heart in prayer for protection and resting entirely upon god's mercy and goodness, i go and feel i am not _alone_. had it not been for my faith in the power of prayer, i would not have undertaken this journey; but i thought as i looked up at the bright moon, could one of your stray beams creep in at mother's window, and tell her where you look down upon her daughter to-night, would it be a night of sleep and rest to her? i was glad they could rest in blissful ignorance, and i would write and tell them all about it when i was safe back. of course i had written of my intended trip, but they did not know the character of valentine, nor did i until i was about ready to start. but i knew mr. buchanan would not ask me to go where it was not proper i should go. so gathering all these comforting thoughts together, i rested, but did not care to sleep, for- oh, moon! 'tis rest by far more sweet, to feast upon thy loveliness, than sleep. humming ten thousand (or 1,500) miles away, home, sweet home, and the lord's prayer to the same air, i keep myself company. it was as bright and beautiful as night could be. the broad plains were so lit up i could see far away over a rolling prairie and sand-hills glistening in the frosty air; while many lakelets made a picture of silvery sheen i had never looked upon before. the moon peeped up at me from its reflection in their clear waters, and i watched it floating along, skipping from lakelet to lakelet, keeping pace alongside as though it, too, was going to preach in or write up valentine, and was eager to be there with the rest of us. it was a night too lovely to waste in sleep, so i waked every moment of it until the sun came up and put the moon and stars out, and lit up the great sandy plains, with a greater light that changed the picture to one not so beautiful, but more interesting from its plainer view. it is beyond the power of my pen to paint the picture of this country as i saw it in the early morning light, while standing at the rear door of the car. through sand-cuts, over sand-banks, and now over level grassy plains. the little rose bushes leafing out, ready to bloom, and sticking out through the sandiest beds they could find. where scarcely anything else would think of growing were tiny bushes of sand-cherries, white with blossoms. it seemed the picture was unrolled from beneath the wheels on a great canvas while we stood still; but the cars fairly bounded over the straight, level road until about six o'clock, when "valentine," rings through the car, and judge tucker cautioned me to "get ready to die," and we land at valentine. he and rev. herbert went to breakfast at a restaurant (the only public eating house, meals 50 cents), and mr. mcandrew, his mother, mrs. p., and i went into the depot, and lost no time in telephoning to the fort that there were four passengers awaiting the arrival of the ambulance, and then gathered about the stove to warm. finding there was little warmth to be had from it, mrs. p. and i thought we would take a walk about the depot in the bright sun. but i soon noticed a number of men gathered about a saloon door, and fearing they might take my poke hat for a target, i told mrs. p. i thought it was pleasanter if not warmer inside. i seated myself close to that dear old scotch lady, whom i felt was more of a protection to me than a company of soldiers would be. all was quiet at first, but as there is no hotel in valentine, the depot is used as a resting place by the cow-boys, and a number of them came in, but all quiet and orderly, and only gave us a glance of surprise and wonder. not one bold, impudent stare did we receive from any one of them, and soon all fears were removed, and i quietly watched them. one whom i would take to be a ranch owner, had lodged in the depot, and came down stairs laughing and talking, with an occasional profane word, of the fun of the night before. he was a large, red-faced young looking man, with an air of ownership and authority; and the boys seemed to go to him for their orders, which were given in a brotherly sort of way, and some were right off to obey. all wore leather leggings, some trimmed with fur; heavy boots, and great spurs clanking; their leather belt of revolvers, and dirk, and the stockman's sombrero. some were rather fine looking in features, but all wore an air of reckless daring rather than of hardened wickedness. one who threw himself down to sleep on an improvised bed on the seats in the waiting room, looked only a mere boy in years, rather delicate in features, and showed he had not been long at the life he was now leading; and it was evident he had once known a better life. another, equally as young in years, showed a much more hardened expression; yet he, too, looked like a run-away from a good home. one poor weather-beaten boy came in and passed us without turning his head, and i thought him an old gray-headed man, but when i saw his face i knew he could not be more than twenty-five. he seemed to be a general favorite that was about to leave them, for, "i'm sorry you are going away, jimmie," "you'll be sure to write to us, jimmie, and let us know how you get along down there," and like expressions came from a number. i did not hear a profane word or rough expression from anyone, excepting the one before spoken of. i watched them closely, trying to read them, and thought: "poor boys! where are your mothers, your sisters, your homes?" for theirs is a life that knows no home, and so often their life has a violent ending, going out in the darkness of a wild misspent life. as the ambulance would not be there for some time, and i could not think of breakfasting at the restaurant, mrs. p. and i went to a store and got some crackers and cheese, on which we breakfasted in the depot. then, tired and worn out from my night of watching, and all fear banished, i fell asleep with my head resting on the window-sill; but was soon aroused by rev. herbert coming in to ask us if we wished to walk about and see the town. the town site is on a level stretch of land, half surrounded by what looks to be a beautiful natural wall, broken and picturesque with gray rocks and pine trees. it is a range of high bluffs that at a distance look to be almost perpendicular, that follow the north side of the minnechaduza river, or swift running water, which flows south-east, and is tributary to the niobrara. the river is so much below the level of the table-land that it can not be seen at a distance, so it was only a glimpse we obtained of this strange beauty. but for your benefit we give the description of it by another whose time was not so limited. "the view on the minnechaduza is as romantic and picturesque as many of the more visited sights of our country. approaching it from the south, when within about 100 yards of the stream the level plain on which valentine is built is broken by numerous deep ravines with stately pines growing on their steep sides. looking from the point of the bluffs, the stream flowing in a serpentine course, and often doubling upon itself, appears a small amber colored rivulet. along the valley, which is about one-half mile wide, there are more or less of pine and oak. the stumps speak of a time when it was thickly wooded. the opposite banks or bluffs, which are more than 100 feet higher than those on the south, are an interesting picture. there are just enough trees on them to form a pretty landscape without hiding from view the rugged cliffs on which they grow. the ravines that cut the banks into sharp bluffs and crags are lost to view in their own wanderings." valentine, i am told, is the county seat of cherry county, which was but lately organized. last christmas there was but one house on the town site, but about six weeks ago the railroad was completed from thatcher to this point, and as thatcher was built right amid the sand banks near the niobrara river, the people living there left their sandy homes and came here; and now there is one hardware, one furniture, and two general stores; a large store-house for government goods for the sioux indians, a newspaper, restaurant, and five saloons, a hotel and number of houses in course of erection, also the united states land office of the minnechaduza district, that includes the government land of brown, cherry, and sioux counties. in all i counted about twenty-five houses, and three tents that served as houses. but this is not to be the terminus of the sioux city and pacific railroad very long, as it, too, is "going west," just where is not known. about eight o'clock a soldier boy in blue came with the ambulance, and returning to the depot for my satchel and ulster, which i had left there in the care of no one, but found all safe, our party of four bade rev. herbert good-bye and left him to his work with our most earnest wishes for his success. he had already secured the little restaurant, which was kept by respectable people, to hold services in. from valentine we could see frederick's peak, and which looked to be but a short distance away. when we had gone about two miles in that direction the driver said if we were not in haste to reach the fort he would drive out of the way some distance that we might have a better view of it; and after going quite a ways, halted on an eminence, and then we were yet several miles from it. it is a lone mound or butte that rears a queerly capped point high above all other eminences around it. at that distance, it looked to be almost too steep to be climbed, and crowned with a large rounding rock. i was wishing i could stop over sunday at the fort, as i found my time would be too limited, by even extending it to monday, to get anything like a view, or gather any information of the country. but mrs. p. insisted on returning that afternoon rather than to risk her life one night so near the indians. the ride was interesting, but very unpleasant from a strong wind that was cold and cutting despite the bright sun. i had fancied i would see a fort such as they had in "ye olden times"--a block house with loop-holes to shoot through at the indians. but instead i found fort niobrara more like a pleasant little village of nicely built houses, most of them of adobe brick, and arranged on three sides of a square. the officers' homes on the south side, all cottage houses, but large, handsomely built, and commodious. on the east are public buildings, chapel, library, lecture room, hall for balls and entertainments, etc. along the north are the soldiers' buildings; eating, sleeping, and reading rooms; also separate drinking and billiard rooms for the officers and privates. the drinking and playing of the privates, at least are under restrictions; nothing but beer is allowed them, and betting is punished. on this side is the armory, store-houses of government goods, a general store, tailor, harness, and various shops. at the rear of the buildings are the stables--one for the gray and another for the sorrel horses--about one hundred of each, and also about seventy-five mules. the square is nicely trimmed and laid out in walks and planted in small trees, as it is but four years since the post, as it is more properly termed, was established. it all looked very pleasant, and i asked the driver if, as a rule, the soldiers enjoyed the life. he answered that it was a very monotonous life, as it is seldom they are called out to duty, and they are only wishing the indians would give them a chance at a skirmish. the privates receive thirteen dollars per month, are boarded and kept in clothing. extra work receives extra pay; for driving to the depot once every day, and many days oftener, he received fifteen cents per day. those of the privates who marry and bring their wives there--and but few are allowed that privilege--do so with the understanding that their wives are expected to cook, wash, or sew for the soldiers in return for their own keeping. after a drive around the square, mr. mca. and mother alighted at the chaplain's, and mrs. p. and i at lieutenant g. b. davis', and were kindly received by both mr. and mrs. davis, but the lieutenant was soon called away to engage in a cavalry drill, or sham battle; but mrs. d. entertained us very pleasantly, which was no little task, as i never was so dull and stupid as i grew to be after sitting for a short time in their cosy parlor. how provoking to be so, when there was so much of interest about me, and my time so limited. mrs. d. insisted on my lying down and taking some rest, which i gladly consented to do, providing they would not allow me to sleep long. i quickly fell into a doze, and dreamt the indians were coming over the bluffs to take the fort, and in getting away from them i got right out of bed, and was back in the parlor in less than ten minutes. mrs. d. then proposed a walk to some of the public buildings; but we were driven back by a gust of wind and rain, that swept over the bluffs that hem them in on the north-west, carrying with it a cloud of sand and dust. the clouds soon passed over, and we started over to see the cavalry drill, but again were driven back by the rain, and we watched the cavalrymen trooping in, after the battle had been fought, the greys in one company, and sorrels in another. there were only about 200 soldiers at the post. the keeping up of a post is a great cost, yet it is a needed expense, as the knowledge of the soldiers being so near helps to keep the indians quiet. yet i could not see what would hinder them from overpowering that little handful of soldiers, despite their two gatling guns, that would shoot 1,000 indians per minute, if every bullet would count, if they were so disposed. but they have learned that such an outbreak would be retaliated by other troops, and call down the indignation of their sole keeper and support--"uncle sam." we were interested in hearing lieut. davis speak in words of highest praise of lieut. cherry, whose death in 1881 was so untimely and sad, as he was soon to bear a highly estimable young lady away from near my own home as a bride, whom he met at washington, d.c., in '79, where he spent a portion of a leave of absence granted him in recognition of brave and conspicuous services at the battle of the little big horn, known as custer's massacre. he was a graduate of west point, was a brave, intelligent, rising young officer. not only was he a good soldier, but also a man of upright life, and his untimely and violent death brought grief to many hearts, and robbed the world of a good man and a patriot. as the story of his death, and what it led to is interesting, i will briefly repeat it: some time before this event happened, there were good grounds for believing that there was a band formed between some of the soldiers and rough characters about the fort to rob the paymaster, but it became known, and a company was sent to guard him from long pine. not long after this a half-breed killed another in a saloon row, near the fort, and lieut. cherry was detailed to arrest the murderer. lieut. c. took with him a small squad of soldiers, and two indian scouts. when they had been out two days, the murderer was discovered in some rock fastnesses, and as the lieutenant was about to secure him, he was shot by one of the soldiers of the squad by the name of locke, in order to let the fugitive escape. the murderer of lieut. c. escaped in the confusion that followed, but spotted tail, chief of the sioux indians, who held the lieutenant in great esteem, ordered out a company of spies under crow dog, one of his under chiefs, to hunt him down. they followed his trail until near fort pierre, where they found him under arrest. they wanted to bring him back to fort niobrara, but were not allowed to. he was tried and paid the penalty of life for life--a poor return for such a one as he had taken. he was evidently one of the band before mentioned, but ignorant of this the lieutenant had chosen him to be a help, and instead was the taker of his life. when crow dog returned without the murderer of lieut. c., spotted tail was very angry, and put him under arrest. soon after, when the indians were about to start on their annual hunt, spotted tail would not let crow dog go, which made the feud still greater. in the fall, when spotted tail was about to start to washington to consult about the agency lands, crow dog had his wife drive his wagon up to spotted tail's tepee, and call him out, when crow dog, who lay concealed in the wagon, rose up and shot him, and made his escape, but was so closely followed that after three days he came into fort niobrara, and gave himself up. he has been twice tried, and twice sentenced to death, but has again been granted a new trial, and is now a prisoner at fort pierre. the new county is named cherry in honor of the beloved lieutenant. while taking tea, we informed lieut. davis that it was our intention to return on a combination train that would leave valentine about 3 o'clock. finding we would then have little time to reach the train, he immediately ordered the ambulance, and telephoned to hold the train a half hour for our arrival, as it was then time for it to leave. and bidding our kind entertainers a hasty good bye, we were soon on our way. although i felt i could not do fort niobrara and the strange beauty of the surrounding country justice by cutting my visit so short, yet i was glad to be off on a day train, as the regular passenger train left after night, and my confidence in the cow-boys and the rough looking characters seen on the street, was not sufficiently established by their quiet demeanor of the morning to fancy meeting a night train. the riddled sign-boards showed that there was a great amount of ammunition used there, and we did not care to have any of it used on us, or our good opinion of them spoiled by a longer stay, and, too, we wanted to have a daylight view of the country from there to long pine. so we did not feel sorry to see the driver lash the four mules into a gallop. at the bridge, spanning the niobrara, we met rev. herbert and a couple of others on their way to the fort, who told us they thought the train had already started; but the driver only urged the mules to a greater speed, and as i clung to the side of the ambulance, i asked: "do mules ever run off?" "sometimes they do." "well, do you think that is what these mules are doing now?" "no, i guess not." and as if to make sure they would, he reached out and wielded the long lash whip, and we understood that he not only wished to make the train on time, but also show us how soldier boys can drive "government mules." the thought that they were mules of the "u.s." brand did not add to our ease of mind any, for we had always heard them quoted as the very worst of mules. mrs. p. shook her head, and said she did believe they were running off, and i got in a good position to make a hasty exit if necessary, and then watched them run. after all we enjoyed the ride of four and a half miles in less than 30 minutes, and thanked the driver for it as he helped us into the depot in plenty of time for the train. mr. tucker brought us some beautiful specimens of petrified wood--chips from a petrified log, found along the minnechaduza, as a reminder of our trip to valentine. several cow-boys were in the depot, but as quiet as in the morning. i employed the time in gathering information about the country from mr. t. he informed me there was some good table-land beyond the bluffs, which would be claimed by settlers, and in a couple of years the large cattle ranches would have to go further west to find herding ground. they are driven westward just as the indians and buffalo are, by the settling up of the country. valentine is near the north boundary of the state, is west of the 100th meridian, and 295 miles distant from the missouri river. when about ready to start, who should come to board the train but the man whom i thought must be a pony boy. "oh, mrs. p.! that bad man is going too, and see! we will have to travel in only a baggage car!" "well, we cannot help ourselves now. the ambulance has started back, and we cannot stay here, so we are compelled to go." mr. t. remarked: "he does look like a bad man; but don't you know you make your own company very often, and i am assured you will be well treated by the train-men, and even that bad-looking man; and to help you all i can, i will speak to the conductor in your behalf. the two chairs of the coach were placed at our use, while the conductor and stranger occupied the tool-chest. one side-door was kept open that i might sit back and yet have a good view. mrs. p., not in the least discomforted by our position, was soon nodding in her chair, and i felt very much alone. "where music is, his satanic majesty cannot enter," i thought, and as i sat with book and pencil in hand, writing a few words now and then, i sang--just loud enough to be heard, many of the good old hymns and songs, and ended with, "dreaming of home." i wanted to make that man think of "home and mother," if he ever had any. stopping now and then to ask him some question about the country in the most respectful way, and as though he was the only one who knew anything about it, and was always answered in the most respectful manner. i sat near the door, and was prepared to jump right out into a sand-bank if anything should happen; but nothing occurred to make any one jump, only mrs. p., when i gave her a pinch to wake her up and whisper to her "to please keep awake for i feel dreadful lonely." well, all i got written was: left valentine about 3:30 in a baggage and mail car, over the sandy roads, now crossing the niobrara bridge 200 feet long, 108 feet high; river not wide; no timber to be seen; now over a sand fill and through a sand cut 101 feet deep, and 321 feet wide at top, and 20 at bottom. men are kept constantly at work to remove the sand that drifts into the cuts. thatcher, seven miles from v., a few faces peer up at the train from their dug-out homes, station house, and one 8ã�10 deserted store-house almost entirely covered with the signs, "butter, vegetables, and eggs," out of which, i am told, thousands of dollars' worth have been sold. think it must have been canned goods, for old tin fruit cans are strewn all around. to our right is a chain of sand hills, while to the left it is a level grassy plain. the most of these lakelets, spoken of before, i am told, are only here during rainy seasons. raining most of the time now. arabia, one house, and a tent that gives it an arabic look. wood lake, one house. named from a lakelet and one tree. some one has taken a claim here, and built a sod house. beyond this there is scarcely a house to be seen. johnstown, two houses, a tent, and water tank. country taking on a better appearance--farm houses dotting the country in every direction. country still grows better as we near ainsworth, a pretty little town, a little distance to the left. will tell you of this place again. crossing the long pine creek, one mile west of long pine town, we reach long pine about six o'clock. mrs. p. says she does not care to go the rest of the way alone, so i have concluded to stop there over sabbath. i feel like heaping praises and thanks upon these men who have so kindly considered our presence. not even in their conversation with each other have i noticed the use of one slang or profane word, and felt like begging pardon of the stranger for thinking so wrongly of him. allow me to go back and tell you of ainsworth: ainsworth is located near bone creek, on the homestead of mrs. n. j. osborne, and mr. hall. it is situated on a gently rolling prairie, fifteen miles south of the niobrara river, sand hills four miles south, and twelve miles west. townsite was platted august, 1882, and now has one newspaper, two general stores, two hardware stores, two lumber yards, two land offices, two livery stables, one drug store, one restaurant, and a millinery, barber, blacksmith shop, and last of all to be mentioned, two saloons. a m.e. church is organized with a membership of thirteen. i would take you right over this same ground, reader, after a lapse of seven months, and tell you of what i have learned of ainsworth, and its growth since then. brown county was organized in march, 1883, and ainsworth has been decided as the county seat, as it is in the centre of the populated portion of the county. but the vote is disputed, and contested by the people of long pine precinct, so it yet is an undecided question. statistics of last july gave $43,000 of assessed property; eight americans to one foreigner. i quote this to show that it is not all foreigners that go west. "the population of ainsworth is now 360; has three banks, and a number of business houses have been added, and a congregational church (the result of the labor of rev. joseph herbert, during his vacation months), a public building, and a $3,000 school house. "claims taken last spring can now be sold for from $1,000 to $1,500. a bridge has been built across the niobrara, due north of ainsworth. there is a good deal of vacant government land north of the river, yet much of the best has been taken, but there are several thousand acres, good farm and grazing land, yet vacant in the county. there is a continual stream of land seekers coming in, and it is fast being taken. the sod and log 'shanties,' are fast giving way to frame dwellings, and the face of the country is beginning to assume a different appearance. fair quality of land is selling for from three to ten dollars per acre. "the weather has been so favorable (dec. 11, '83) that farmers are still plowing. first frost occurred sept. 26th. mr. cook, of this place, has about 8,000 head of cattle; does not provide feed or shelter for them during the winter, yet loses very few. some look fat enough for market now, with no other feed than the prairie grass. "school houses are now being built in nearly all the school districts. the voting population of the county at last election was 1,000. i will give you the production of the soil, and allow you to judge of its merit: wheat from 28 to 35 bushels per acre; oats 50 to 80 bushels per acre; potatoes, weighing 3-1/2 pounds, and 400 bushels per acre; cabbage, 22 pounds----" this information i received from mr. p. d. mcandrew, who was so favorably impressed with the country, when on his visit to fort niobrara, that he disposed of his _tribune_ office, and returned, and took a claim near the stone butte, of which i have before spoken, and located at ainsworth. i would add that valentine has not made much advancement, as it is of later birth, and the cow-boys still hold sway, verifying mr. tucker's stories as only too true by added deeds of life-taking. you may be interested in knowing what success rev. herbert had in preaching in such a place. he says of the first sabbath: "held services in the restaurant at ten a.m., with an audience of about twenty. one saloon keeper offered to close his bar, and give me the use of the saloon for the hour. all promised to close their bars for the time, but did not. the day was very much as saturday; if any difference the stores did a more rushing business. as far as i was privileged to meet with the cow-boys, they treated me well. they molest those only who join them in their dissipations, and yet show fear of them. no doubt there are some very low characters among them, but there is chivalry (if it may so be called) that will not brook an insult to a lady. many of them are fugitives from justice under assumed names; others are runaways from homes in the eastern states, led to it by exciting stories of western life, found in the cheap fiction of the times, and the accounts of such men as the james boys. but there are many who remember no other life. they spend most of their time during the summer in the saddle, seldom seeing any but their companions. their nights are spent rolled in their blankets, with the sky for their roof and sod for a pillow. they all look older than their years would warrant them in looking." long pine. after supper i walked out to see the bridge across the long pine creek of which i have before spoken. but i was too tired to enjoy the scenery and see it all, and concluded if the morrow was the sabbath, there could be no harm in spending a part of it quietly seeing some of nature's grandeur, and returned to the severance house and retired early to have a long night of rest. there is no bar connected with this hotel, although the only one in town, and a weary traveler surely rests the better for its absence. the morning was bright and pleasant, and mrs. h. l. glover, of long pine, mr. h. l. hubletz, and mr. l. a. ross, of the colony, and myself started early for the bridge. it is 600 feet in length, and 105 feet high. the view obtained from it is grand indeed. looking south the narrow stream is soon lost to view by its winding course, but its way is marked by the cedar and pine trees that grow in its narrow valley, and which tower above the table-land just enough to be seen. just above the bridge, from among the rocks that jut out of the bank high above the water, seven distinct springs gush and drip, and find their way down the bank into the stream below, mingling with the waters of the pine and forming quite a deep pool of clear water. but like other nebraska waters it is up and away, and with a rush and ripple glides under the bridge, around the bluffs, and far away to the north, until it kisses the waters of the niobrara. we can follow its course north only a little way farther than we can south, but the valley and stream is wider, the bluffs higher, and the trees loftier. it is not enough to view it at such a distance, and as height adds to grandeur more than depth, we want to get right down to the water's edge and look up at the strangely formed walls that hem them in. so we cross the bridge to the west and down the steep bank, clinging to bushes and branches to help us on our way, until we stop to drink from the springs. the water is cool and very pleasant to the taste. then stop on a foot bridge across the pool to dip our hands in the running water, and gather a memento from its pebbly bed. on the opposite shore we view the remains of a deserted dugout and wondered who would leave so romantic a spot. then along a well worn path that followed the stream's winding way, climbing along the bluff's edges, now pulling ourselves up by a cedar bush, and now swinging down by a grape-vine, we followed on until mrs. g. remarked: "this is an old indian path," which sent a cold wave over me, and looking about, half expecting to see a wandering sioux, and not caring to meet so formidable a traveler on such a narrow pathway, i proposed that we would go no farther. so back to the bridge and beyond we went, following down the stream. some places the bluffs rise gradually to the table-land and are so grown with trees and bushes one can scarce tell them from pennsylvania hills; but as a rule, they are steep, often perpendicular, from twenty-five to seventy-five feet high, forming a wall of powdered sand and clay that is so hard and compact that we could carve our initials, and many an f. f. i left to crumble away with the bluffs. laden with pebbles gathered from the highest points, cones from the pine trees, and flowers from the valley and sand hills, i went back from my sabbath day's ramble with a mind full of wonder and a clear conscience. for had i not stood before preachers more powerful and no less eloquent than many who go out well versed in theology, and, too, preachers that have declaimed god's wonderful works and power ever since he spake them into existence and will ever be found at their post until the end. but how tired we all were by the time we reached mrs. g.'s home, where a good dinner was awaiting our whetted appetites! that over, mr. h. stole out to sunday school, and mr. r. sat down to the organ. but soon a familiar chord struck home to my heart, and immediately every mile of the distance that lay between me and home came before me. "homesick?" yes; so homesick i almost fainted with the first thought, but i slipped away, and offered up a prayer: my only help, but one that is all powerful in every hour and need. mr. glover told us of a mrs. danks, living near long pine, who had come from pennsylvania, and was very anxious to see some one from her native state, and mr. ross and i went to call on her, and found her in a large double log house on the banks of the pine--a very pretty spot they claimed three years ago. though ill, she was overjoyed to see us, and said: "i heard of the colony from pennsylvania, and told my husband i must go to see them as soon as i was able. indeed, i felt if i could only see some one from home, it would almost cure me!" it happened that mr. r. knew some of her friends living in pittsburgh, pennsylvania, and what a treat the call was to all of us! she told us of their settling there, and how they had sheltered crow dog and black crow, when they were being taken away as prisoners. how they, and the few families living along the creek, had always held their sabbath school and prayer meetings in their homes, and mentioned mr. skinner, a neighbor living not far away, who could tell us so much, as they had been living there longer, and had had more experience in pioneering. and on we went, along the creek over a half mile, to make another call. we found mr. and mrs. skinner both so kind and interesting, and their home so crowded with curiosities, which our limited time would not allow us to examine, that we yielded to their solicitation, and promised to spend monday with them. we finished the doings of our sabbath at long pine by attending m.e. services at the school house, held by rev. f. f. thomas. _monday_--spent the entire day at the "pilgrim's retreat," as the skinner homestead is called, enjoying its romantic scenery, and best of all, mrs. s.'s company. the house is almost hid by trees, which are leafing out, but above the tree tops, on the other side of the creek, "dizzy peak" towers 150 feet high from the water's edge. white cliffs are several points, not so towering as dizzy peak. hidden among these cliffs are several canyons irregular in shape and size. mrs. s. took me through a full suite of rooms among these canyons; and "wild cat gulch," 400 feet long, so named in honor of the killing of a wild cat within its walls by adelbert skinner, only a year ago, was explored. white cliffs was climbed, and tired out, we sat us down in the "parlor" of the canyons, and listened to mrs. s.'s story of her trials and triumphs. there, i know mrs. s. will object to that word, "triumph," for she says: "god led us there to do that work, and we only did our duty." we enjoyed listening to her story, as an earnest, christian spirit was so plainly visible through it all, and we repeat it to show how god can and will care for his children when they call upon him. mrs. i. s. skinner's story. "my husband had been in very poor health for some time, and in the spring of 1879, with the hope that he would regain not only his health, but much he had spent in doctoring, we sought a home along the niobrara. ignorant of the existence of the "pony-boy clan," we pitched our tent on the south side of the river, about a mile from where morrison's bridge has since been built; had only been there a few days, when a couple of young men came, one by the name of morrison, and the other "doc middleton," the noted leader of the gang of horse-thieves that surrounded us, but who was introduced as james shepherd; who after asking mr. s. if he was a minister, requested him to come to the little house across the river (same house where i slept on the table) and perform a marriage ceremony. on the appointed evening mr. s. forded the river, and united him in marriage with a miss richards. the room was crowded with armed men, "ready for a surprise from the indians," they said, while the groom laid his arms off while the ceremony was being performed. mr. s., judging the real character of the men, left as soon as his duty was performed. about a month after this, a heavy reward was offered for the arrest of doc. middleton, and two men, llewellyn and hazen by name, came to middleton's tent that was hid away in a canyon, and falsely represented that they were authorized to present some papers to him, the signing of which, and leaving the country, would recall the reward. his wife strongly objected, but he, glad to so free himself--and at that time sick--signed the papers; and then was told there was one more paper to sign, and requested to ride out a short way with them. he cheerfully mounted his pony and rode with them, but had not gone far until hazen fell behind, and shot several times at him, badly wounding him. he in turn shot hazen three times and left him for dead. this happened on sunday morning, so near our tent that we heard the shooting. mr. s. was soon at the scene, and helped convey hazen to our tent, after which llewellyn fled. middleton was taken to the "morrison house." there the two men lay, not a mile apart. the one surrounded by a host of followers and friends, whose lives were already dark with crime and wickedness, and swearing vengeance on the betrayer of their leader, and also on anyone who would harbor or help him. the other, with only us two to stand in defiance of all their threats, and render him what aid we in our weakness could. and believing we defended a worthy man, mr. s. declared he would protect him with his life, and would shoot anyone who would attempt to force an entrance into our tent. fearing some would persist in coming, and knowing he would put his threats into execution if forced to it, i went to the brow of the hill and entreated those who came to turn back. when at last mr. morrison said he would go, woman's strongest weapon came to my help; my tears prevailed, and he too turned back, and we were not again disturbed. our oldest boy, adelbert, then 13 years old, was started to keya paha for a physician, and at night our three other little boys, the youngest but two years old, were tucked away in the wagon, a little way from the tent, and left in the care of the lord, while mr. s. and i watched the long dark night through, with guns and revolvers ready for instant action. twice only, when we thought the man was dying, did we use a light, for fear it would make a mark at long range. we had brought a good supply of medicine with us, and knowing well its use, we administered to the man, and morning came and found him still living. once only did i creep out through the darkness to assure myself that our children were safe. monday i went to see middleton, and carried him some medicine which he very badly needed. after night-fall, adelbert and the doctor came, and with them, two men, friends of hazen, whom they met, and who inquired of the doctor of hazen's whereabouts. the doctor after assuring himself that they were his friends, told them his mission, and brought them along, and with their help hazen was taken away that night in a wagon; they acting as guards, the doctor as nurse, and mr. s. as driver. hazen's home was in the south-east part of the state; and they took him to columbus, then the nearest railway point. it was a great relief when they were safely started, but i was not sure they would be allowed to land in safety. mr. s. would not be back until thursday, and there i was, all alone with the children, my own strength nothing to depend on to defend myself against the many who felt indignant at the course we had pursued. the nearest neighbor that we knew was truly loyal, lived fifteen miles away. of course i knew the use of firearms, but that was not much to depend upon, and suffering from heart disease i was almost prostrated through the trouble. threats were sent to me by the children that if mr. s. dared to return, he would be shot down without mercy, and warning us all to leave as quickly as possible if we would save ourselves. i was helpless to do any thing but just stay and take whatever the lord would allow to befall us. i expected every night that our cattle would be run off, and we would be robbed of everything we had. one dear old lady, who lived near, stayed a couple of nights with us, but at last told me, for the safety of her life she could not come again, and urged me to go with her to her home. "oh, sister robinson," i cried, "you _must not_ leave me!" and then the thought came, how very selfish of me to ask her to risk her own life for my sake, and i told her i could stay alone. when we were coming here, i felt the lord was leading us, and i could not refrain from singing, "through this changing world below, lead me gently, gently, as i go; trusting thee, i cannot stray, i can never, never lose my way." and my faith and trust did not fail me until i saw mrs. r. going over the hill to her home, and my utter loneliness and helplessness came upon me with so much force, that i cried aloud, "oh, lord, why didst you lead us into all this trouble?" but a voice seemed to whisper, "fear not; they that are for thee are more than they that are against thee." and immediately my faith and trust were not only renewed, but greatly strengthened, and i felt that i dwelt in safety even though surrounded by those who would do me harm. it was not long until mrs. r. came back, saying she had come to stay with me, for after she got home she thought how selfish she had acted in thinking so much of her own safety, and leaving me all alone. but i assured her my fears were all dispelled, and i would not allow her to remain. yet i could not but feel uneasy about mr. s., and especially as the appointed time for his return passed, and the time of anxious waiting and watching was lengthened out until the next monday. on sunday a company of soldiers came and took "doc" middleton a prisoner. his term in the penitentiary will expire in june, and i do hope he has learned a lesson that will lead him to a better life; for he was rather a fine looking man, and is now only thirty-two years old. (i will here add that middleton left the penitentiary at the close of his term seemingly a reformed man, vowing to leave the west with all his bad deeds behind.) llewellyn received $175 for his trouble, and hazen $250 for his death blow, for he only lived about a year after he was shot. i must say we did not approve of the way in which they attempted to take middleton. we did not locate there after all this happened, but went eight miles further on, to a hay ranch, and with help put up between four and five hundred tons of hay. we lived in constant watching even there, and only remained the summer, and came and homesteaded this place, which we could now sell for a good price, but we do not care to try life on the frontier again. in praise of the much talked-of cow-boys, i must say we never experienced any trouble from them, although many have found shelter for a night under our roof; and if they came when mr. s. was away, they would always, without my asking, disarm themselves, and hand their revolvers to me, and ask me to lay them away until morning. this was done to assure me that i was safe at their hands. i repeat her story word for word as nearly as possible, knowing well i repeat only truth. and now to her collection of curiosities--but can only mention a few: one was a piece of a mastodon's jaw-bone, found along the creek, two feet long, with teeth that would weigh about two pounds. they unearthed the perfect skeleton, but as it crumbled on exposure to the air, they left it to harden before disturbing it; and when they returned much had been carried away. the head was six feet long, and tusks, ten feet, of which they have a piece seven inches in length, fifteen inches in circumference, and weighs eight pounds, yet it was taken from near the point. mrs. s. broke a piece off and gave to me. it is a chalky white, and shows a growth of moss like that of moss agate. she has gathered from around her home agates and moss agates and pebbles of all colors. as she handed them to me one by one, shading them from a pink topaz to a ruby, i could not help touching them to my tongue to see if they did not taste; they were so clear and rich-looking. it seemed odd to see a chestnut burr and nut cased as a curiosity. but what puzzled me most was a beaver's tail and paw, and we exhausted our guessing powers over it, and then had to be told. she gave it to me with numerous other things to carry home as curiosities. there are plenty of beaver along the creek, and i could scarcely be persuaded that some naughty george washington with his little hatchet had not felled a number of trees, and hacked around, instead of the beaver with only their four front teeth. the timber along the creek is burr oak, black walnut, white ash, pine, cedar, hackberry, elm, ironwood, and cottonwood. i was sorry to hear of a saw mill being in operation on the creek, sawing up quite a good deal of lumber. rev. thomas makes his home with mr. skinner, and from him i learned he was the first minister that held services in long pine, which was in april, '82, in the railroad eating house, and has since held regular services every two weeks. also preaches at ainsworth, johnstown, pleasant dale, and brinkerhoff; only seventy of a membership in all. well, the pleasantest day must have an end, and after tea, a swing between the tall oak trees of their dooryard, another drink from the spring across the creek, a pleasant walk and talk with miss flora kenaston, the school-mistress of long pine, another look at giddy peak and white cliffs, and "tramp tramp, tramp," on the organ, in which mr. s. joined, for he was one of the yankee soldier boys from york state, and with many thanks and promises of remembrance, i leave my newly-formed friends, carrying with me tokens of their kindness, but, best of all, fond memories of my day at "pilgrim's retreat." but before i leave on the train to-night i must tell you of the beginning of long pine, and what it now is. the town was located in june, '81. the first train was run the following october. mr. t. h. glover opened the first store. then came mr. h. j. severance and pitched a boarding tent, 14ã�16, from which they fed the workmen on the railroad, accommodating fifty to eighty men at a meal. but the tent was followed by a good hotel which was opened on thanksgiving day. now there is one bank, two general stores, one hardware, one grocery, one drug, and one feed store, a billiard hall, saloon, and a restaurant. population 175. from a letter received from c. b. glover, written december 15, i glean the following: "you would scarcely recognize long pine as the little village you visited last may. there have been a good many substantial buildings put up since then. notably is the railroad eating house, 22ã�86, ten two-story buildings, and many one-story. long pine is now the end of both passenger and freight division. the brown county bank has moved into their 20ã�40 two-story building; masonic hall occupying the second story. the g.a.r. occupying the upper room of i. h. skinner's hardware, where also religious services are regularly held. preparations are being made for a good old fashioned christmas tree. the high school, under the able management of rev. m. laverty, is proving a success in every sense of the word. mr. ritterbush is putting in a $10,000 flouring mill on the pine, one-half mile from town, also a saw mill at the same place. the saw mill of mr. upstill, on the pine, three-fourths mile from town, has been running nearly all summer sawing pine and black walnut lumber. crops were good, wheat going thirty bushels per acre, and corn on sod thirty. vegetables big. a potato raised by mr. sheldon, near morrison's bridge, actually measured twenty-four inches in circumference, one way, and twenty and one-half short way. it was sent to kansas to show what the sand hills of north-western nebraska can produce. our government lands are fast disappearing, but by taking time, and making thorough examination of what is left, good homesteads and pre-emptions can be had by going back from the railroad ten, fifteen, and twenty miles. "the land here is not all the same grade, a portion being fit for nothing but grazing. this is why people cannot locate at random. timber culture relinquishments are selling for from $300 to $1,000; deeded lands from $600 to $2,000 per 160 acres. most of this land has been taken up during the past year. "i have made an estimate of the government land still untaken in our county, and find as follows: "brown county has 82 townships, 36 sections to a township, 4 quarters to a section, 11,808 quarter sections. we have about 1,500 voters. allowing one claim to each voter, as some have two and others none, it will leave 10,308 claims standing open for entry under the homestead, pre-emption, and timber culture laws. "long pine is geographically in the center of the county, and fifteen miles south of the niobrara river. regarding the proposed bridge across the river, it is not yet completed; think it will be this winter." from an entirely uninterested party, and one who knows the country well, i would quote: "should say that perhaps one-third of brown county is too sandy for cultivation; but a great portion of it will average favorably with the states of michigan and indiana, and i think further developments will prove the sand-hills that so many complain of, to be a good producing soil." water is good and easily obtained. the lumber and trees talked of, are all in the narrow valley of the creek, and almost completely hid by its depth, so that looking around on the table-land, not a tree is to be seen. all that can be seen at a distance is the tops of the tallest trees, which look like bushes. long pine and valentine are just the opposite in scenery. the sand-hills seen about long pine, and all through this country, are of a clear, white sand. but there, the train is whistling, and i must go. though my time has been so pleasantly and profitably spent here, yet i am glad to be eastward bound. well, i declare! here is mr. mcandrew and his mother on their way back from valentine, and also the agent, mr. gerdes, who says he was out on the keya paha yesterday (sunday) and took a big order from a new merchant just opening a store near the colony. mr. mca. says they had a grand good time at the fort, but not so pleasant was the coming from valentine to-night, as a number of the cow-boys seen at the depot saturday morning are aboard and were drinking, playing cards, and grew quite loud over their betting. as he and his mother were the only passengers besides them, it was very unpleasant. the roughest one, he tells me, was the one i took for a ranch owner; and the most civil, the one i thought had known a better life. and there the poor boy lay, monopolizing five seats for his sole use, by turning three, and taking the cushions up from five, four to lie on, and one to prop up the back of the middle seat. it is a gift given only to cow-boys to monopolize so much room, for almost anyone would sooner hang themselves to a rack, than ask that boy for a seat; so he and his companions are allowed to quietly sleep. how glad we are to reach stuart at last, and to be welcomed by mrs. wood in the "wee sma'" hours with: "glad you are safe back." stuart at the opening of 1880 was an almost untouched prairie spot, 219 miles from missouri valley, iowa; but in july, 1880, mr. john carberry brought his family from atkinson, and they had a "fourth" all to themselves on their newly taken homestead, which now forms a part of the town plat, surveyed in the fall of '81; at that time having but two occupants, carberry and halleck. in november, the same year, the first train puffed into the new town of stuart, so named, in honor of peter stuart, a scotchman living on a homestead adjoining the town-site on the south. reader, do you know how an oil town is built up? well, the building up of a town along the line of a western railroad that opens up a new, rich country, is very much the same. one by one they gather at first, until the territory is tested, then in numbers, coming from everywhere. but the soil of nebraska is more lasting than the hidden sea of oil of pennsylvania, so about the only difference is that the western town is permanent. temporary buildings are quickly erected at first, and then the substantial ones when time and money are more plenty. so "stirring stuart" gathered, until we now count one church (pres.), which was used for a school room last winter, two hotels, two general stores, principal of which is mr. john skirving, two hardware and farm implement stores, one drug store, two lumber yards, a harness and blacksmith shop, and a bank. not far from stuart, i am told, was an indian camping ground, which was visited but two years ago by about a hundred of them, "tenting again on the old camp ground." and i doubt not but that the winding elkhorn has here looked on wilder scenes than it did on the morning of the 27th of april, '83, when the little party of 65 colonists stepped down and out from their homes in the old "keystone" into the "promised land," and shot at the telegraph pole, and missed it. but i will not repeat the story of the first chapter. now that the old year of '83 has fled since the time of which i have written, i must add what improvements, or a few at least, that the lapse of time has brought to the little town that can very appropriately be termed "the plymouth rock of the n.m.a.c." from the stuart _ledger_ we quote: the methodists have organized with a membership of twenty-four, and steps have been taken for the building of a church. services now held every alternate sunday by rev. mallory, of keya paha, in the presbyterian church, of which rev. benson is pastor. union sunday school meets every sunday, also the band of hope, a temperance organization. a new school house, 24ã�42, where over 60 children gather to be instructed by mr. c. a. manville and miss mamie woods. an opera house 22ã�60, two stories high, mrs. arter's building, 18ã�24, two stories. two m.d.'s have been added, a dentist, and a photographer. it is useless to attempt to quote all, so will close with music from the stuart cornet band. from a letter received from "sunny side" from the pen of mrs. w. w. warner, dec. 24: "population of stuart is now 382, an increase of 70 within the last two months. building is still progressing, and emigrants continue to come in their 'schooners.' "no good government land to be had near town. soil from one to three feet deep. first frost oct. 11. first snow, middle of november, hardly enough to speak of, and no more until 22d of december." but to return to our story. my "saratoga" was a "traveling companion"; of my own thinking up, but much more convenient, and which served as satchel and pillow. for the benefit of lady readers, i will describe its make-up. two yards of cloth, desired width, bind ends with tape, and work corresponding eyelet holes in both ends, and put on pockets, closed with buttons, and then fold the ends to the middle of the cloth, and sew up the sides, a string to lace the ends together, and your satchel is ready to put your dress skirts, or mine at least, in full length; roll or fold the satchel, and use a shawl-strap. i did not want to be burdened and annoyed with a trunk, and improvised the above, and was really surprised at its worth as a traveling companion; so much can be carried, and smoother than if folded in a trunk or common satchel; and also used as a pillow. this with a convenient hand-satchel was all i used. these packed, and good-byes said to the remaining colonists, and the dear friends that had been friends indeed to me, and kissing "wee nellie" last of all, i bid farewell to stuart. the moon had just risen to see me off. again i am with friends. mr. lahaye, one of the colonists, was returning to bradford for his family. mrs. peck and her daughter, mrs. shank, of stuart, were also aboard. of atkinson, nine miles east of stuart, i have since gleaned the following from an old schoolmate, rev. a. c. spencer, of that place: "when i came to atkinson, first of march, '83, i found two stores, two hotels, one drug store, one saloon, and three residences. now we have a population of 300, a large school building (our schools have a nine month's session), m.e. and presbyterian churches, each costing about $2,000, a good grist mill, and one paper, the atkinson _graphic_, several stores, and many other conveniences too numerous to mention. last march, but about fifty voters were in atkinson precinct; now about 500. there has been a wonderful immigration to this part of holt county during the past summer, principally from illinois, wisconsin, and iowa, though quite a number from ohio, pennsylvania, and new york. six miles east of this place, where not a house was to be seen the 15th of last march, is now a finely settled community, with a school house, sunday school, and preaching every two weeks. some good government lands can be had eight to twenty-five miles from town, but will all be taken by next may. atkinson is near the elkhorn river, and water is easily obtained at 20 to 40 feet. coal is seven to ten dollars per ton." i awoke at o'neill just in time to see all but seven of our crowded coach get off. some coming even from valentine, a distance of 114 miles, to attend robinson's circus--but shows are a rarity here. the light of a rising sun made a pleasing view of o'neill and surrounding country: the town a little distance from the depot, gently rolling prairie, the river with its fringe of willow bushes, and here and there settlers' homes with their culture of timber. o'neill was founded in 1875 by gen. o'neill, a leader of the fenians, and a colony of his own countrymen. it is now the county seat of holt county, and has a population of about 800. has three churches, catholic, presbyterian, and m.e.; community is largely catholic. it has three papers, the _frontier_, holt county _banner_, both republican, and o'neill _tribune_, democratic, and three saloons. it is about a mile from the river. gen. o'neill died a few years ago in omaha. neligh, the county seat of antelope county, is situated near the elkhorn, which is 100 to 125 feet wide, and 3 to 6 feet deep at this point. the town was platted feb., 1873, by j. d. neligh. railroad was completed, and trains commenced running aug. 29, '80. gates college located at neligh by the columbus congregational association, aug. '81. u.s. land office removed to neligh in '81. m.e. church built in '83. county seat located oct. 2, '83. court house in course of erection, a private enterprise by the citizens. i quote from a letter received from j. m. coleman, and who has also given a long list of the business houses of neligh, but it is useless to repeat, as every department of business and trade is well represented, and is all a population of 1,000 enterprising people will bring into a western town. to write up all the towns along the way would be but to repeat much that has already been said of others, and the story of their added years of existence, that has made them what the frontier towns of to-day will be in a few years. then why gather or glean further? the valley of the elkhorn is beautiful and interesting in its bright, new robes of green. at battle creek, near norfolk, the grass was almost weaving high. it was interesting to note the advance in the growth of vegetation as we went south through madison, stanton, cuming and dodge counties. that this chapter may be complete, i would add all i know of the road to missouri valley--its starting point--and for this we have mr. j. r. buchanan for authority. there was once a small burg called desoto, about five miles south of the present blair, which was located by the s.c. & p.r.r. company in 1869, and named for the veteran, john i. blair, of blairstown, new jersey, who was one of the leading spirits in the building of the road. blair being a railroad town soon wholly absorbed desoto. the land was worth $1.25 per acre. to-day blair has at least 2,500 of a population; is the prosperous county seat of washington county. land in the vicinity is worth from $25.00 to $40.00 per acre. the soil has no superior; this year showed on an average of twenty-five bushels of wheat per acre, and ordinarily yields sixty to eighty bushels of corn. land up the elkhorn valley five years ago was $2.50 to $8.00 per acre, now it is worth from $12.00 to $30.00. the s.c. & p.r.r. proper was built from sioux city, iowa, and reached fremont, nebraska, in 1868. it had a small land grant of only about 100,000 acres. the fremont, elkhorn valley and missouri river railroad was organized and subsequently built from fremont to valentine, the direct route that nature made from the missouri river to the black hills. as to the terminus of this road, no one yet knows. whether, or when it will go to the pacific coast is a question for the future. the missouri river proper is about 2,000 feet wide. in preparing to bridge it the channel has been confined by a system of willow mattress work, until the bridge channel is covered by three spans 333 feet each or 1,000 feet. the bridge is 60 feet above water and rests on four abutments built on caissons sank to the rock fifty feet beneath the bed of the river. this bridge was completed in november, 1883, at a cost of over $1,000,000. but good-bye, reader; the conductor says this is fremont, and i must leave the s.c. for the u.p.r.r. and begin a new chapter. chapter iii. over the u.p.r.r. from north platte to omaha and lincoln.--a description of the great platte valley. i felt rather lonely after i had bid good-bye to my friends, but a depot is no place to stop and think, so i straightway attended to putting some unnecessary baggage in the care of the baggage-master until i returned, who said: "just passed a resolution to-day to charge storage on baggage that is left over, but if you will allow me to remove the check, i will care for it without charge." one little act of kindness shown me already. at the u.p. depot i introduced myself to mr. jay reynolds, ticket agent, who held letters for me, and my ticket over the u.p. road, which brother had secured and left in his care. he greeted me with: "am glad to know you are safe, miss fulton, your brother was disappointed at not meeting you here, and telegraphed but could get no answer. feared you had gone to valentine and been shot." "am sorry to have caused him so much uneasiness," i replied, "but the telegram came to stuart when i was out at the location, and so could not let him hear from me, which is one of the disadvantages of colonizing on the frontier." "your brother said he would direct your letters in my care, and i have been inquiring for you--but you must stop on your return and see the beauties of fremont. mrs. reynolds will be glad to meet you." well, i thought, more friends to make the way pleasant, and as it was not yet train time, i went to the post-office. the streets were thronged with people observing decoration day. it was a real treat to see the blooming flowers and green lawns of the "forest city;" i was almost tempted to pluck a snow-ball from a bush in the railroad garden. i certainly was carried past greener fields as the train bounded westward along the platte valley, than i had seen north on the elkhorn. the platte river is a broad, shallow stream, with low banks, and barren of everything but sand. now we are close to its banks, and again it is lost in the distance. the valley is very wide; all the land occupied and much under cultivation. i viewed the setting sun through the spray of a fountain in the railroad garden at grand island, tinging every drop of water with its amber light, making it a beautiful sight. grand island is one of the prettiest places along the way, named from an island in the river forty miles long and from one to three miles wide. i was anxious to see kearney, but darkness settled down and hindered all further sight-seeing. the coach was crowded, and one poor old gentleman was "confidenced" out of sixty dollars, which made him almost sick, but his wife declares, "it is just good for him--no business to let the man get his hand on his money!" "i will turn your seats for you, ladies, as soon as we have room," the conductor says; but the lady going to cheyenne, who shares my seat, assisted, and we turn our seats without help, and i, thinking of the old gentleman's experience, lie on my pocket, and put my gloves on to protect my ring from sliding off, and sleep until two o'clock, when the conductor wakes me with, "almost at north platte, miss." i had written miss arta cody to meet me, but did not know the hour would be so unreasonable. i scarcely expected to find her at the depot, but there she was standing in the chilly night air, ready to welcome me with, "i am so glad you have come, frances!" we had never met before, but had grown quite familiar through our letters, and it was pleasant to be received with the same familiarity and not as a stranger. we were quickly driven to her home, and found mrs. cody waiting to greet me. to tell you of all the pleasures of my visit at the home of "buffalo bill," and of the trophies he has gathered from the hunt, chase, and trail, and seeing and hearing much that was interesting, and gleaning much of the real life of the noted western scout from mrs. c., whom we found to be a lady of refinement and pleasing manners, would make a long story. their beautiful home is nicely situated one-half mile from the suburbs of north platte. the family consists of three daughters: arta, the eldest is a true brunette, with clear, dark complexion, black hair, perfect features, and eyes that are beyond description in color and expression, and which sparkle with the girlish life of the sweet teens. her education has by no means been neglected, but instead is taking a thorough course in boarding school. orra, a very pleasant but delicate child of eleven summers, with her father's finely cut features and his generous big-heartedness; and wee babe irma, the cherished pet of all. their only son, kit carson, died young. it is not often we meet mother, daughters, and sisters so affectionate as are mrs. c, arta, and orra. mr. cody's life is not a home life, and the mother and daughters cling to each other, trying to fill the void the husband and father's almost constant absence makes. he has amassed enough of this world's wealth and comfort to quietly enjoy life with his family. but a quiet life would be so contrary to the life he has always known, that it could be no enjoyment to him. to show how from his early boyhood, he drifted into the life of the "wild west," and which has become second nature to him, i quote the following from "the life of buffalo bill." his father, isaac cody, was one of the original surveyors of davenport, iowa, and for several years drove stage between chicago and davenport. was also justice of the peace, and served one term in the legislature from iowa. removed to kansas in 1852, and established a trading post at salt creek valley, near the kickapoo agency. at this time kansas was occupied by numerous tribes of indians who were settled on reservations, and through the territory ran the great highway to california and salt lake city, traveled by thousands of gold-seekers and mormons. living so near the indians, "billy" soon became acquainted with their language, and joined them in their sport, learning to throw the lance and shoot with bow and arrow. in 1854 his father spoke in public in favor of the enabling act, that had just passed, and was twice stabbed in the breast by a pro-slavery man, and by this class his life was constantly threatened; and made a burden from ill health caused by the wounds, until in '57, when he died. after the mother and children all alone had prepared the body for burial, in the loft of their log cabin at valley falls, a party of armed men came to take the life that had just gone out. billy, their only living son, was their mainstay and support, doing service as a herder, and giving his earnings to his mother. the first blood he brought was in a quarrel over a little school-girl sweet-heart, during the only term of school he ever attended, and thinking he had almost killed his little boy adversary, he fled, and took refuge in a freight wagon going to fort kearney, which took him from home for forty days, and then returned to find he was freely forgiven for the slight wound he had inflicted. later he entered the employ of the great freighters, russell, majors & waddell, his duty being to help with a large drove of beef cattle going to salt lake city to supply gen. a. s. johnson's army, then operating against the mormons, who at that time were so bitter that they employed the help of the indians to massacre over-land freighters and emigrants. the great freighting business of this firm was done in wagons carrying a capacity of 7,000 pounds, and drawn by from eight to ten teams of oxen. a train consisted of twenty-five wagons. we must remember this was before a railroad spanned the continent, and was the only means of transportation beyond the states. it was on his first trip as freight boy that billy cody killed his first indian. when just beyond old ft. kearney they were surprised by a party of indians, and the three night herders while rounding up the cattle, were killed. the rest of the party retreated after killing several braves, and when near plum creek, billy became separated from the rest, and seeing an indian peering at him over the bluffs of the creek, took aim and brought to the dust his first indian. this "first shot" won for him a name and notoriety enjoyed by none nearly so young as he, and filled him with ambition and daring for the life he has since led. progressing from freight boy to pony express rider, stage driver, hunter, trapper, and indian scout in behalf of the government, which office he filled well and was one of the best, if not the very best, scouts of the plains; was married in march, '65, to miss louisa fredrica, of french descent, of st. louis; was elected to legislature in 1871, but the place was filled by another while he continued his exhibitions on the stage. when any one is at loss for a name for anything they wish to speak of, they just call it buffalo ---and as a consequence, there are buffalo gnats, buffalo birds, buffalo fish, buffalo beans, peas, berries, moss, grass, burrs, and "buffalo bill," a title given to william cody, when he furnished buffalo meat for the u.p.r.r. builders and hunted with the grand duke alexis, and has killed as high as sixty-nine in one day. i did not at the time of visiting north platte think of writing up the country so generally, so did not make extra exertions to see and learn of the country as i should have done. and as there was a shower almost every afternoon of my stay, we did not get to drive out as miss arta and i had planned to do. north platte, the county-seat of lincoln county, is located 291 miles west of omaha, and is 2,789 feet above the sea level, between and near the junction of the north and south platte rivers. the u.p.r.r. was finished to this point first of december, 1866, and at christmas time there were twenty buildings erected on the town site. before the advent of the railroad, when all provisions had to be freighted, one poor meal cost from one to two dollars. north platte is now nicely built up with good homes and business houses, and rapidly improving in every way. the united states land office of the western district embraces the government land of cheyenne, keith, lincoln, a part of dawson, frontier, gosper, and custer counties and all unorganized territory. all i can see of the surrounding country is very level and is used for grazing land, as stock raising is the principal occupation of the people. alkali is quite visible on the surface, but mrs. c. says both it and the sand are fast disappearing, and the rainfall increasing. no trees to be seen but those which have been cultivated. mrs. c. in speaking of the insatiable appetite and stealthy habits of the indians, told of a dinner she had prepared at a great expense and painstaking for six officers of ft. mcpherson, whom mr. c. had invited to share with him, and while she was receiving them at the front door six indians entered at a rear door, surrounded the table, and without ceremony or carving knife, were devouring her nicely roasted chickens and highly enjoying the good things they had found when they were discovered, which was not until she led the way to the dining room, thinking with so much pride of the delicacies she had prepared, and how they would enjoy it. "well, the dinner was completely spoiled by the six uninvited guests, but while i cried with mortification, the officers laughed and enjoyed the joke." ft. mcpherson was located eighteen miles east of north platte, but was abandoned four years ago. notwithstanding their kindness and entertaining home i was anxious to be on the home way, and biding mrs. c. and arta good-bye at the depot, i left monday evening for plum creek. how little i thought when i kissed the dear child orra good-bye, and whom i had already learned to love, that i would have the sad duty of adding a tribute to her memory. together we took my last walk about their home, gathering pebbles from their gravel walks, flowers from the lawn and leaves from the trees, for me to carry away. i left her a very happy child over the anticipation of a trip to the east where the family would join mr. cody for some time. i cannot do better than to quote from a letter received from the sorrow-stricken mother. "orra, my precious darling, that promised so fair, was called from us on the 24th of october, '83, and we carried her remains to rochester, n. y., and laid them by the side of her little brother, in a grave lined with evergreens and flowers. when we visited the sacred spot last summer, she said: 'mamma, won't you lay me by brother's side when i die?' oh, how soon we have had to grant her request! if it was not for the hope of heaven and again meeting there, my affliction would be more than i could bear, but i have consigned her to him who gave my lovely child to me for these short years, and can say, 'thy will be done.'" night traveling again debarred our seeing much that would have been interesting, but it was my most convenient train, and an elderly lady from ft. collins, colorado, made the way pleasant by telling of how they had gone to colorado from iowa, four years ago, and now could not be induced to return. lived at the foot of mountains that had never been without a snow-cap since she first saw them. arrived at plum creek about ten o'clock, and as i had no friends to meet me here, asked to be directed to a hotel, and remarked that we preferred a temperance hotel. "that's all the kind we keep here," the gentleman replied with an injured air, and i was shown to the johnston house. i had written to old friends and neighbors who had left pennsylvania about a year ago, and located twenty-five miles south-west of plum creek, to meet me here; but letters do not find their way out to the little sod post-offices very promptly, and as i waited their coming tuesday, i spent the day in gathering of the early history of plum creek. through the kindness of mrs. e. d. johnston, we were introduced to judge r. b. pierce, who came from maryland to plum creek, in april, 1873, and was soon after elected county judge, which office he still holds. he told how they had found no signs of a town but a station house, and lived in box-cars with a family of five children until he built a house, which was the first dwelling-house on the present town-site. one daniel freeman had located and platted a town-site one mile east, but the railroad company located the station just a mile further west. judge pierce gave me a supplement of the dawson county _pioneer_, of date july 20th, 1876, from which i gather the following history: "on june 26th, 1871, gov. w. h. james issued a proclamation for the organization of the county. at the first election, held july 11, '71, at the store of d. freeman, there were but thirteen votes cast, and the entire population of the county did not exceed forty souls, all told. but the centennial fourth found a population of 2,716 prosperous people, 614 of whom are residents of plum creek, which was incorporated march, 1874, and named for a creek a few miles east tributary to the platte; and which in old staging days was an important point. "the creek rises in a bluffy region and flows north-east, the bluffs affording good hiding places for the stealthy indians. "among the improvements of the time is a bridge spanning the platte river, three miles south of the town, the completion of which was celebrated july 4th, '73, and was the first river bridge west of columbus. "in '74 the court house was built. we will quote in full of the churches, to show that those who go west do not always leave their religion behind. as early as 1867, the rev. father ryan, of the catholic church, held services at the old station house. in the fall of '72, rev. w. wilson organized the first methodist society in the county, with a membership of about thirty. in april, '74, right rev. bishop clarkson organized plum creek parish, and a church was built in '75, which was the first church built in the town. in '74 the missionary baptist society was formed. in '73 the presbyterian congregation was organized by rev. s. m. robinson, state missionary. "settlements in plum creek precinct were like angels' visits, few and far between, until april 9th, 1872, when the philadelphia nebraska colony arrived, having left philadelphia, pennsylvania, april 2d, under charge of f. j. pearson. "in this colony there were sixty-five men, women, and children. their first habitation was four boxcars, kindly placed on a side track by the u.p.r.r. co. for their use until they could build their houses." i met one of these colonists, b. f. krier, editor _pioneer_, whom i questioned as to their prosperity. he said: "those who remained have done well, but some returned, and others have wandered, farther west, until there is not many of us left; only about eight families that are now residents of the town. we were so completely eaten out by the grasshoppers in '73-74, and in 78 there was a drought, and it was very discouraging." i thought of the sixty-five colonists who had just landed and drove their stakes in the soil of northern nebraska, and hoped they may be driven deep and firm, and their trials be less severe. "the union pacific windmill was their only guide to lead them over the treeless, stoneless, trackless prairie, and served the purpose of light-house to many a prairie-bewildered traveler. a few days after they landed, they had an indian scare. but the seven sioux, whose mission was supposed to be that of looking after horses to steal, seeing they were prepared for them, turned and rode off. six miles west of plum creek in 1867, the indians wrecked a freight train, in which two men were killed, and two escaped; one minus a scalp, but still living." mrs. e. d. johnston told of how they came in 1873, and opened a hotel in a 16ã�20 shanty, with a sod kitchen attached; and how the cattle men, who were their principal stoppers, slept on boxes and in any way they could, while they enlarged their hotel at different times until it is now the johnston house, the largest and best hotel in plum creek. while interviewing judge pierce, a man entered the office, to transact some business, and as he left, the judge remarked-"that man came to me to be married about a year ago, and i asked him how old the lady was he wished to marry. 'just fifteen,' he answered. i can't grant you a license, then; you will have to wait a year. 'wait?' no; he got a buggy, drove post-haste down into kansas, and was married. he lives near your friends, and if you wish i will see if he can take you out with him." so, through his help, i took passage in mr. john anderson's wagon, wednesday noon, along with his young wife, and a family just from luzerne county, pennsylvania. the wind was strong and the sun warm, but i was eager to improve even this opportunity to get to my friends. going south-east from plum creek, we pass over land that is quite white with alkali, but beyond the river there is little surface indication of it. for the novelty of crossing the platte river on foot, i walked the bridge, one mile in length, and when almost across met mr. joseph butterbaugh--our old neighbor--coming to town, and who was greatly surprised, as they had not received my letter. we had not gone far until our faces were burning with the hot wind and sun, and for a protection we tied our handkerchiefs across our faces, just below our eyes. the load was heavy, and we went slowly west along the green valley, the river away to our right, and a range of bluffs to our left, which increase in height as we go westward. passed finely improved homes that had been taken by the first settlers, and others where the new beginners yet lived in their "brown stone fronts" (sod houses). four years ago this valley was occupied by texas cattle, 3,000 in one herd, making it dangerous for travelers. stopped for a drink at a large and very neat story and a-half sod house built with an l; shingled roof, and walls as smooth and white as any lathed and plastered walls, and can be papered as well. sod houses are built right on the top of the ground, without the digging or building of a foundation. the sod is plowed and cut the desired size, and then built the same as brick, placing the grassy side down. the heat of the summer can hardly penetrate the thick walls, and, too, they prove a good protection from the cold winds of winter. sod corrals are used for sheep. almost every family have their "western post-office:" a little box nailed to a post near the road, where the mail carrier deposits and receives the mail. now for many miles west the government land is taken, and the railroad land bought. much of the land is cultivated and the rest used for pasture. the corn is just peeping through the sod. passed two school houses, one a sod, and the other an 8ã�10 frame, where the teacher received twenty-five dollars per month. it is also used for holding preaching, sunday school, and society meetings in. it is twenty miles to mr. anderson's home, and it is now dark; but the stars creep out from the ether blue, and the new moon looks down upon us lonely travelers. "oh, moon, before you have waned, may i be safe in my own native land!" i wished, when i first saw its golden crest. i know dear mother will be wishing the same for me, and involuntarily sang: "i gaze on the moon as i tread the drear wild, and feel that my mother now thinks of her child, as she looks on that moon from our own cottage door, thro' the woodbine whose fragrance shall cheer me some more." i could not say "no more." to chase sadness away i sang, and was joined by mr. a., who was familiar with the songs of the old "key note," and together we sang many of the dear old familiar pieces. but none could i sing with more emphasis than- "oh give me back my native hills, rough, rugged though they be, no other land, no other clime is half so dear to me." but i struck the key note of his heart when i sang, "there's a light in the window for thee," in which he joined at first, but stopped, saying: "i can't sing that; 'twas the last song i sung with my brothers and sisters the night before i left my kentucky home, nine years ago, and i don't think i have tried to sing it since." all along the valley faint lights glimmered from lonely little homes. i thought every cottager should have an alpine horn, and as the sun goes down, a "good night" shouted from east to west along the valley, until it echoed from bluff to bluff. but the longest journey must have an end, and at last we halted at mr. a.'s door, too late for me to go farther. but was off early in the morning on horseback, with zeke butterbaugh, who was herding for mr. a., to take his mother by surprise, and breakfast with her. well, reader, i would not ask anyone, even my worst enemy, to go with me on that morning ride. rough? there now, don't say anything more about it. it is good to forget some things; i can feel the top of my head flying off yet with every jolt, as that horse _tried_ to trot--perhaps it was my poke hat that was coming off. if the poor animal had had a shoe on, i would have quoted mark twain, hung my hat on its ear and looked for a nail in its foot. when we reached mrs. b.'s home, we found it deserted, and we had to go three miles farther on. six miles before breakfast. "now, zeke, we will go direct; take straight across and i will follow: mind, we don't want to be going round many corners." "well, watch, or your horse will tramp in a gopher hole and throw you; can you stand another trot?" and i would switch my trotter, but would soon have to rein him up, and laugh at my attempt at riding. it was not long until we were within sight of the house where zeke's sister lived, and when within hearing distance we ordered--"breakfast for two!" when near the house we concentrated all our equestrian skill into a "grand gallop." mrs. b. and lydia were watching and wondering who was coming; but my laugh betrayed me, and when we drew reins on our noble ponies at the door, i was received with: "i just knew that was pet fulton by the laugh;" and as i slipped down, right into their arms, i thought after all the ride was well worth the taking, and the morning a grand one. rising before the sun, i watched its coming, and the mirage on the river, showing distinctly the river, islands, and towns; but all faded away as the mirage died out, and then the ride over the green prairie, bright with flowers, and at eight o'clock breakfasting with old friends. we swung around the circle of indiana county friends, the butterbaughs and fairbanks, until monday. must say i enjoyed the _swing_ very much. took a long ramble over the bluffs that range east and west, a half mile south of mr. j. b.'s home. climbed bluff after bluff, only to come to a jumping off place of from 50 to 100 feet straight down. to peer over these places required a good deal of nerve, but i held tight to the grass or a soap weed stalk, and looked. we climbed to the top of one of the highest, from which we could see across the valley to the platte river three miles away--the river a mile in width, and the wide valley beyond, to the bluffs that range along its northern bounds. the u.p.r.r. runs on the north side of the river, and mr. b. says the trains can be seen for forty miles. plum creek, twenty miles to the east, is in plain view, the buildings quite distinguishable. then comes cozad, willow island--almost opposite, and gothenburg, where the first house was built last february, and now has about twenty. i would add the following from a letter received dec. 21, '83: gothenburg has now 40 good buildings, and in the county where but five families lived in the spring of '82, now are 300, and that number is to be more than doubled by spring. but to the bluffs again. to the south, east, and west, it is wave after wave of bluffs covered with buffalo grass; not a tree or bush in sight until we get down into the canyons, which wind around among the hills and bluffs like a grassy stream, without a drop of water, stone or pebble; now it is only a brook in width, now a creek, and almost a river. the pockets that line the canyons are like great chambers, and are of every size, shape and height. a clay like soil they call calcine, in strata from white to reddish brown, forms their walls. they seemed like excellent homes for wild cats, and as we were only armed with a sunflower stalk which we used for a staff (how ã¦sthetic we have grown since coming west!) we did not care to prospect--would much rather look at the deer tracks. the timber in the canyons are ash, elm, hackberry, box elder, and cottonwood, but mr. b. has to go fifteen miles for wood as it is all taken near him. wild plums, choke cherries, currants, mountain cranberries, and snow berries grow in wild profusion, and are overrun with grape-vines. found a very pretty pincushion cactus in bloom, and i thought to bring it home to transplant; but cactus are not "fine" for bouquets nor fragrant; and if they were, who would risk a smell at a cactus flower? but i did think i would like a prairie dog for a pet, and a full grown doggie was caught and boxed for me. had a great mind to attempt bringing a jack rabbit also, and open up a nebraska menagerie when i returned. jack rabbits are larger than the common rabbits and very deceitful, and if shot at will pretend they are hurt, even if not touched. a hunter from the east shot at one, and seeing it hop off so lame, threw down his gun and ran to catch it--well, he didn't catch the rabbit, and spent two days in searching before he found his gun. _sunday._ we attended sabbath school in the sod school house, and monday morning early were off on the long ride back to plum creek with mr. and mrs. h. fairbanks and miss laura f. we picnicked at dinner time. under a shade tree? no, indeed; not a tree to be seen--only a few willows on the islands in the river, showing that where it is protected from fires, timber will grow. but in a few years this valley will be a garden of cultivated timber and fields. i must speak of the brightest flower that is blooming on it now; 'tis the buffalo pea, with blossoms same as our flowering pea, in shape, color, and fragrance, but it is not a climber. how could it be, unless it twined round a grass stalk? the platte valley is from six to fifteen miles wide, but much the widest part of the valley is north of the river. the bluffs on the north are rolling, and on the south abrupt. in the little stretch of the valley that i have seen, there is no sand worthy of notice. water is obtained at from twenty to fifty feet on the valley, but on the table-land at a much greater depth. before we reached the bridge, we heard it was broken down, and no one could cross. "cannot we ford it?" i asked. "no, the quicksand makes it dangerous." "can we cross on a boat, then?" "a boat would soon stick on a sand bar. no way of crossing if the bridge is down." but we found the bridge so tied together that pedestrians could cross. as i stooped to dip my hand in the muddy waves of the platte i thought it was little to be admired but for its width, and the few green islands. the banks are low, and destitute of everything but grass. the platte river is about 1,200 miles long. it is formed by the uniting of the south platte that rises in colorado, and the north platte that rises in wyoming. running east through nebraska, it divides into the north and south platte. about two-thirds of the state being on the north. it finds an outlet in the missouri river at plattsmouth, neb. it has a fall of about 5 feet to the mile, and is broad, shallow, and rapid--running over a great bed of sand that is constantly washing and changing, and so mingled with the waters that it robs it of its brightness. its shallowness is thought to be owing to a system of under ground drainage through a bed of sand, and supplies the republican river in the southern part of the state, which is 352 feet lower than the platte. we were fortunate in securing a hack for the remaining three miles of our journey, and ten o'clock found me waiting for the eastern bound train. i would add that plum creek now has a population of 600. i have described dawson county more fully as it was in central nebraska our colony first thought of locating, and a number of them have bought large tracts of land in the south-western part of the county. that the platte valley is very fertile is beyond a doubt. it is useless to give depth of soil and its production, but will add the following: mr. joseph butterbaugh reports for his harvest of 1883, 778 bushels wheat from 35 acres. corn averaged 35 bushels, shelled; oats 25 to 30; and barley about 40 bushels per acre. first frost was on the 9th of october. winter generally begins last of december, and ends with february. the hottest day of last summer was 108 degrees in the shade. january 1, 1884, it was 8 degrees below, which is the lowest it has yet (january 15) fallen, and has been as high as 36 above since. the next point of interest on the road is kearney, where the b. & m.r.r. forms a junction with the u.p.r.r. in looking over the early history of buffalo county we find it much the same, except in dates a little earlier than that of dawson county. first settlers in the county were mormons, in 1858, but all left in '63. the county was not organized until in '70, and the first tax list shows but thirty-eight names. kearney, the county-seat, is on the north side of the river 200 miles west and little south of omaha, and 160 miles west of lincoln. lots in kearney was first offered for sale in '72, but the town was not properly organized until in '73. since that time its growth has been rapid; building on a solid foundation and bringing its churches and schools with it, and now has under good way a canal to utilize the waters of the platte. fremont the "forest city," is truly so named from the many trees that hide much of the city from view, large heavy bodied trees of poplar, maple, box elder, and many others that have been cultivated. fremont, named in honor of general fremont and his great overland tour in 1842 and, was platted in 1855 on lands which the pawnee indians had claimed but which had been bought from them, receiving $20,000 in gold and silver and $20,000 in goods. in '56 mr. s. turner swam the platte river and towed the logs across that built the old stage house which his mother mrs. margaret turner kept, but which has given way to the large and commodious "new york hotel." the 4th of july, '56, was celebrated at fremont by about one hundred whites and a multitude of indians; but now it can boast of over 5,000 inhabitants, fine schools and churches. it is the junction of the u.p.r.r. and the s.c. & p.r.r. i must add that it was the only place of all that i visited where i found any sickness, and that was on the decrease, but diphtheria had been bad for some time, owing, some thought, to the use of water obtained too near the surface, and the many shade trees, as some of the houses are entirely obscured from the direct rays of the sun. i will not attempt to touch on the country as we neared omaha along the way, as it is all improved lands, and i do not like its appearance as well as much of the unimproved land i have seen. we reached omaha about seven o'clock. i took a carriage for the millard hotel and had breakfast. at the request of my brother i called on mr. leavitt burnham, who has held the office of land commissioner of the u.p.r.r. land company since 1878, and fills it honestly and well. omaha, the "grand gateway of the west," was named for the omaha indians, who were the original landholders, but with whom a treaty was made in 1853. william d. brown, who for two or three years had been ferrying the "pike's peak or bust" gold hunters from iowa to nebraska shores, and "busted" from nebraska to iowa, in disgust entered the present site of omaha, then known as the lone tree ferry, as a homestead in the same year. in the next year the city of omaha was founded. the "general marion" was the first ferry steamer that plied across the missouri at this point, for not until in '68 was the bridge completed. all honor to the name of harrison johnston, who plowed the first furrow of which there is any record, paying the indians ten dollars for the permit. he also built the first frame house in omaha, and which is yet standing near the old capitol on capitol hill. the first religious services held in omaha were under an arbor erected for the first celebration of the fourth of july, by rev. i. heaton, congregationalist. council bluffs, just opposite omaha, on the iowa shore, was, in the early days, used as a "camping ground" by the mormons, where they gathered until a sufficient number was ready to make a train and take up the line of march over the then great barren plains of nebraska. omaha is situated on a plateau, over fifty feet above the river, which is navigable for steamers only at high water tides. it is 500 miles from chicago, and 280 miles north of st. louis. it was the capital of nebraska until it was made a state. what omaha now is would be vain for me to attempt to tell. that it is nebraska's principal city, with 40,000 inhabitants, is all-sufficient. i had written my friends living near lincoln to meet me on monday, and as this was tuesday there was no one to meet me when i reached lincoln, about four o'clock. giving my baggage in charge of the baggage-master, and asking him to take good care of my doggie, i asked to be directed to a hotel, and left word where my friends would find me. the arlington house was crowded, and then i grew determined to in some way reach my friends. had i known where they lived i could have employed a liveryman to take me to them. i knew they lived four miles west of lincoln, and that was all. well, i thought, there cannot be many homoeopathic physicians in lincoln, and one of them will surely know where gardners live, for their doctor was often called when living in pennsylvania. but a better thought came--that of the baptist minister, as they attended that church. i told the clerk at the hotel my dilemma, and through his kindness i learned where the minister lived, whom, after a long walk, i found. "i am sorry i have no way of taking you to your friends, but as it is late we would be glad to have you stop with us to-night, and we will find a way to-morrow." i thankfully declined his kind offer, and he then directed me to deacon keefer's, where cousin gertrude made her home while attending school. after another rather long walk, tired and bewildered, i made inquiry of a gentleman i met. "keefer? do they keep a boarding-house?" "i believe so." "ah, well, if you will follow me i will show you right to the house." another mile walk, and it wasn't the right keefer's; but they searched the city directory, and found that i had to more than retrace my steps. "since i have taken you so far out of your way, miss, i will help you to find the right place," and at last swung open the right gate; and as i stood waiting an answer to my ring, i thought i had seen about all of lincoln in my walking up and down--at least all i cared to. but the welcome "trude's cousin pet" received from the keefer family, added to the kindness others had shown me, robbed my discomfiture of much of its unpleasantness. soon another plate was added to the tea-table, and i was seated drinking iced-tea and eating strawberries from their own garden, as though i was an old friend, instead of a straggling stranger. through it all i learned a lesson of kindness that nothing but experience could have taught me. after tea mr. ed and miss marcia keefer drove me out to my friends, and as i told them how i thought of finding them through the doctors, cousin maggie said: "well, my girlie, you would have failed in that, for in the four years we have lived in nebraska we have never had to employ a doctor." and, reader, now "let's take a rest," but wish to add before closing this chapter, that the u.p.r.r. was the first road built in nebraska. ground was broken at omaha, december 2, 1863, but '65 found only forty miles of track laid. the road reached julesburg, now denver junction, in june, '67, and the "golden spike" driven may 10, 1869, which connected the union pacific with the central pacific railroad, and was the first railroad that spanned the continent. the present mileage is 4,652 miles, and several hundred miles is in course of construction. j. w. morse, of omaha, is general passenger agent. the lands the company yet have for sale are in custer, lincoln, and cheyenne counties, where some government land is yet to be had. a colony, known as the "ex-soldiers' colony," was formed in lincoln, nebraska, in 1883. it accepted members from everywhere, and now april 24, '84, shows a roll of over two hundred members, many of whom have gone to the location, forty miles north-east of north platte, in unorganized territory, and near the loup river. six hundred and forty acres were platted into a town site in spring of '84, and named logan, in honor of gen. john a. logan. quite a number are already occupying their town lots, and building permanent homes, and most of the land within reach has been claimed by the colonists. the land is all government land, of which about one-half is good farming land, and rest fit only for grazing. this is only one of the many colonies that have been planted on nebraska soil thus early in '84, but is one that will be watched with much interest, composed as it is of the good old "boys in blue." chapter iv. over the b. & m.r.r. from lincoln to mccook, via wymore, and return via hastings.--a description of the republican and blue valleys.--the saratoga of nebraska. we rested just one delightful week, talking the old days over, making point lace, stealing the first ripe cherries, and pulling grass for "danger"--danger of it biting me or getting away--my prairie dog, which had found a home in a barrel. one evening cousin andy said: "i'll give you twenty-five cents for your dog, pet?" "now, cousin, don't insult the poor dog by such a price. they say they make nice pets, and i am going to take my dog home for norval. but that reminds me i must give it some fresh grass," and away i went, gathering the tenderest, but, alas! the barrel was empty, and a hole gnawed in the side told the story. i wanted to sell the dog then, and would have taken almost any price for the naughty danger, that, though full grown, was no bigger than a norway rat; but no one seemed to want to buy him. the weather was very warm, but poor "wiggins" was left on the parlor table in the hotel at plum creek one night, and in the morning i found him scalped, and all his prophetic powers destroyed, so we did not know just when to look out for a storm, but thunder storms, accompanied with heavy rains, came frequently during the week, generally at night, but by morning the ground would be in good working order. our cousin, a. m. gardner, formerly of franklin, pennsylvania, for several years was one of the fortunate oil men of the venango county field, but a couple of years of adverse fortunes swept all, and leaving their beautiful home on gardner's hill, came west, and are now earnestly at work building upon a surer foundation. when i was ready to be off for wymore, tuesday, salt creek valley was entirely covered with water, and even the high built road was so completely hidden that the drive over it was dangerous, but cousin rob wilhelm took me as far as a horse could go, and thanks to a high-built railroad and my light luggage, we were able to walk the rest of the way. the overflow of salt creek valley is not an uncommon occurrence in the spring of the year. this basin or valley covers about 500 acres, and is rather a barren looking spot. in dry weather the salt gathers until the ground is quite white, and before the days of railroads, settlers gathered salt for their cattle from this valley. the water has an ebb and flow, being highest in the morning and lowest in afternoon. i had been directed to call upon mr. r. r. randall, immigration agent of the b. & m.r.r., for information about southern nebraska, and while i waited for the train, i called upon him in his office, on the third floor of the depot, and told him i had seen northern and central nebraska, and was anxious to know all i could of southern nebraska. after a few moments conversation, he asked: "what part of pennsylvania are you from, miss fulton?" "indiana county." "indeed? why, i have been there to visit a good old auntie; but she is dead now, bless her dear soul," and straightway set about showing me all kindness and interest. at first i flattered myself that it was good to hail from the home of his "good old auntie," but i soon learned that i only received the same kindness and attention that every one does at his hands. "now, miss fulton, i would like you to see all you can of southern nebraska, and just tell the plain truth about it. for, remember, that truth is the great factor that leads to wealth and happiness;" then seeing me safe aboard the train, i was on my way to see more friends and more of the state. a young lady, who was a cripple, shared her seat with me, but her face was so mild and sweet i soon forgot the crutch at her side. she told me she was called home by the sudden illness of a brother, who was not expected to live, and whom she had not seen since in january last. poor girl! i could truly sympathize with her through my own experience: i parted with a darling sister on her fifteenth birthday, and three months after her lifeless form was brought home to me without one word of warning, and i fully realized what it would be to receive word of my young brother, whom i had not seen since in january, being seriously ill. when her station was reached, the brakeman very kindly helped her off and my pleasant company was gone with my most earnest wishes that she might find her brother better. the sun was very bright and warm, and to watch the country hurt my eyes, so i gave my attention to the passengers. before me sat a perfect snapper of a miss, so cross looking, and just the reverse in expression from her who had sat with me. another lady was very richly dressed, but that was her most attractive feature; yet she was shown much attention by a number. another was a mother with two sweet children, but so cold and dignified, i wondered she did not freeze the love of her little ones. such people are as good as an arctic wave, and i enjoy them just as much. in the rear of the coach were a party of emigrants that look as though they had just crossed the briny wave. they are the first foreigners i have yet met with in the cars, and they go to join a settlement of their own countrymen. foreigners locate as closely together as possible. i was just beginning to grow lonely when an elderly gentlemen whom i had noticed looking at me quite earnestly, came to me and asked: "are you not going to wymore, miss?" "yes, sir." "to mr. fulton's?" "why, yes. you know my friends then?" "yes, and it was your resemblance to one of the girls, that i knew where you were going." no one had ever before told me that i favored this cousin in looks, but then there are just as many different eyes in this world as there are different people. "i met miss emma at the depot a few days ago, and she was disappointed at the non-arrival of a cousin, and i knew at first glance that you was the one she had expected." "you know where they live then?" "yes, and if there is no one at the train to meet you, i will see you to the house." with this kind offer, mr. burch, one of wymore's bankers went back to his seat. as i had supposed, my friends had grown tired meeting me when i didn't come, as i had written to them i would be there the previous week. but mr. burch kindly took one of my satchels, and left me at my uncle's door. "bless me! here is pet at last!" and dear aunt jane's arms are around me, and scolding me for disappointing them so often. "the girls and ed have been to the depot so often, and i wanted them to go to-day, but they said they just knew you wouldn't come. i thought you would surely be here to eat your birthday dinner with us yesterday." "well, auntie, salt valley was overflooded, and i couldn't get to the depot; so i ate it with cousin maggie. but that is the way; i come just when i am given up for good." then came uncle john, emma, annie, mary, ed, and dorsie, with his motherless little gracie and arthur. after the first greeting was over, aunt said: "what a blessing it is that norval got well!" "norval got well? why aunt, what do you mean?" "didn't they write to you about his being so sick?" "no, not a word." "well, he was very low with scarlet fever, but he is able to be about now." "oh! how thankful i am! what if norval had died, and i away!" and then i told of the lady i had met that was going to see her brother, perhaps already dead, and how it had brought with such force the thought of what such word would be to me about norval. how little we know what god in his great loving kindness is sparing us! i cannot tell you all the pleasure of this visit. to be at "uncle john's" was like being at home; for we had always lived in the same village and on adjoining farms. then too, we all had the story of the year to tell since they had left pennsylvania for nebraska. but the saddest story of all was the death of dorsie's wife, mary jane, and baby ruth, with malaria fever. to tell you of this country, allow me to begin with blue springs--a town just one mile east, on the line of the u.p.r.r., and on the banks of the big blue river, which is a beautiful stream of great volume, and banks thickly wooded with heavy timber--honey locust, elm, box elder, burr oak, cottonwood, hickory, and black walnut. the trees and bushes grow down into the very water's edge, and dip their branches in its waves of blue. this river rises in hamilton county, nebraska, and joins the republican river in kansas. is about 132 miles long. i cannot do better than to give you mr. tyler's story as he gave it to us. he is a hale, hearty man of 82 years, yet looks scarce 70; and just as genteel in his bearing as though his lot had ever been cast among the cultured of our eastern cities, instead of among the early settlers of nebraska, as well as with the soldiers of the mexican war. he says: "in 1859 i was going to join johnston's army in utah, but i landed in this place with only fifty cents in my pocket, and went to work for j. h. johnston, who had taken the first claim, when the county was first surveyed and organized. about the only settlers here at that time were jacob poof, m. stere, and henry and bill elliott, for whom bill creek is named. the houses were built of unhewn logs. "soon after i came there was talk of a rich widow that was coming among us, and sure enough she did come, and bought the first house that had been built in blue springs (it was a double log house), and opened the first store. but we yet had to go to brownville, 45 miles away, on the missouri river for many things, as the 'rich widow's' capital was only three hundred dollars. yet, that was a great sum to pioneer settlers. indeed, it was few groceries we used; i have often made pies out of flour and water and green grapes without any sugar; and we thought them quite a treat. but we used a good deal of corn, which was ground in a sheet-iron mill that would hold about two quarts, and which was nailed to a post for everybody to use. "well, we thought we must have a fourth of july that year, and for two months before, we told every one that passed this way to come, and tell everybody else to come. and come they did--walking, riding in ox wagons, and any way at all--until in all there was 150 of us. the ladies in sunbonnets and very plain dresses; there was one silk dress in the crowd, and some of the men shoeless. everyone brought all the dishes they had along, and we had quite a dinner on fried fish and corn dodgers. for three days before, men had been fishing and grinding corn. the river was full of catfish which weighed from 6 to 80 pounds. we sent to brownville, and bought a fat pig to fry our fish and dodgers with. a mr. garber read the declaration of independence, we sang some war songs, and ended with a dance that lasted until broad daylight. very little whiskey was used, and there was no disturbance of any kind. so our first 'fourth' in blue springs was a success. i worked all summer for fifty cents per day, and took my pay in corn which the widow bought at 30 cents per bushel. i was a widower, and--well, that corn money paid our marriage fee in the spring of '60. one year i sold 500 bushels of corn at a dollar per bushel to travelers and freighters, as this is near the old road to ft. kearney. with that money, i bought 160 acres of land, just across the river, in '65, and sold it in '72 for $2,000. it could not now be bought for $5,000. "the sioux indians gave us a scare in '61, but we all gathered together in our big house (the widow's and mine), and the twelve men of us prepared to give them battle; but they were more anxious to give battle to the otoe indians on the reservation. "the otoe indians only bothered us by always begging for 'their poor pappoose.' my wife gave them leave to take some pumpkins out of the field, and the first thing we knew, they were hauling them away with their ponies. "our first religious service was in '61, by a m.e. minister from beatrice. our first doctor in '63. we received our mail once a week from nebraska city, 150 miles away. the postmaster received two dollars a year salary, but the mail was all kept in a cigar box, and everybody went and got their own mail. it afterward was carried from mission creek, 12 miles away, by a boy that was hired to go every sunday morning. the u.p.r.r. was built in '80. "my wife and i visited our friends in eastern pennsylvania, and surprised them with our genteel appearance. they thought, from the life we led, we would be little better than the savages. my brothers wanted me to remain east, but i felt penned up in the city where i couldn't see farther than across the street, and i told them: 'you can run out to new york, boston, philadelphia, and around in a few hours, but how much of this great country do you see? no, i will go back to my home on the blue.' i am the only one of the old settlers left, and everybody calls me 'pap tyler.'" i prolonged my visit until the 5th of july that i might see what the fourth of '83 would be in blue springs. it was ushered in with the boom of guns and ringing of bells, and instead of the 150 of '59, there were about 4,000 gathered with the bright morning. of course there were old ladies with bonnets, aside, and rude men smoking, but there was not that lack of intelligence and refinement one might expect to find in a country yet so comparatively new. i thought, as i looked over the people, could our eastern towns do better? and only one intoxicated man. i marked him--fifth drunken man i have seen since entering the state. the programme of the day was as follows: song--_the red, white, and blue_. declaration of independence--recited by minnie marsham, a miss of twelve years. song--_night before the battle_. toast--_our schools_. responded to by j. c. burch. toast--_our railroads_. rev. j. m. pryse. music--by the band. toast--_our neighbors_. rev. e. h. burrington. rev. h. w. warner closed the toasting with, "how, when, and why," and with the song, "the flag without a stain," all adjourned for their dinners. mr. and mrs. tyler invited me to go with them, but i preferred to eat my dinner under the flag with a stain--a rebel flag of eleven stars and three stripes--a captured relic of the late war that hung at half mast. in afternoon they gathered again to listen to "pap tyler" and pete tom tell of the early days. but the usual 4th of july storm scattered the celebrators and spoiled the evening display of fire-works. wymore is beautifully located near indian creek and blue river. it was almost an undisturbed prairie until the b. & m.r.r. came this way in the spring of '81, and then, topsy-like, it "dis growed right up out of the ground," and became a railroad division town. the plot covers 640 acres, a part of which was samuel wymore's homestead, who settled here sixteen years ago, and it does appear that every lot will be needed. one can scarce think that where but two years ago a dozen little shanties held all the people of wymore, now are so many neatly built homes and even elegant residences sheltering over 2,500. to tell you what it now is would take too long. three papers, three banks, a neat congregational church; methodists hold meetings in the opera hall, presbyterians in the school-house; both expect to have churches of their own within a year; with all the business houses of a rising western town crowded in. a fine quarry of lime-stone just south on indian creek which has greatly helped the building up of wymore. the heavy groves of trees along the creeks and rivers are certainly a feature of beauty. the days were oppressively warm, but the nights cool and the evenings delightful. the sunset's picture i have looked upon almost every evening here is beyond the skill of the painter's brush, or the writer's pen to portray. truly "sunset is the soul of the day." it is thought that in the near future wymore and blue springs will shake hands across bill creek and be one city. success to the shake. the otoe indian reservation lies but a mile south-east of wymore. it is a tract of land that was given to the otoe indians in 1854, but one-half was sold five years ago. it now extends ten miles north and south, and six and three-fourths miles east and west, and extends two miles into kansas. i will quote a few notes i took on a trip over it with uncle john, annie, and mary. left wymore eight o'clock, drove through blue springs, crossed the blue on the bridge above the mill where the river is 150 feet wide, went six miles and crossed wild cat creek, two miles south and crossed another creek, two miles further to liberty, a town with a population of 800, on the b. & m.r.r., on, on, we went, going north, east, south, and west, and cutting across, and down by the school building of the agency, a fine building pleasantly located, with quite an orchard at the rear. ate our lunch in the house that the agent had occupied. a new town is located at the u.p.r.r. depot, yet called "the agency." it numbers twelve houses and all built since the lands were sold the 30th of last may. passed by some indian graves, but i never had a "hankering" for dead indians, so did not dig any up, as so many do. i felt real sorry that the poor indian's last resting place was so desecrated. the men, and chiefs especially, are buried in a sitting posture, wrapped in their blankets, and their pony is killed and the head placed at the head of the grave and the tail tied to a pole and hoisted at the foot; but the women and children are buried with little ceremony, and no pony given them upon which to ride to the "happy hunting-ground." this tribe of indians were among the best, but warring with other tribes decreased their number until but 400 were left to take up a new home in the indian territory. the land is rolling, soil black loam, and two feet or more deep; in places the grass was over a foot high. from uncle's farm we could see mission and plum creeks, showing that the land is well watered. the sun was very warm, but with a covered carriage, and fanned with nebraska breezes we were able to travel all the day. did not reach home until the stars were shining. for the benefit of others, i want to tell of the wisest man i ever saw working corn. i am sorry i cannot tell just how his tent was attached to his cultivator, but it was a square frame covered with muslin, and the ends hanging over the sides several inches which acted as fans; minus a hat he was taking the weather cool. now i believe in taking these days when it says 100â° in the shade, cool, and if you can't take them cool, take them as cool as you can any way. my thermometer did not do so, but left in the sun it ran as high as it could and then boiled over and broke the bulb. there were frequent showers and one or two storms, and though they came in the night, i was up and as near ready, as i could get, for a cyclone. aunt jane wants me to stay until a hot wind blows for a day or two, almost taking one's breath, filling the air with dust, and shriveling the leaves. but i leave her, wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron, while she throws an old shoe after me, and with gracie and arthur by the hand, i go to the depot to take the 4:45 p.m. train, july 5th. i cried once when i was bidding friends good bye, and had the rest all crying and feeling bad, so i made up my mind never to cry again at such a time if it was possible. i did not know that i would ever see these dear friends again, but i tried to think i would, and left them as though i would soon be back; and now i am going farther from home and friends. out from wymore, past fields of golden grain already in the sheaf, and nicely growing corn waving in the wind. now it is gently rolling, and now bluffy, crossing many little streams, and now a great grassy meadow. but here is what i wrote, and as it may convey a better idea of the country, i will give my notes just as i took them as i rode along: odell, a town not so large by half as wymore. three great long corn cribs, yet well filled. about the only fence is the snow fence, used to prevent the snow from drifting into the cuts. grass not so tall as seen on the reservation. here are nicely built homes, and the beginners' cabins hiding in the cosy places. long furrows of breaking for next year's planting. the streams are so like narrow gullies, and so covered with bushes and trees that one has to look quick and close to see the dark muddy water that covers the bottom. diller, a small town, but i know the "fourth" was here by the bowery or dancing platforms, and the flags that still wave. great fields of corn and grassy stretches. am watching the banks, and i do believe the soil is running out, only about a foot until it changes to a clay. few homes. indian creek. conductor watching to show me the noted "wild bill's" cabin, and now just through the cut he points to a low log cabin, where wild bill killed four men out of six, who had come to take his life, and as they were in the wrong and he in the right, he received much praise, for thus ridding the world of worse than useless men, and so nobly defending government property, which they wanted to take out of his hands. there is the creek running close to the cabin, and up the hill from the stream is the road that was then the "golden trail," no longer used by gold seekers, pony-express riders, stage drivers, wild indians, and emigrants that then went guarded by soldiers from fort kearney. the stream is so thickly wooded, i fancy it offered a good hiding place, and was one of the dangerous passes in the road; but here we are at endicott, a town some larger than those we have passed. is situated near the centre of the southern part of jefferson county. now we are passing through a very fine country with winding streams. i stand at the rear door, and watch and write, but i cannot tell all. reynolds, a small town. low bluffs to our left, and rose creek to the right. good homes and also dug-outs. cattle-corrals, long fields of corn not so good as some i have seen. the little houses cling close to the hillsides and are hemmed about with groves of trees. wild roses in bloom, corn and oats getting smaller again; wonder if the country is running out? here is a field smothered with sunflowers: wonder why oscar wilde didn't take a homestead here? rose creek has crossed to the left; what a wilderness of small trees and bushes follow its course! i do declare! here's a real rail fence! but not a staken-rider fence. would have told you more about it, but was past it so soon. rather poor looking rye and oats. few fields enclosed with barb-wire. plenty of cattle grazing. hubbell. four miles east of rose creek; stream strong enough for mill power; only one mile north of kansas. train stops here for supper, but i shall wait and take mine with friends in hardy. hubbell is in thayer county, which was organized in 1856. town platted in '80, on the farm of hubbell johnston; has a population of 450. a good school house. i have since learned that this year's yield of oats was fifty to seventy-five, wheat twenty to thirty, corn thirty to seventy-five bushels per acre in this neighborhood. i walked up main street, with pencil and book in hand, and was referred to ------for information, who asked-"are you writing for the _inter ocean_?" "no, i am not writing for any company," i replied. "i received a letter from the publishers a few days ago, saying that a lady would be here, writing up the republican valley for their publication." i was indeed glad, to know i had sisters in the same work. we pass chester and harbine, and just at sunset reach hardy, nuckolls county. i had written to my friend, rev. j. angus lowe, to meet "an old schoolmate" at the train. he had grown so tall and ministerial looking since we had last met, that i did not recognize him, and he allowed me to pass him while he peered into the faces of the men. but soon i heard some one say, "i declare, it's belle fulton," and grasping my hand, gives me a hearty greeting. then he led me to his neat little home just beyond the lutheran church, quite a nicely finished building that points its spire heavenward through his labors. the evening and much of the night is passed before i have answered all the questions, and told all about his brothers and sisters and the friends of our native village. the next day he took his wife and three little ones and myself on a long drive into kansas to show me the beauties of the "garden of the west." the republican river leaves nebraska a little west of hardy, and we cross it a mile south. the water of the river is clear and sparkling, and has a rapid flow. then over what is called "first bottom" land, with tall, waving grass, and brightened with clusters of flowers. the prettiest is the buffalo moss, a bright red flower, so like our portulacca that one would take its clusters for beds of that flower. while the sensitive rose grows in clusters of tiny, downy balls, of a faint pink, with a delicate fragrance like that of the sweet brier. they grow on a low, trailing vine, covered with fine thorns; leaves sensitive. i gathered of these flowers for pressing. now we are on second bottom land. corn! corn! it makes me tired to think of little girls dropping pumpkin seeds in but one row of these great fields, some a mile long, and so well worked, there is scarcely a weed to be seen. some are working their corn for the last time. it is almost ready to hang its tassel in the breeze. the broad blades make one great sea of green on all sides of us. fine timber cultures of black walnut, maple, box elder, and cottonwood. stopped for dinner with mrs. stover, one of mr. lowe's church people. they located here some years ago, and now have a nicely improved home. i was shown their milk house, with a stream of water flowing through it, pumped by a wind-mill. well, i thought, it is not so hard to give up our springs when one can have such conveniences as this, and have flowing water in any direction. i was thankful to my friends for the view of the land of "smoky waters," but it seemed a necessity that i close my visit with them and go on to red cloud, much as i would liked to have prolonged my stay with them. mr. lowe said as he bade me good-bye: "you are the first one who has visited us from pennsylvania, and it does seem we cannot have you go so soon, yet this short stay has been a great pleasure to us." i was almost yielding to their entreaties but my plans were laid, and i _must_ go, and sunset saw me off. all the country seen before dark was very pretty. passing over a bridge i was told: "this is dry creek." sure enough--sandy bed and banks, trees, bushes and bridge, everything but the water; and it is there only in wet weather. i have been told of two streams called lost creeks that rise five miles north-west of hardy, and flow in parallel lines with each other for several miles, when they are both suddenly lost in a subterranean passage, and are not seen again until they flow out on the north banks of the republican. so, reader, if you hear tell of a dry creek or lost creek, you will know what they are. superior is a nicely built town of 800 inhabitants, situated on a plateau. the republican river is bridged here, and a large mill built. i did not catch the name as the brakeman sang it out, and i asked of one i thought was only a mere school boy, who answered: "i did not understand, but will learn." coming back, he informs me with much emphasis that it is superior, and straightway goes off enlarging on the beauties and excellences of the country, and of the fossil remains he has gathered in the republican valley, adding: "oh! i _just love_ to go fossiling! don't you _love_ to go fossiling, miss?" "i don't know, i never went," i replied, and had a mind to add, "i know it is just too _lovely_ for _anything_." it was not necessary for him to say he was from the east, we eastern people soon tell where we are from if we talk at all, and if we do not tell it in words our manners and tones do. new englanders, new yorkers, and pennamites all have their own way of saying and doing things. i went to the "valley house" for the night and took the early train next morning for mccook which is in about the same longitude as valentine and north platte, and thus i would go about the same distance west on all of the three railroads. i will not tell of the way out, only of my ride on the engine. i have always greatly admired and wondered at the workings of a locomotive, and can readily understand how an engineer can learn to love his engine, they seem so much a thing of life and animation. the great throbbing heart of the centennial--the corliss engine, excited my admiration more than all the rest of machinery hall; and next to the corliss comes the locomotive. i had gone to the round house in wymore with my cousins and was told all about the engines, the air-brakes, and all that, but, oh, dear! i didn't know anything after all. we planned to have a ride on one before i left, but our plans failed. and when at cambridge the conductor came in haste and asked me if i would like a ride on the engine, i followed without a thought, only that my long wished for opportunity had come. not until i was occupying the fireman's seat did i think of what i was doing. i looked out of the window and saw the conductor quietly telling the fireman something that amused them both, and i at once knew they meant to give me "a mile a minute" ride. well i felt provoked and ashamed that i had allowed my impulsiveness to walk me right into the cab of an engine; but i was there and it was too late to turn back, so to master the situation i appeared quite unconcerned, and only asked how far it was to indianola. "fourteen miles," was the reply. well, the fireman watched the steam clock and shoveled in coal, and the engineer never took his eyes off the track which was as straight as a bee-line before us, and i just held on to the seat and my poke hat, and let them go, and tried to count the telegraph poles as they flew by the wrong way. after all it was a grand ride, only i felt out of place. when nearing indianola they ran slow to get in on time, and when they had stopped i asked what time they had made, and was answered, eighteen minutes. the conductor came immediately to help me from the cab and as he did so, asked: "well, did they go pretty fast?" "i don't know, did they?" i replied. i was glad to get back to the passenger coach and soon we were at mccook. after the train had gone some time i missed a wrap i had left on the seat, and hastily had a telegram sent after it. after lunching at the railroad eating house, i set about gathering information about the little "magic city" which was located may 25th 1882, and now has a population of 900. it is 255 miles east of denver, on the north banks of the republican river, on a gradually rising slope, while south of the river it is bluffy. it is a division station and is nicely built up with very tastily arranged cottages. only for the newness of the place i could have fancied i was walking up congress street in bradford, pennsylvania. everything has air of freshness and brightness. the first house was built in june, '82. i am surprised at the architectural taste displayed in the new towns of the west. surely the east is becoming old and falling behind. it is seldom a house is finished without paint; and it is a great help to the appearance of the town and country, as those who can afford a frame house, build one that will look well at a distance. pipes are now being laid for water works. the water is to be carried from the river to a reservoir capable of holding 40,000 gallons and located on the hill. this is being done by the lincoln land company at a cost of $36,000. it has a daily and weekly paper, the mccook _tribune_, first issued in june, '82. the printing office was then in a sod house near the river, then called fairview post-office, near which, about twenty farmers had gathered. the b. & m.r.r. was completed through to colorado winter of '82. good building stone can be obtained from stony point, but three miles west. mccook has its brick kiln as has almost all the towns along the way. good clay is easily obtained, and brick is cheaper than in the east. from a copy of the daily _tribune_, i read a long list of business firms and professional cards, and finished with, "_no saloons_." the congregationalists have a fine church building. the catholics worship in the churchill house, but all other denominations are given the use of the congregational church until they can build. i called upon rev. g. dungan, pastor of the congregational church. he was from home, but i was kindly invited by his mother, who was just from the east, to rest in their cosy parlor. it is few of our ministers of the east that are furnished with homes such as was this minister of mccook. i was then directed to mrs. c. c. clark, who is superintendent of the sunday school, and found her a lady of intelligence and refinement. she told of their sabbath school, and of the good attendance, and how the ladies had bought the church organ, and of the society in general. "you would be surprised to know the refinement and culture to be found in these newly built western towns. if you will remain with us a few days, i will take you out into the country to see how nicely people can and do live in the sod houses and dugouts. and we will also go on an engine into colorado. it is too bad to come so near and go back without seeing that state. passengers very often ride on the engine on this road, and consider it a great treat; so it was only through kindness that you were invited into the cab, as you had asked the conductor to point out all that was of interest, along the way." the rainfall this year will be sufficient for the growing of the crops, with only another good rain. almost everyone has bought or taken claims. one engineer has taken a homestead and timber claim, and bought 80 acres. so he has 400 acres, and his wife has gone to live on the homestead, while he continues on the road until they have money enough to go into stock-raising. this valley does not show any sand to speak of until in the western part of hitchcock county. following the winding course of the republican river, through the eight counties of nebraska through which it flows, it measures 260 miles. the 40th north latitude, is the south boundary line of nebraska. as the republican river flows through the southern tier of counties, it is easy to locate its latitude. it has a fall of 7 feet per mile, is well sustained by innumerable creeks on the north, and many from the south. these streams are more or less wooded with ash, elm, and cottonwood, and each have their cosy valley. it certainly will be a thickly populated stretch of nebraska. the timber, the out crops of limestone, the brick clay, the rich soil, and the stock raising facilities, plenty of water and winter grazing, and the mill power of the river cannot and will not be overlooked. but hark! the train is coming, and i must go. a catholic priest and two eastern travelers, returning from colorado, are the only passengers in this coach. the seats are covered with sand, and window sills drifted full. i brush a seat next to the river side and prepare to write. must tell you first that my wrap was handed me by the porter, so if i was not in colorado, it was. the prairies are dotted with white thistle flowers, that look like pond lilies on a sea of green. the buffalo grass is so short that it does not hide the tiniest flower. now we are alongside the river; sand-bars in all shapes and little islands of green--there it winds to the south and is lost to sight--herds of cattle--corn field--river again with willow fringed bank--cattle on a sand-bar, so it cannot be quicksand, or they would not be there long--river gone again--tall willow grove--wire fencing--creek i suppose, but it is only a brook in width. now a broad, beautiful valley. dear me! this field must be five miles long, and cattle grazing in it--all fenced in until we reach indianola, one of the veteran towns of red willow county. the town-site was surveyed in 1873, and is now the county seat. of course its growth was slow until the advent of the b. & m., and now it numbers over 400 inhabitants. "this way with your sorghum cane, and get your 'lasses' from the big sorghum mill." see a church steeple, court house, and school house--great herd of cattle--wilderness of sunflowers turning their bright faces to the sun--now nothing but grass--corral made of logs--corn and potatoes--out of the old sod into the nice new frame--river beautifully wooded--valley about four miles wide from bluff to bluff--dog town, but don't seem to be any doggies at home--board fence. cambridge. close to the bridge and near medicine creek; population 500; a flouring mill; in furnas county now. the flowers that i see are the prairie rose shaded from white to pink, thistles, white and pink cactuses, purple shoestring, a yellow flower, and sunflowers. abrupt bluffs like those of valentine. buffalo burs, and buffalo wallows. country looking fine. grain good. arapahoe. quite a town on the level valley; good situation. valley broad, and bluffs a gradual rise to the table-lands; fields of grain and corn on their sloping side. this young city is situated on the most northern point of the river and twenty-two miles from kansas, and is only forty miles from plum creek on the platte river, and many from that neighborhood come with their grain to the arapahoe mills as there are two flouring mills here. it is the county-seat of furnas county, was platted in 1871. river well timbered; corn and oats good; grain in sheaf; stumps, stumps, bless the dear old stumps! glad to see them! didn't think any one could live in that house, but people can live in very open houses here; stakenridered fence, sod house, here is a stream no wider than our spring run, yet it cuts deep and trees grow on its banks. river close; trees--there, it and the trees are both gone south. here are two harvesters at work, reaping and binding the golden grain. oxford. only town on both sides of the railroad, all others are to the north; town located by the lincoln land company; population about 400; a baptist church; good stone for building near; damming the river for mills and factories; a creamery is being talked of. sheep, sheep, and cattle, cattle--what has cattle? cattle has what all things has out west. guess what! why grass to be sure. scenery beautiful; in harlan county now, and we go on past watson, spring hill, and melrose, small towns, but will not be so long. here we are at orleans. a beautifully situated town on a plateau, a little distance to the north; excuse, me, please, until i brush the dust from the seat before me for an old lady that has just entered the car; i am glad to have her company. stately elms cast their shadows over a bright little stream called elm creek that winds around at the foot of the bluff upon which the town is built. i like the scenery here very much, and, too, the town it is so nicely built. it is near the center of the county, and for a time was the county seat, and built a good court-house, but their right was disputed, and the county seat was carried to alma, six miles east. the railroad reached this point in '80, at which time it had 400 of a population. it has advanced even through the loss of the county seat. an m.e. college, brick-yard, and grist-mill are some of its interests. land rolling; oats ripe; buffalo grass; good grazing land. cutting grain with oxen; a large field of barley; good bottom land; large herds and little homes; cutting hay with a reaper and the old sod's tumbled in, telling a story of trials no doubt. alma. quite a good town, of 700 inhabitants, but it is built upon the table-land so out of sight i cannot see much of it. but this is the county seat before spoken of, and i am told is a live town. that old lady is growing talky; has just sold her homestead near orleans for $800, and now she is going to visit and live on the interest of her money. came from new york ten years ago with her fatherless children. the two eastern men and myself were the only passengers in this car, so i just wrote and hummed away until i drove the men away to the end of the car where they could hear each other talking. i am so glad the old lady will talk. republican city. small, but pretty town with good surrounding country. population 400. why, there's a wind-mill! water must be easily obtained or they would be more plenty. naponee. small town. no stop here. widespread valley; corn in tassel; grain in sheaf; wheat splendid. one flour mill and a creamery. bloomington--the "highland city"--the county seat of franklin county, and is a town like all the other towns along this beautiful valley, nicely located, and built up with beautiful homes and public buildings, and besides having large brick m.e. and presbyterian churches, a large normal school building, the bloomington flour mills, a large creamery, and the u.s. land office. i am told that the indians are excellent judges of land and are very loth to leave a good stretch of country, although they do not make much use of the rich soil. the pawnees were the original land-holders of the republican valley, and i do not wonder that they held so tenaciously to it. it has surely grown into a grand possession for their white brothers. i am so tired, if you will excuse me, reader, i will just write half and use a dash for the rest of the words cor--, pota--, bush--, tre--, riv--. wish i could make tracks on that sand bar! old lady says "that wild sage is good to break up the ague," and i have been told it is a good preventive for malaria in any form. driftwood! i wonder where it came from. there, the river is out of sight, and no tre-or bus--; well, i am tired saying that; going to say something else. sensitive roses, yellow flowers, that's much better than to be talking about the river all the time. but here it is again; the most fickle stream i have ever seen! you think you will have bright waters to look upon for awhile, and just then you haven't. but, there, we have gone five miles now, and we are at franklin, a real good solid town. first house built july, 1879. i never can guess how many people live in a town by looking at it from a car window. how do i know how many there are at work in the creamery, flouring mill, and woolen factory? and how many pupils are studying in the franklin academy, a fine two-story building erected by the republican valley congregational association at a cost of $3,500? first term opened dec. 6, 1881. the present worth of the institution is $12,000, and they propose to make that sum $50,000. one hundred and seven students have been enrolled during the present term. and how many little boys and girls in the common school building? or how many are in their nicely painted homes, and those log houses, and sod houses, and dug-outs in the side of the hill, with the stovepipe sticking out of the ground? it takes all kinds of people to make a world, and all kinds of houses to make a city. country good. fields of corn, wheat, rye, oats, millet, broom corn, and all _sich_--good all the way along this valley. riverton. a small town situated right in the valley. was almost entirely laid in ashes in 1882, but phoenix-like is rising again. am told the b. & m. co. have 47,000 acres of land for sale in this neighborhood at $3.50 to $10 per acre, on ten years' time and six per cent interest. great fields of pasture and grain; wild hay lands; alongside the river now; there, it is gone to run under that bridge away over near the foot of the grassy wall of the bluffs. why, would you believe it! here's the republican river. haven't seen it for a couple of minutes. but it brings trees and bushes with it, and an island. but now around the bluffs and away it goes. reader, i have told you the "here she comes" and "there she goes" of the river to show you its winding course. one minute it would be hugging the bluffs on the north side, and then, as though ashamed of the "hug," and thought it "hadn't ought to," takes a direct south-western course for the south bluffs, and hug them awhile. oh, the naughty river! but, there, the old lady is tired and has stopped talking, and i will follow her example. tired? yes, indeed! have been writing almost constantly since i left mccook, now 119 miles away, and am right glad to hear the conductor call red cloud! hearing that ex-gov. garber was one of the early settlers of red cloud, i made haste to call upon him before it grew dark, for the sunbeams were already aslant when we arrived, and supper was to be eaten. as i stepped out upon the porch of the "valley house" there sat a toad; first western toad i had seen, and it looked so like the toadies that hop over our porch at home that i couldn't help but pat it with my foot. but it hopped away from me and left me to think of home. the new moon of may had hung its golden crest over me in the valley of the niobrara, the june moon in the valley of the platte, and now, looking up from the republican valley, the new july moon smiled upon me in a rather reproving way for being yet further from home than when it last came, and, too, after all my wishing. so i turned my earnest wishes into a silent prayer: "dear father, take me home before the moon has again run its course!" i found the ex-governor seated on the piazza of his cosy cottage, enjoying the beautiful evening. he received me kindly, and invited me into the parlor, where i was introduced to mrs. garber, a very pleasant lady, and soon i was listening to the following story: "i was one of the first men in webster county; came with two brothers, and several others, and took for my soldier's claim the land upon which much of red cloud is now built, 17th july, 1870. there were no other settlers nearer than guide rock, and but two there. in august several settlers came with their families, and this neighborhood was frequently visited by the indians, who were then killing the white hunters for taking their game, and a couple had been killed near here. the people stockaded this knoll, upon which my house is built, with a wall of logs, and a trench. in this fort, 64 feet square, they lived the first winter, but i stayed in my dugout home, which you may have noticed in the side of the hill where you crossed the little bridge. i chose this spot then for my future home. i have been in many different states, but was never so well satisfied with any place as i was with this spot on the republican river. the prairie was covered with buffalo grass, and as buffalo were very plenty, we did not want for meat. there were also plenty of elk, antelope, and deer. "in april, '71, webster county was organized. the commissioners met in my dug-out. at the first election there were but forty-five votes polled. first winter there were religious services held, and in the summer of '71, we had school. our mail was carried from hebron, thayer county, fifty miles east. the town site was platted in october, '72, and we named it for red cloud, chief of the indian tribe." the governor looked quite in place in his elegant home, but as he told of the early days, it was hard to fancy him occupying a dug-out, and i could not help asking him how he got about in his little home, for he is a large man. he laughingly told how he had lived, his dried buffalo meat hung to the ceiling, and added: "i spent many a happy day there." gov. silas garber was elected governor of nebraska in 1874-6, serving well and with much honor his two terms. this is an instance of out of a dugout into the capitol. true nobility and usefulness cannot be hidden even by the most humble abode. the home mother earth affords her children of nebraska is much the same as the homes the great forests of the east gave to our forefathers, and have given shelter to many she is now proud to call nebraska's children. when i spoke of returning to the hotel, the governor said: "we would like to have you remain with us to-night, if you will," and as mrs. garber added her invitation, i readily accepted their kindness, for it was not given as a mere act of form. i forgot my weariness in the pleasure of the evening, hearing the governor tell of pioneer days and doings, and mrs. g. of california's clime and scenery--her native state. the morning was bright and refreshing, and we spent its hours seeing the surrounding beauties of their home. "come, miss fulton, see this grove of trees i planted but eight years ago--fine, large trees they are now; and this clover and timothy; some think we cannot grow either in nebraska, but it is a mistake," while mrs. g. says: "there is such a beautiful wild flower blooming along the path, and if i can find it will pluck it for you," and together we go searching in the dewy grass for flowers, while the governor goes for his horse and phaeton to take me to the depot. mrs. g. is a lady of true culture and refinement, yet most unassuming and social in her manners. before i left, they gave me a large photograph of their home. as the governor drove me around to see more of red cloud before taking me to the depot, he took me by his 14ã�16 hillside home, remarking as he pointed it out: "i am sorry it has been so destroyed; it might have yet made a good home for some one," then by the first frame house built in red cloud, which he erected for a store room, where he traded with the indians for their furs. he hauled the lumber for this house from grand island, over sixty miles of trackless prairie, while some went to beatrice, 100 miles away, for their lumber, and where they then got most of their groceries. as we drove through the broad streets, and looked on red cloud from centre to suburb, i did not wonder at the touch of pride with which governor garber pointed out the advance the little spot of land had made that he paid for in years of service to his country. when the b. & m.r.r. reached red cloud in '79, it was a town of 450 inhabitants; now it numbers 2,500. it is the end of a division of the b. & m. from wymore, and also from omaha; is the county seat of webster county, and surrounded by a rich country--need i add more? amboy. a little station four miles east of red cloud; little stream, with bushes; and now we are crossing dry creek; corn looks short. cowles. beautiful rolling prairie but no timber; plenty of draws that have to be bridged; shan't write much to-day for you know it is sunday, and i feel kind of wicked; wonder what will happen to me for traveling to-day; am listening to those travelers from the east tell to another how badly disappointed they were in colorado. one who is an asthmatic thinks it strange if the melting at noon-day and freezing at night will cure asthma; felt better in red cloud than any place. other one says he wouldn't take $1,000 and climb pike's peak again, while others are more than repaid by the trip. a wide grassy plain to the right, with homes and groves of trees. blue hill. a small town; great corn cribs; a level scope of country. o, rose, that blooms and wastes thy fragrance on this wide spread plain, what is thy life? to beautify only one little spot of earth, to cheer you travelers with one glance, and sweeten one breath of air; mayhap to be seen by only one out of the many that pass me by. but god sowed the seed and smiles upon me even here. bloom, little flower, all the way along, sing to us travelers your own quiet song, speak to us softly, gently, and low, are they well and happy? flowers, do you know? excuse this simple rhyme, but i am so homesick. this country is good all the way along and i do not need to repeat it so often. nicely improved farms and homes surrounded by fine groves of trees. i see one man at work with his harvester; the only desecrator of the sabbath i have noticed, and he may be a seventh day baptist. ayr was but a small town, so we go on to hastings, a town of over 5,000 inhabitants, and the county seat of adams county. is ninety-six miles west from lincoln, and 150 miles west of the missouri river. the b. & m.r.r. was built through hastings in the spring of 1872, but it was not a station until the st. joe and denver city r.r. (now the st. joe & western division of the u.p.r.r.) was extended to this point in the following autumn, and a town was platted on the homestead of w. micklin, and named in honor of t. d. hastings, one of the contractors of the st. jo. & d.c.r.r. a post-office was established the same year, the postmaster receiving a salary of one dollar per month. now, the salary is $2,100 per annum, and is the third post-office in the state for business done. it is located on a level prairie, and is nicely built up with good houses, although it has suffered badly from fires. i notice a good many windmills, so i presume water runs deep here. the surrounding country is rich farming land, all crops looking good. harvard, sutton, grafton, fairmont, exeter, friend, and dorchester, are all towns worthy of note, but it is the same old story about them all. i notice the churches are well attended. a poor insane boy came upon the train, and showed signs of fight and, as usual, i beat a retreat to the rear of the car, but did not better my position by getting near a poor, inebriated young man, in a drunken stupor. i count him sixth, but am told he came from denver in that condition, so i will give colorado the honor (?) of the sixth count. i cannot but compare the two young men: the one, i am told, was a good young man, but was suddenly robbed of his reason. if it was he that was intoxicated, i would not wonder at it. i never could understand how any one in their right mind could deliberately drag themselves down to such a depth, and present such a picture of sin and shame to the world as this poor besotted one does. everyone looks on him with contempt, as he passes up the aisle for a drink; but expressions of pity come from all for the one bereft of reason, and i ask, which of the two is the most insane? but i don't intend to preach a temperance sermon if it is sunday. crete. quite a pretty town half hid among the trees that line the big blue river. the valley of the blue must be very fertile, as every plant, shrub, and tree shows a very luxuriant growth. crete is surely a cosy retreat. the congregational church of the state has made it a centre of its work. here are located doane college and the permanent grounds of the n.s.s.a.a. lincoln. well, here i am, and no familiar face to greet me. i asked a lady to watch my baggage for me, while i hastened to the post-office, and when i returned the train was gone and the depot closed. i stood looking through the window at my baggage inside, and turning my mind upside-down, and wrongside out, and when it was sort of crosswise and i didn't know just what to do, i asked of a man strolling around if he had anything to do with the depot. "no. i am a stranger here, and am only waiting to see the ticket agent." after explaining matters to him i asked him to "please speak to the ticket agent about that baggage for me," which he readily promised to do, and i started to walk to my friends, expecting to meet them on the way. after going some distance i thought i had placed a great deal of confidence in a stranger, and had a mind to turn back, but the sun was melting hot, and i kept right on. after i had gone over a mile, i was given a seat in a carriage of one of my friends' neighbors, and was taken to their door, and gave them another surprise, for they thought i had made a mistake in the date, as they were quite sure no train was run on that road on sunday. _monday._ mr. gardner went for my baggage, but returned without it, and with a countenance too sober for joking said: "well, your baggage is not to be found, and no one seems to know anything about it." "oh! pet," maggie said, "i am so sorry we did not go to meet you, for this would not have happened. what did you leave?" "everything i had." "your silk dress too?" "yes, but don't mention that; money would replace it, but no amount could give me back my autograph album and button string which is filled and gathered from so many that i will never again see; and all my writings, so much that i could never replace. no, i _must_ not lose it!" and then i stole away and went to him whom i knew could help me. some may not, but i have faith that help is given us for the minor as well as the great things of life, and as i prayed this lesson came to me--how alarmed i am over the loss of a little worldly possessions, and a few poems and scraps of writing, when so much of the heavenly possession is lost through carelessness, and each day is a page written in my life's history that will not be read and judged by this world alone, but by the great judge of all things. and, too, it is manuscript that cannot be altered or rewritten. i would not allow myself to think that my baggage was gone for good, nor would i shed one tear until i was sure, and then, if gone, i would just take a good cry over it, and--but won't i hug my dusty satchels if i only get hold of them again, and never, never be so careless again. i supposed the stranger whom i had asked to speak to the ticket agent for me had improved the opportunity i gave him to secure it for his own. so it was a rather hopeless expression that i wore, as cousin maggie took me to the city in the afternoon. the day was away up among the nineties, and we could not go fast. i thought, never horse traveled so slow, and felt as though i could walk, and even push to make time. but i kept quiet and didn't even say "get up, nellie!" i suppose a mile a minute would have been slow to me then. when at last i reached the depot my first thought was to go right to mr. randall with my trouble, but was told he was about to leave on the train. i peered into the faces of those gathered about the depot, but failing to find him, i turned to look at the sacred spot where i had last seen may baggage, little dreaming that i would find it, but there it all was, even my fan. "oh dear, i am _so_ glad!" and i fussed away, talking to my satchels, and telling them how glad i was to see them, and was about to give them the promised "great big hug," when i found i was attracting attention, and turning to an elderly lady i asked her to please watch my baggage for a few moments. how soon we forget our good promises to do better.--i hastened to mr. randall's office, found him without a thought of going away. i first told him how much i was pleased with the republican valley, and then about my baggage. "why, child! did you go away and leave it here?" "yes, i did; and i have left it again in care of a real dressy old lady, and must go and see to it." when i reached the waiting room the old lady and baggage were both gone. turning to my cousin, who had just entered, i asked: "maggie gardner, what did you do with that baggage?" "nothing; i did not know you had found it." then, addressing a couple who sat near, i said: "i do wish you would tell me where that baggage went to." "the conductor carried it away." "where did he go to?" "i don't know, miss." dear me; helped the old lady aboard with my baggage, i thought. "why, what's the matter now, miss fulton?" asked mr. randall, who had followed me. "what's gone?" "why, my baggage; it's gone again." "well, that's too bad; but come with me and perhaps we may find it in here." and we entered the baggage room just in time to save gov. garber's house from blowing away (the picture), but found the rest all carefully stored. twice lost and twice found; twice sad and twice glad, and a good lesson learned. the burlington and missouri river railroad first began work at plattsmouth, on the missouri river, in 1869, and reached lincoln july 20, 1870. from lincoln it reaches out in six different lines. but this table will give a better idea of the great network of railroads under the b. & m. co.'s control. the several divisions and their mileage are as follows: pacific junction to kearney 196 omaha line 17 nebraska city to central city 150 nebraska city to beatrice 92 atchison to columbus 221 crete to red cloud 150 table rock to wymore 38 hastings to culbertson 171 denver extension 244 kenesaw cut-off to oxford 77 chester to hebron 12 dewitt to west line 25 odell to washington, kan. 26 nemaha to salem 18 the burlington and missouri river railroad, being a part of the c.b. & q. system, forms in connection with the latter road the famous "burlington route," known as the shortest and quickest line between chicago and denver, and being the only line under one management, tedious and unnecessary delays and transfers at the missouri river are entirely avoided. p. s. eustis of omaha, neb., who is very highly spoken of, stands at the head of the b. & m.r.r. as its worthy general passenger agent, while r. r. randall of lincoln, neb., immigration agent b. & m.r.r. co., of whom i have before spoken, will kindly and most honestly direct all who come to him seeking homes in the south platte country. his thorough knowledge of the western country and western life, having spent most of his years on the frontier, particularly qualifies him for this office. milford. "the saratoga of nebraska." so termed for its beautiful "big blue" river, which affords good boating and bathing facilities, its wealth of thick groves of large trees, and the "dripping spring," that drips and sparkles as it falls over a rock at the river bank. as before, mr. randall had prepared my way, and a carriage awaited me at the depot. i was conveyed to the home of mr. j. h. culver, where i took tea. mrs. culver is a daughter of milford's pioneer, mr. j. l. davison, who located at m. in 1864, and built the first house. he built a mill in '66, and from the mill, and the fording of the river at this point by the mormons, indians, and emigrants, was derived the name for the town that afterward grew up about him. through the kindness of the davison family our stay at milford was made very pleasant. riding out in the evening to see the rich farming land of the valley, and in the morning a row on the river and ramble through the groves that have been a resting-place to so many weary travelers and a pleasure ground for many a picnic party. indeed, milford is the common resort for the lincoln pleasure parties. it is twenty miles due west of the capital, on the b. & m.r.r., which was built in 1880. mr. davison told of how they had first located on salt creek, near where is now the city of lincoln, but was then only wild, unbroken prairies. finding the "big blue" was a better mill stream, he moved his stakes and drove them deep for a permanent home on its banks. he first built a log house, and soon a frame, hauling his lumber from plattsmouth. a saw-mill was soon built on the "blue," and lumber was plenty right at hand. the ford was abandoned for a bridge he built in '66, and to his flouring-mill came grain for a hundred miles away, as there was none other nearer than ashland. this being the principal crossing-place of the blue, all the vegetables they could raise were readily sold. mrs. culver told of selling thirty-five dollars' worth of vegetables from her little garden patch in one week, adding: "we children were competing to see who could make the most from our garden that week, and i came out only a few dollars ahead of the rest." mrs. d. told of how with the aid of a large dog, and armed with a broom, she had defended a neighbor's daughter from being carried away captive by a band of indians. the story of their pioneering days was very interesting, but space will not allow me to repeat it. in the morning i was taken through three very pretty groves. one lies high on a bluff, and is indeed a pretty spot, named "shady cliff." then winding down canyon seata, _little_ canyon, we crossed the river to the harbor, an island which is covered with large cottonwood, elm, hickory, and ash, and woven among the branches are many grapevines--one we measured being sixteen inches in circumference--while a cottonwood measured eighteen feet in circumference. surely it has been a harbor where many weary ones have cast anchor for a rest. another grove, the retreat, is even more thickly wooded and vined over, and we found its shade a very pleasant retreat on that bright sunny morning. but pleasanter still was the row of a mile down the river to the "sparkling springs." reader, go ask professor aughey about the rocks over which this spring flows. all i can tell you is, it looks like a great mass of dark clay into which had been stirred an equal quantity of shells of all sizes, but which had decayed and left only their impression on the hardened rock. the river is 100 feet wide and has a rock bottom which makes it fine for bathing in, and the depth and volume of water is sufficient for the running of small steamers. school was first held in mr. davison's house in '69. the first church was erected by the congregational society in '69. first newspaper was established in '70, by j. h. culver, and gained a state reputation under the name of the "blue valley _record_." rev. h. a. french began the publication of the "_congregational news_" in '78. the "milford _ozone_" is the leading organ of the day, so named for the health-giving atmosphere that the milfordites enjoy. a post-office was established in '66, j. s. davison acting as postmaster. mail was received once a week from nebraska city, via camden. the mail was distributed from a dry goods box until in '70, j. h. culver was appointed postmaster, and a modern post-office was established. the old mill was destroyed by fire in '82, and is now replaced by a large stone and brick building costing $100,000, and has a capacity of 300 barrels per day. the population of milford is about 600. we cross the iron bridge that now spans the river to the east banks and take a view of the new town of east milford laid out on an eighty acre plot that borders on the river and gradually rises to the east. it is a private enterprise to establish a larger town on this particularly favored spot, where those who wish may have a home within easy reach of the capital and yet have all the beauty and advantage of a riverside home. i could scarcely resist the temptation to select a residence lot and make my home on the beautiful blue, the prettiest spot i have yet found in nebraska. chapter v. nebraska and her capital. nebraska is so named from the nebraska, or platte river. it is derived from the indian _ne_ (water) and _bras_ (shallow), and means shallow water. in extent it is 425 miles from east to west, and 138 to 208 from north to south, and has an area of 75,995 square miles that lie between parallels 40â° and 43â° north latitude, and 18â° and 27â° west longitude. the omahas, pawnees, otoes, sioux, and other indian tribes were the original land-holders, and buffalo, elk, deer, and antelope the only herds that grazed from its great green pasture lands. but in 1854, "uncle sam" thought the grassy desert worthy of some notice, and made it a territory, and in 1867 adopted it as the 37th state, and chose for its motto "_equality before the law_." the governors of nebraska territory were: francis burt, 1854. t. b. cuming, 1854-5. mark w. izard, 1855-8. w. a. richardson, 1858. j. s. morton, 1858-9. samuel w. black, 1859-61. alvin saunders, 1861-6. david butler, 1866-7. of the state- david butler, 1867-71. william h. james, 1871-3. robert w. furnas, 1873-5. silas garber, 1875-9. albinus nance, 1879-83. james w. dawes, 1883. allow me to quote from the _centennial gazetteer of united states_: "surface.--nebraska is a part of that vast plain which extends along the eastern base of the rocky mountains, and gently slopes down toward the missouri river. the surface is flat or gently undulating. there are no ranges or elevations in the state that might be termed mountains. the soil consists for the most part of a black and porous loam, which is slightly mixed with sand and lime. the streams now in deeply eroded valleys with broad alluvial flood grounds of the greatest fertility, which are generally well timbered with cottonwood, poplar, ash, and other deciduous trees. the uplands are undulating prairie. late surveys establish the fact that the aggregate area of the bottom lands is from 13,000,000 to 14,000,000 of acres. "the climate of nebraska is on the whole similar to that of other states of the great mississippi plains in the same latitude. the mean annual temperature varies from 47â° in the northern sections to 57â° in the most southern. but owing to greater elevation, the western part of the state is somewhat colder than the eastern. in winter the westerly winds sweeping down from the rocky mountains, often depress the thermometer to 20â° and sometimes 30â° below zero; while in the summer a temperature of 100â° and over is not unusual. in the southern tier of counties the mean temperature of the summer is 76-1/4â°, and of winter, 30-1/2â°. the greatest amount of rain and snow fall (28 to 30 inches) falls in the missouri valley, and thence westward the rainfall steadily decreases to 24 inches near fort kearney, 16 inches to the western counties, and 12 inches in the south-western corner of the state. "population.--nebraska had in 1860 a population of 28,841, and in 1870, 122,993. of these, 92,245 were natives of the united states, including 18,425 natives of the state. the foreign born population numbered 30,748. "education.--nebraska has more organized schools, more school houses, and those of a superior character; more money invested in buildings, books, etc., than were ever had before in any state of the same age. the land endowed for the public schools embraces one-eighteenth of the entire area of the state--2,623,080 acres." the school lands are sold at not less than seven dollars per acre, which will yield a fund of not less than $15,000,000, and are leased at from six to ten per cent interest on a valuation of $1.25 to $10 per acre. the principal is invested in bonds, and held inviolate and undiminished while the interest and income alone is used. the state is in a most excellent financial condition, and is abundantly supplied with schools, churches, colleges, and the various charitable and reformatory institutions. every church is well represented in nebraska. the methodist stands first in numbers, while the presbyterian, baptist, and congregational are of about equal strength. the catholic church is fully represented. the united states census for 1880 shows that nebraska has the lowest percentage of illiteracy of any state in the union. iowa comes second. allow me to compare nebraska and pennsylvania: nebraska, 1.73 per cent cannot read, 2.55 per cent cannot write; pennsylvania, 3.41 per cent cannot read, 5.32 per cent cannot write. total population of nebraska, 452,402; pennsylvania, 4,282,891. geographically, nebraska is situated near the centre of the united states, and has an average altitude of 1,500 feet above the level of the sea, varying from 1,200 feet at the missouri river to 2,000 feet at the colorado state line. the climate of nebraska is noted for its salubrity, its wholesomeness, and healthfulness. the dryness of the air, particularly in the winter, is the redeeming feature of the low temperature that is sometimes very suddenly brought about by strong, cold winds, yet the average temperature of the winter of 1882 was but 17â°, and of the summer 70â°. i only wish to add that i have noticed that the western people in general have a much healthier and robust appearance than do eastern people. later statistics than the united states census of 1880 are not accessible for my present purpose, but the figures of that year--since which time there has been rapid developments--will speak volumes for the giant young state, the youngest but one in the union. the taxable values of nebraska in 1880 amounted to $90,431,757, an increase of nearly forty per cent in ten years, being but $53,709,828 in 1870. during the same time its population had increased from 122,933 to 452,542, nearly four-fold. the present population of nebraska probably exceeds 600,000, and its capacity for supporting population is beyond all limits as yet. with a population as dense as ohio, or seventy-five persons to the square mile, nebraska would contain 5,700,000 souls. with as dense a population as massachusetts, or 230 to the square mile, nebraska would have 17,480,000 people. the grain product of nebraska had increased from 10,000 bushels in 1874 to 100,000 bushels in 1879, an average increase of 200 per cent per year. in 1883 there was raised in the state: wheat 27,481,300. corn 101,276,000. oats 21,630,000. mr. d. h. wheeler, secretary of the state board of agriculture, has prepared the following summary of all crop reports received by him up to nov. 13, 1883: corn, yield per acre 41 bushels. quality 85 per cent. potatoes, irish 147 bushels. quality 109 per cent. potatoes, sweet 114 bushels. quality 111 per cent. hay, average tame and wild 2 tons per a. quality 107 per cent. sorghum, yield per acre 119 gallons. grapes, yield and quality 88 per cent. apples, yield and quality 97 per cent. pears, yield and quality 52 per cent. condition of orchards 100 per cent. spring wheat threshed at date 82 per cent. grade of spring wheat, no. 2. first frost, oct. 5. corn ready for market, dec. 1. in 1878 there were raised in the state 295,000 hogs, and in 1879 a total of 700,000, an increase of nearly 250 per cent. there are raised annually at the present time in nebraska over 300,000 cattle and 250,000 sheep. the high license liquor law was passed in nebraska in 1883, requiring the paying of $1,000 for license to sell liquor in a town of 1,000 inhabitants or more, and $500 elsewhere, all of which is thrown into the common school fund and must be paid before a drink is sold. liquor dealers and saloon keepers are responsible for all damages or harm done by or to those to whom they have sold liquor while under its influence. during my stay of almost three months in the state, i saw but seven intoxicated men and i looked sharp and counted every one who showed the least signs of having been drinking. there are but few hotels in the state that keep a bar. i did not learn of one. lincoln has 18,000 of a population and but twelve saloons. drinking is not popular in nebraska. i will add section 1 of nebraska's laws on the rights of married women. "the property, real and personal, which any woman in this state may own at the time of her marriage, and the rents, issues, profits, or proceeds thereof, and any real, personal, or mixed property which shall come to her by descent, devise, or the gift of any person except her husband, or which she shall acquire by purchase or otherwise, shall remain her sole and separate property, notwithstanding her marriage, and shall not be subject to the disposal of her husband, or liable for his debts. "the property of the husband shall not be liable for any debt contracted by the wife before marriage." the overland pony express, which was the first regular mail transportation across the state, was started in 1860 and lasted two years. the distance from st. joseph, missouri, to san francisco was about 2,000 miles and was run in thirteen days. the principal stations were st. joseph and marysville, mo.; ft. kearney, neb.; laramie and ft. bridger, wy. t.; salt lake, utah; camp floyd and carson city, nev.; placerville, sacramento, and san francisco, cal. express messengers left once a week with ten pounds of matter; salary $1,200 per month; carriage on one-fourth ounce was five dollars in gold. but in the two years the company's loss was $200,000. election news was carried from st. joseph, mo., to denver city, col., a distance of 628 miles in sixty-nine hours. a telegraph line was erected in nebraska, 1862; now nebraska can boast of nearly 3,000 miles of railroad. i want to say that i find it is the truly energetic and enterprising people who come west. people who have the energy and enterprise that enable them to leave the old home and endure the privations of a new country for a few years that they may live much better in the "after while," than they could hope to do in the old home, and are a people of ambition and true worth. the first lesson taught to those who come west by those who have gone before and know what it is to be strangers in a strange land, is true kindness and hospitality, and but few fail to learn it well and profit by it, and are ready to teach it by precept and example to those who follow. it is the same lesson our dear great-grandfathers and mothers learned when they helped to fell the forests and make a grand good state out of "penn's woods." but their children's children are forgetting it. yet i find that pennsylvania has furnished nebraska with some of her best people. would it not be a good idea for the pennamites of nebraska to each year hold pennsylvania day, and every one who come from the dear old hills, meet and have a general hand-shaking and talk with old neighbors and friends. i know nebraska could not but be proud of her pennsylvanian children. lincoln. in 1867 an act was passed by the state legislature, then in session at omaha, appointing a commission consisting of gov. butler, secretary of state t. p. kennard, and auditor of state j. gillespie to select and locate a new capital out on the frontier. after some search the present _capital_ site was chosen--then a wild waste of grasses, where a few scattered settlers gathered at a log cabin to receive the mail that once a week was carried to them on horseback to the lancaster post-office of lancaster county. the site is 65 miles west of the missouri river, and 1,114 feet above sea level, and on the "divide" between antelope and salt creeks. 900 acres were platted into lots and broad streets, reserving ample ground for all necessary public buildings, and the new capital was named in honor of him for whom columbia yet mourned. previous to the founding of lincoln by the state, a methodist minister named young had selected a part of the land, and founded a paper town and called it lancaster. the plan adopted for the locating of the capital of the new state was as follows: the capital should be located upon lands belonging to the state, and the money derived from the sale of the lots should build all the state buildings and institutions. after the selection by the commission there was a slight rush for town lots, but not until the summer of '68 was the new town placed under the auctioneer's hammer, which, however, was thrown down in disgust as the bidders were so few and timid. in 1869, col. george b. skinner conducted a three days' sale of lots, and in that time sold lots to the amount of $171,000. when he received his wages--$300--he remarked that he would not give his pay for the whole town site. the building boom commenced at once, and early in '69 from 80 to 100 houses were built. the main part of the state house was begun in '67, but the first legislature did not meet at the new capitol until in january, '69. from the sale of odd numbered blocks a sufficient sum was realized to build the capitol building, costing $64,000, the state university, $152,000, and state insane asylum $137,500, and pay all other expenses and had left 300 lots unsold. the state penitentiary was built at a cost of $312,000 in 1876. the post-office, a very imposing building, was erected by the national government at a cost of $200,000, finished in '78. twenty acres were reserved for the b. & m. depot. it is ground well occupied. the depot is a large brick building 183ã�53 and three stories high, with lunch room, ladies' and gents' waiting rooms nicely furnished, baggage room, and broad hall and stairway leading to the telegraph and land offices on the second and third floors. ten trains arrive and depart daily carrying an aggregate of 1,400 passengers. the u.p. has ample railway accommodations. all churches and benevolent societies that applied for reservation were given three lots each, subject to the approval of the legislature, which afterward confirmed the grant. a congregational church was organized in 1866; german methodist, '67; methodist episcopal and roman catholic, '68; presbyterian, episcopal, baptist, and christian, '69; universalist, '70; african methodist, '73, and colored baptist, '79. a number have since been added. the state journal co. on the 15th of aug., 1867, the day following the announcement that lancaster was _the place_ for the capital site there appeared in the _nebraska city press_ a prospectus for the publication of a weekly newspaper in lincoln, to be called the _nebraska commonwealth_, c. h. gere, editor. but not until the latter part of nov. did it have an established office in the new city. in the spring of '69 the _commonwealth_ was changed to the nebraska _state journal_. as a daily it was first issued on the 20th of july, '70, the day the b. & m.r.r. ran its first train into lincoln, and upset all the old stage coaches that had been the only means of transportation to the capital. in '82 the state journal co. moved into their handsome and spacious new building on the corner of p and 9th streets. it is built of stone and brick, four stories high, 75 feet on p and 143 on 9th streets. the officers are c. h. gere, pres.; a. h. mendenhall, vice pres.; j. r. clark, sec., and h. d. hathaway, treas. the company employs 100 to 125 hands. beside the _journal_ are the _democrat_ and _news_, daily; the _nebraska farmer_, semi-monthly; the _capital_, weekly; the _hesperian student_, monthly, published by the students of the university, and the _staats anzeiger_, a german paper, issued weekly. on my return from milford, wednesday, i sought and found no. 1203 g street, just in time to again take tea with the keefer family, and spend the night with them, intending to go to fremont next day. but mrs. k. insisted that she would not allow me to slight the capital in that way, and to her i am indebted for much of my sight-seeing in and about lincoln. thursday afternoon we went to the penitentiary to see a little of convict life. but the very little i saw made me wonder why any one who had once suffered imprisonment would be guilty of a second lawless act. two negro convicts in striped uniforms were lounging on the steps ready to take charge of the carriages, for it was visitor's day. only good behaved prisoners, whose terms have almost expired, are allowed to step beyond the iron bars and stone walls. we were taken around through all the departments--the kitchen, tailor shop, and laundry, and where brooms, trunks, harnesses, corn-shellers, and much that i cannot mention, are made. then there was the foundry, blacksmith shop, and stone yard, where stones were being sawed and dressed ready for use at the capitol building. the long double row of 160 cells are so built of stone and cement that when once the door of iron bars closes upon a prisoner he has no chance of exit. they are 4ã�7 feet, and furnished with an iron bedstead, and one berth above; a stool, and a lap-board to write on. they are allowed to write letters every three weeks, but what they write is read before it is sent, and what they receive is read before it is given to them. there are 249 prisoners, a number of whom are from wyoming. their meals are given them as they pass to their cells. they were at one time seated at a table and given their meals together, but a disturbance arose among them and they used the knives and forks for weapons to fight with. and they carried them off secretly to their cells, and one almost succeeded in cutting his way through the wall. only those who occupy the same cell can hold any conversation. never a word is allowed to be exchanged outside the cells with each other. thus silently, like a noiseless machine, with bowed heads, not even exchanging a word, and scarcely a glance, with their elbow neighbor, they work the long days through, from six o'clock until seven, year in and year out. on the fourth of july they are given two or three hours in which they can dance, sing, and talk to each other, a privilege they improve to the greatest extent, and a general hand-shaking and meeting with old neighbors is the result. sunday, at nine a.m., they are marched in close file to the chapel, where rev. howe, city missionary, formerly a missionary in brooklyn and new york, gives them an hour of good talk, telling them of christ and him crucified, and of future reward and punishment, but no sectarian doctrines. he assures me some find the pearl of great price even within prison walls. they have an organ in the chapel and a choir composed of their best singers, and it is not often we hear better. rev. howe's daughter often accompanies her father and sings for them. they are readily brought to tears by the singing of home, sweet home, and the dear old hymns. through mr. howe's kind invitation we enjoyed his services with them, and as we rapped for admittance behind the bars, the attendant said: "make haste, the boys are coming"; and the iron door was quickly locked after we entered. a prisoner brought us chairs, and we watched the long line of convicts marching in, the right hand on the shoulder of the one before them, and their striped cap in the left. they filed into the seats and every arm was folded. it made me sigh to see the boyish faces, but a shudder would creep over me when, here and there, i marked a number wearing the hoary locks of age. as i looked into their faces i could not but think of the many little children i have talked to in happy school days gone by, and my words came back to me: "now, children, remember i will never forget you, and i will always be watching to see what good men and women you make; great philanthropists, teachers, and workers in the good work, good ministers, noble doctors, lawyers that will mete out true justice, honest laborers, and who knows but that a future mr. or mrs. president sits before me on a school bench? never, never allow me to see your name in disgrace." and i hear a chorus of little voices answer: "i'll be good, teacher, i'll be good." but before me were men who, in their innocent days of childhood, had as freely and well-meaningly promised to be good. but the one grand thought brightened the dark picture before me: god's great loving-kindness and tender mercy--a god not only to condemn but to forgive. nine-tenths of the prisoners, i am told, are here through intemperance. oh, ye liquor dealers that deal out ruin with your rum by the cask or sparkling goblet! ye poor wretched drunkard, social drinker, or fashionable tippler! why cannot you be men, such as your creator intended you should be? i sometimes think god will punish the _cause_, while man calls the effect to account. for my part, i will reach out my hand to help raise the poorest drunkard from the ditch rather than to shake hands with the largest liquor dealer in the land, be he ever so good (?) good! he knows what he deals out, and that mingled with his ill-gotten gains is the taint of ruined souls, souls for which he will have to answer for before the great judge who never granted a license to sin, nor decided our guilt by a jury. mrs. k. had secured a pass to take us to the insane asylum, but we felt we had seen enough of sadness, and returned home. _friday._ about two p.m. the sky was suddenly darkened with angry looking clouds, and i watched them with interest as they grew more threatening and the thunder spoke in louder tones. i was not anxious to witness a cyclone, but if one _must_ come, i wanted to watch its coming, and see all i could of it. but the winds swept the clouds rapidly by, and in a couple of hours the streets were dry, and we drove out to see the only damage done, which was the partial wreck of a brick building that was being erected. reports came in of a heavy fall of hail a few miles west that had the destroyed corn crop in some places. this was the hardest storm seen during my stay in the state. [errata. page 245, last line but one, in place of "nebraska is visited" read "nebraska is _not_ visited." third line from bottom leave out the word "not" from commencement of line.] nebraska is not visited, as some suppose, with the terrible cyclones and wind storms that sweep over some parts of the west; nor have i experienced the constant wind that i was told of before i came; yet nebraska has more windy weather than does pennsylvania. the sun comes down with power, and when the day is calm, is very oppressive; but the cool evenings revive and invigorate all nature. _saturday_ we spent in seeing the city from center to suburb and drinking from the artesian well in the government square. the water has many medical properties, and is used as a general "cure-all." climbing the many steps to the belfry of the university, we had a fine view of the city, looking north, east, south, and west, far over housetops. many are fine buildings of stone and brick, and many beautiful residences with well kept lawns. the streets are 100 and 120 feet wide. sixteen feet on each side are appropriated for sidewalks, five of which, in all but the business streets, is the walk proper--built of stone, brick, or plank--and the remaining eleven feet are planted with shade trees, and are as nicely kept as the door yards. the streets running north and south are numbered from first to twenty-fifth street. those from east to west are lettered from a to w. saturday evening--a beautiful moonlight night--just such a night as makes one wish for a ride. who can blame me if i take one? a friend has been telling how travelers among the rockies have to climb the mountains on mountain mules or burros. my curiosity is aroused to know if when i reach the foot of pike's peak, i can ascend. it would be aggravating to go so far and not be able to reach the peak just because i couldn't ride on a donkey. so mrs. k. engaged gussie chapman, a neighbor's boy, to bring his burro over _after dark_. all saddled, fanny waits at the door, and i must go. good bye, reader, i'll tell you all about my trip when i get back--i'll telegraph you at the nearest station. don't be uneasy about me; i am told that burros never run off, and if fanny should throw me i have only three feet to fall. i wonder what her great ears are for--but a happy thought strikes me, and i hang my poke hat on one and start. one by one her feet are lifted, one by one she sets them down; step by step we leave the gatepost, and go creeping 'round to a convenient puddle, when fanny flops her ears, and lands my hat in the middle. well, you cannot expect me to write poetry and go at this rate of speed. my thoughts and the muses can't keep pace with the donkey. most time to telegraph back to my friends who waved me away so grandly. but, dear me, i have been so lost in my reverie on the lovely night, and thoughts of how i could now climb pike's peak--_if i ever reached the foot of the mountain_,--that i did not notice that fanny had crept round the mud puddle, and was back leaning against the gate-post. another start, and fanny's little master follows to whip her up; but she acts as though she wanted to slide me off over her ears, and i beg him to desist, and we will just creep. poor little brute, you were created to creep along the dangerous mountain passes with your slow, cautious tread, and i won't try to force you into a trot. well, i went up street and down street, and then gave my seat to hettie keefer. "what does it eat?" i asked. "oh, old shoes and rags, old tin cans, and just anything at all." i wish i could tell you all about this queer little mexican burro, but hettie is back, and it is time to say good night. in 1880, kansas was so flooded with exodus negroes that nebraska was asked to provide for a few, and over one hundred were sent to lincoln. near mr. k.'s home, they have a little church painted a crushed strawberry color, and in the afternoon, our curiosity led us right in among these poor negroes so lately from the rice and cotton fields and cane brakes of the sunny south, to see and hear them in their worship. they call themselves baptist, but, ignorant of their church belief, requested the rev. mr. gee, then minister of the lincoln baptist church, to come and baptise their infants. i went supplied with a large fan to hide a smiling countenance behind, but had no use for it in that way. their utter ignorance, and yet so earnest in the very little they knew, drove all the smiles away, and i wore an expression of pity instead. the paint is all on the outside of the house, and the altar, stand and seats are of rough make up. the whole audience turned the whites of their eyes upon us as we took a seat near the door. soon a powerful son of africa arose and said: "bruddering, i havn't long to maintain ye, but if ye'll pray for me for about the short space of fifteen minutes, i'll try to talk to ye. and moses lifted up his rod in de wilderness, dat all dat looked upon dat rod might be healed. now in dose days dey had what they called sarpents, but in dese days we call dem snakes, and if any one was bit by a snake and would look on dat rod he would be healed of de snake bite." how earnestly he talk to his "chilens" for de short space of time, until he suddenly broke off and said with a broad grin: "now my time is up. brudder, will you pray?" and while the brudder knelt in prayer the audience remained seated, hid their faces in their hands, and with their elbows resting on their knees, swayed their bodies to a continual humumum, and kept time with their feet; the louder the prayer, the louder grew the hum until the prayer could not be heard. one little topsy sat just opposite us keeping time to the prayer by bobbing her bare heels up and down from a pair of old slippers much too large for her, showing the ragged edges of a heelless stocking, while she eyed "de white folks in de corner." after prayer came the singing, if such it may be called. the minister lined out a hymn from the only hymn book in the house, and as he ended the last word he began to sing in the same breath, and the rest followed. it did not matter whether it was long, short, or particular meter, they could drawl out one word long enough to make six if necessary, and skip any that was in the way. it was only a perfect mumble of loud voices that is beyond description, and must be heard to be appreciated. but the minister cut the singing short, by saying: "excuse de balance," which we were glad to do. i was very much afraid he was getting "love among the roses" mixed in with the hymn. while they sang, a number walked up to the little pine table and threw down their offering of pennies and nickels with as much pride and pomp as though they gave great sums, some making two trips. two men stood at the table and reached out each time a piece of money was put down to draw it into the pile; but with all their caution they could not hinder one girl from taking up, no doubt, more than she put down, and not satisfied with that, again walked up and quickly snatched a piece of money without even pretending to throw some down. the minister closed with a benediction, and then announced that "brudder alexander would exhort to ye to-night and preach de gospel pint forward; and if de lord am willin, i'll be here too." a number gathered around and gave us the right hand of fellowship with an invitation to come again, which we gladly accepted, and evening found us again in the back seat with pencil and paper to take notes. brudder alexander began with: "peace be unto dis house while i try to speak a little space of time, while i talks of brudder joshua. my text am de first chapter of joshua, and de tenth verse. 'then joshua commanded the officers of the people, saying,' now joshua was a great wrastler and a war-man, and he made de walls of jericho to fall by blowen on de horns. oh, chilens! and fellow-mates, neber forget de book of joshua. look-yah! simon peta was de first bishop of rome, but de lord had on old worn-out clothes, and was sot upon an oxen, and eat moldy bread. and look-a-yah! don't i member de time, and don't i magine it will be terrible when de angel will come wid a big horn, and he'll give a big blah on de horn, and den look out; de fire will come, and de smoke will descend into heaven, and de earth will open up its mouth and not count the cost of houses. and look-a-yah! i hear dem say, de rocky mountains will fall on ye. oh, bruddering and fellow-mates, i clar i heard dem say, if ye be a child of god, hold out and prove faithful, and ye'll receive the crown, muzzle down. now chilen, my time is expended." and with this we left them to enjoy their prayer meeting alone, while we came home, ready to look on the most ridiculous picture that can be drawn by our famous artist in blackville, and believe it to be a true representation. poor children, no wonder the "true blue" fought four long years to set you free from a life of bondage that kept you in such utter ignorance. monday morning i felt all the time i had for lincoln had been "expended," and i bade my kind friends of the capital good-bye. chapter vi. home again from lincoln, nebraska, to indiana county pennsylvania. the kinzua bridge and niagara falls.--the conclusion. left lincoln monday morning, july 17, on the u.p.r.r. for fremont. passed fields of corn almost destroyed by the hail storm of last friday. it is sad to see some of the farmers cultivating the stubble of what but a few days ago was promising fields of corn. we followed the storm belt until near wahoo, where we again looked on fine fields. at valley, a small town, we changed cars and had a tiresome wait of a couple of hours. i was surprised to see a town in nebraska that seemed to be on the stand-still, but was told that it was too near omaha and fremont. a short ride from valley brought us to fremont. the first person i saw at the depot was mrs. euber, one of the colonists. before she had recognized me, i put my arm about her and said: "did you come to meet me, mrs. euber?" "why, sims, is this you! i thought you had gone back east long ago." after promising to spend my time with her, i went to speak to mr. reynolds, to whom i had written that i expected to be in fremont the previous week. "well," he said, "you have a great sin to answer for; when i received your card, i ordered a big bill of groceries, and mrs. reynolds had a great lot of good things prepared for your entertainment; and when you didn't come, i almost killed myself eating them up." sorry i had missed such a treat; and caused so much misery. i left him, promising to call for any he might have left, which i did, and i found he had not eaten them all--which quite relieved my guiltiness. i called on mrs. n. turner, one of fremont's earliest settlers, from whom i learned much of the early history of the country. she said as she shook my hand at parting: "i sincerely hope you will have a safe journey home, and find your dear mother well!" "thank you," i replied, "you could not have wished me any thing better." nothing can be more pleasant to me than to thus snatch acquaintances here and there, and though 'tis but a very short time we meet, yet i reap many good impressions, and many pleasing memories are stored away for future reference, in quiet hours. left fremont wednesday noon, july 19, with aching temples; but the thought that i was really going home at last, soon relieved my indisposition, and i was ready to write as i went; eastward bound, over level country of good pasture and hay lands. land, that, when we passed over the 26th april was void of a green spear; trees that then swayed their budding branches in the winds, now toss their leafy boughs. said good-bye to the winding elkhorn river, a little way east of fremont. wild roses and morning glories brighten the way. why! here we are at blair; but i have told of blair before, so will go on to the missouri river. and as we cross over i stand on the platform of the rear car where i can see the spray, and as i look down into the dark water and watch the furrow the boat leaves in the waves, i wonder where are all those that crossed over with me to the land i have just left. some have returned, but the majority have scattered over the plains of northwestern nebraska. i was aroused from my sad reverie by an aged gentleman who stood in the door, asking: "why, is this the way we cross the river? my! how strong the water must be to bear us up! oh, dear! be careful, sis, or you might fall off when the boat jars against the shore." "i am holding tight," i replied, "and if i do i will fall right in the boat or skiff swung at the stern." i did not then know that to fall into the missouri river is almost sure death, as the sand that is mixed with the water soon fills the clothing, and carries one to bottom--but we landed without a jar or jolt and leave the muddy waves for the sandy shores of iowa. reader, i wish i could tell you all about my home going--of my visit at marshalltown, iowa, with the pontious family--dear old friends of my grand-parents; at oswego, ill., with an uncle; at tiffin and mansfield, ohio, with more friends, and all i heard and saw along the way. allow me to skip along and only sketch the way here and there. july 30, 5:30 p.m. "will you tell me, please, when we cross the pennsylvania state line?" i asked of the conductor. "why, we crossed the line ten miles back." and i just put my hand out of the window and shake hands with the dear old state and throw a kiss to the hills and valleys, and that rocky bank covered with flowering vines. i thought there was an air of home in the breezes. the sun was going down, and shadows growing long when we stopped at meadville, and while others took supper i walked to the rear of the depot to the spot where our party had snow-balled only three months ago. the snow has melted, the merry party widely separated, and alone i gather leaves that then were only buds, and think. ah! their bright expectations were all in the bud then. have they unfolded into leaves as bright as these i gather? well, i am glad to pat the soil of my native state, and call it dear old "pa." but could my parents go with me i feel i would like to return again to nebraska, for though i could never love it as i always shall the "keystone," yet i have already learned to very highly respect and esteem nebraska for its worth as a state, and for the kind, intelligent people it holds within its arms. as i take my seat in the car, a young, well-dressed boy sits near me in a quiet state of intoxication. well, i am really ashamed! to think i have seen two drunken men to-day and only seven during my three months' stay in nebraska. so much good for the high license law. if you cannot have prohibition, have the next best thing, and drowned out all the little groggeries and make those who _will_ have it, pay the highest price. poor boy! you had better go to nebraska and take a homestead. "old sol" has just hid his face behind the dear old hills and it is too dark to see, so i sing to myself. my "fellow mates" hear the hum and wonder what makes me so happy. they don't know i am going home, do they? "salamanaca! change cars for bradford," and soon i am speeding on to b. over the r. & p. road. two young men and myself are the sole occupants of the car. "where do you stop when you go to b.?" one asks of the other. "at the ---(naming one of the best hotels) generally, but they starve a fellow there. in fact, they do at all the hotels; none of them any good." "well, that's just my plain opinion," no. 1 answers, and i cuddle down to sleep, fully assured that i am really near bradford, where everything is "no good," and "just too horrid for anything." suppose those young dandies are "oil princes"--"coal oil johnnies," you know--and can smash a hotel just for the amusement, but can't pay for their fun. when i arrived at bradford the young men watched me tug at my satchels as i got off, all alone, in the darkness of the midnight hour. i knew my brother would not be expecting me, and had made up my mind to take the street cars and go to the st. james. but no street cars were in waiting and only one carriage. "go to the ----, lady?" "no, i don't know that house," i replied; and giving my satchels in the ticket agent's care, i started out in the darkness, across the bridge, past dark streets and alleys, straight up main street, past open saloons and billiard halls, but not a policeman in sight. so i kept an eye looking out on each side while i walked straight ahead with as firm and measured tread as though i commanded a regiment of soldiers, and i guess the clerk at the st. james thought i did, for he gave me an elegant suite of rooms with three beds. i gave two of them to my imaginary guards, and knelt at the other to thank the dear father that he had brought me safely so near home. "how much for my lodging?" i asked, in the morning. "seventy-five cents." i almost choked as i repeated, "seventy-five cents! won't you please take fifty?" "why?" "because it is all the money i have, except a nickel." "i suppose it will have to do," he said, and i jingled my fifty cents on the counter as loudly as though it was a whole dollar, but could not help laughing heartily at the low ebb of my finances. the several little extras i had met with had taken about all. i then went to find brother charlie's boarding-place and surprised him at the breakfast table. august 1st, charley and i visited rock city, or rather, the city of rocks, just across the new york line. houses of rock they are in size, but are only inhabited by sight-seers. i wish i could describe them to you, reader. all i know is, they are conglomerate rocks, made up of snowy white pebbles from the size of a pea to a hickory nut, that glisten in the sunlight, making the rocks a crystal palace. as i dig and try to dislodge the brightest from its bed of hardened sand, i wonder how god made the cement that holds them so firmly in place, and how and why he brought these rocks to the surface just here and nowhere else. down, around, and under the rocks we climbed, getting lost in the great crevices, and trying to carve our names on the walls with the many that are chiseled there, but only succeeded in making "our mark." they are one of the beautiful, wonderful things that are beyond description. friday, august 3, i left on the rochester & pittsburgh r.r. for dubois. took a last look at main street with its busy throng, and then out among the grand old hills that tower round with their forests of trees and derricks, winding round past degoliar, custer city, howard junction, and crossing east branch of "tuna" creek. everything is dumped down in wild confusion here--mountains and valleys, hills and hollows, houses and shanties, tanks and derricks, rocks and stones, trees, bushes, flowers, logs, stumps, brush, and little brooks fringed with bright bergamot flowers which cast their crimson over the waters and lade the air with their perfume. on we go past lots of stations, but there are not many houses after we get fairly out of the land of derricks. through cuts and over tressels and fills--but now we are 17 miles from b., and going slowly over the great kinzua bridge, which is the highest railway bridge in the world. it is 2,062 feet from abutment to abutment, and the height of rail above the bed of the creek is 302 feet. kinzua creek is only a little stream that looks like a thread of silver in the great valley of hemlock forest. will mother earth ever again produce such a grand forest for her children? well, for once i feel quite high up in the world. even ex-president grant, with all the honors that were heaped upon him while he "swung around the circle," never felt so elevated as he did when he came to see this bridge, and exclaimed while crossing it, "judas priest, how high up we are!" it is well worth coming far to cross this bridge. i do not experience the fear i expected i would. the bridge is built wide, with foot walks at either side, and the cars run very slow. one hotel and a couple of little houses are all that can be seen excepting trees. i do hope the woodman will spare this great valley--its noble trees untouched--and allow it to forever remain as one of pennsylvania's grandest forest pictures. reader, i wish i could tell you of the great, broad, beautiful mountains of pennsylvania that lift their rounded tops 2,000 to 2,500 feet above sea level. but as the plains of nebraska are beyond description, so are the mountains. j. r. buchanan says: "no one can appreciate god until he has trod the plains and stood upon the mountain peaks." to see and learn of these great natural features of our land but enlarges our love for the great creator, who alone could spread out the plains and rear the mountains, and enrich them with just what his children need. to wind around among and climb the broad, rugged mountains of pennsylvania is to be constantly changing views of the most picturesque scenery of all the states of the union. arrived at dubois 5 p.m. this road has only been in use since in june, and the people gather round as though it was yet a novelty to see the trains come in. i manage to land safely with all my luggage in hand, and make my way through the crowd to dr. smathers'. there stood francis watching the darkies pass on their way to camp meeting; but when he recognized this darkey, he danced a jig around me, and ran on before to tell mamma "auntie pet" had come. i could not wait until i reached the "wee margaretta" to call to her, and then came sister maggie, and were not we glad? and, oh! how thankful for all this mercy! and the new moon looked down upon us, and looked glad too. these were glad, happy days, but i was not yet home. father and norval came in a few days. norval to go with charley to nebraska, and father to take his daughter home. "well, frank, you look just like the same girl after all your wandering," father said, as he wiped his eyes after the first greeting: "yes, nothing seems to change pet, only she is much healthier looking than when she went away," maggie said. august 10. father and i started early for a forty mile drive home, through farming and timber country. about one-third is cleared land, the rest is woods, stumps, and stones. at noon "colonel" was fed, and we sat down under pine trees and took our lunch of dried buffalo meat from the west, peaches from the south, and apples from home. well, i thought, that is just the way this world gets mixed up. it takes a mixture to make a good dinner, and a mixture to make a good world. while going through punxsutawney (gnat-town), i read the sign over a shed, "farming implements." i looked, and saw one wagon, a plow, and something else, i guess it was a stump puller. i could not help comparing the great stock of farming implements seen in every little western town. along big mahoning creek, over good and bad roads, up hill and down we go, until we cross little mahoning--bless its bright waters!--and once more i look upon smicksburg, my own native town--the snuggest, dearest little town i ever did see! and surrounded by the prettiest hills. if i wasn't so tired, i'd make a bow to every hill and everybody. two miles farther on, up a long hill, and just as the sun sends its last rays aslant through the orchard, we halt at the gate of "centre plateau," and as i am much younger than father, i get out and swing wide the gate. it is good to hear the old gate creak a "welcome home" on its rusty hinges once more, and while father drives down the lane i slip through a hole in the fence, where the rails are crooked, and chase rosy up from her snug fence corner; said "how do you do," to goody and her calf, and start prim into a trot; and didn't we all run across the meadow to the gate, where my dear mother stood waiting for me. "mother, dear, your daughter is safe home at last," i said, "and won't leave you soon again!" poor mother was too glad to say much. i skipped along the path into the house, and hattie (charlie's wife) and i made such a fuss that we frightened emma and harry into a cry. i carried the milk to the spring-house for mother, and while she strains it away, i tell her all about uncle john's and the rest of the friends. come, reader, and sit down with me, and have a slice of my dear mother's bread and butter, and have some cream for your blackberries, and now let's eat. i've been hungry so long for a meal at home. and how good to go to my own little room, and thank god for this home coming at my own bedside, and then lay me down to sleep. then there were uncles, aunts, and cousins to visit and friends to see and tell all about my trip, and how i liked the west. then "colonel" was hitched up, and we children put off for a twenty mile ride to visit brother will's. first came sister lizzie to greet us, then dear may, shy little frantie, and squealing, kicking charlie boy was kissed--but where is will? "out at the oats field?" "come, may, take me to your papa; i can't wait until supper time to see him." together we climb the hill, then through the woods to the back field. leaving may to pick huckleberries and fight the "skeeters," i go through the stubble. stones are plenty, and i throw one at him. down goes the cradle and up goes his hat, with "three cheers for sister!" as we trudge down the hill, i said: "let's go west, will, where you have no hills to climb, and can do your farming with so much less labor. why, i didn't see a cradle nor a scythe while i was in nebraska. surely, it is the farmer's own state." "well, i would like to go if father and mother could go too, but i will endure the extra work here for the sake of being near them. if they could go along i would like to try life in the west." home again, and i must get to my writing, for i want to have my book out by the last of september. i had just got nicely interested, when mother puts her head in at the door, and says, with such a disappointed look: "oh! are you at your writing? i wanted you to help me pick some huckleberries for supper." now, who wouldn't go with a dear, good mother? the writing is put aside, and we go down the lane to the dear old woods, and the huckleberries are gathered. seated again-"frank," father says, "i guess you will have to be my chore boy while norval is away. come, i'd like you to turn the grindstone for me while i make a corn cutter." now, who wouldn't turn a grindstone for a dear, good father? there stood father with a broken "sword of bunker hill" in his hand that he found on the battle field of bunker hill, in virginia. "now, father, if you are sure that was a rebel sword, i'll willingly turn until it is all ground up; but if it is a union sword, why then, "hang the old sword in its place," and sharpen up your old corn cutters, and don't let's turn swords into plowshares now even though it be a time of peace." i lock the door and again take up my pen. "rattle, rattle at the latch," and "oo witing, aunt pet? baby and emma wants to kiss aunt pet!" comes in baby voice through the key-hole. the key is quickly turned, and my little golden-haired "niece" and "lover" invade my sanctum sanctorum, and for a time i am a perfect martyr to kisses on the cheeks, mouth, and, as a last resort for an excuse, my little lover puts up his lips for a kiss "on oo nose." now, who wouldn't be a martyr to kisses--i mean baby kisses? thus my time went until the grapes and peaches were ripe, and then came the apples--golden apples, rosy-cheeked apples, and the russet brown. and didn't we children help to eat, gather, store away, and dry until i finished the drying in a hurry by setting fire to the dry house. the cold days came before i got rightly settled down to write again, and although cold blows the wind and the snow is piling high, while the thermometer says 20â° below, yet all i have to do is to take up a cracked slate and write. but i write right over the crack now until the slate is filled, and then it is copied off; i write i live the days all over again; eating mrs. skirving's good things, riding behind oxen and mules, crossing the niobrara, viewing the keya paha, standing on stone butte, walking the streets of valentine, and even yet i feel as though i was running the gauntlet, while the cowboys line the walks. government mules are running off with me, now i am enjoying the "pilgrim's retreat," and i go on until i have all told and every day lived over again in fond memory. and through it i learn a lesson of faith and trust. so i wrote away until february 16, when i again left my dear home for the west, to have my book published. went via dubois and bradford. left bradford march 19, for buffalo, on the r. & p.r.r. the country along this road presents a wild picture, but i fear it would be a dreary winter scene were i to attempt to paint it, for snow drifts are yet piled high along the fence corners. at buffalo i took the michigan central r.r. for chicago. i catch a glimpse of lake erie as we leave buffalo, and then we follow niagara river north to the falls. reader, i will do the best i can to tell you of my car-window view of niagara. we approach the falls from the south, and cross the new suspension bridge, about two miles north of the falls. just below the bridge we see the whirlpool, where capt. webb, in his reckless daring, lost his life. the river here is only about 800 feet wide, but the water is over 200 feet deep. the banks of the river are almost perpendicular, and about 225 feet from top to the water's edge. looking up the river, we can catch only a glimpse of the falls, as the day is very dull, and it is snowing quite hard; but enough is seen to make it a grand picture. across the bridge, and we are slowly rolling over the queen's soil. directly south we go, following close to the river. when we are opposite the falls the train is stopped for a few minutes, while we all look and look again. had the weather been favorable, i would have been tempted to stop and see all that is to be seen. but i expect to return this way at a more favorable time, and shall not then pass this grand picture so quickly by. the spray rises high above the falls, and if the day was clear, i am told a rainbow could be seen arching through the mist. the banks of the river above the falls are low, and we can look over a broad sheet of blue water. but after it rushes over the falls it is lost to our view. i wish i could tell you more, and tell it better, but no pen can do justice to niagara falls. i was rather astonished at canada. why, i did not see more prairie or leveler land in the west than i did in passing through canada. the soil is dark red clay, and the land low and swampy. a little snow was to be seen along the way, but not as much as in new york; the country does not look very thrifty; poor houses and neglected farms; here and there are stretches of forest. crossed the detroit river on a boat as we did the missouri, but it is dark and i can only see the reflection of the electric light on the water as we cross to the michigan shore. the night is dark and i sleep all i can. i did not get to see much of michigan as we reached chicago at eight, friday morning. but there was a friend there to meet me with whom i spent five days in seeing a little mite of the great city. sunday, i attended some of the principal churches and was surprised at the quiet dress of the people generally and also to hear every one join in singing the good old tunes, and how nice it was; also a mission sunday-school in one of the bad parts of the city, where children are gathered from hovels of vice and sin by a few earnest christian people who delight in gathering up the little ones while they are easily influenced. well, i thought, chicago is not all wicked and bad. it has its philanthropists and earnest christian workers, who are doing noble work. monday, lincoln park was visited, and how i did enjoy its pleasant walks on that bright day, and throwing pebbles into lake michigan. tuesday, went to see the panorama of the battle of gettysburg. there now, don't ask me anything about it, only if you are in chicago while it is on exhibition, go to corner wabash avenue and hubbard court, pay your fifty cents and look for yourself. i was completely lost when i looked around, and felt that i had just woke up among the hills of pennsylvania. but painted among the beautiful hills was one of the saddest sights eyes ever looked upon. the picture was life size and only needed the boom of the artillery and the groans of the dying to give it life. wednesday morning brother charles came with a party of twenty, bound for the platte valley, nebraska, but i could not go with them as they went over the c. & n.w.r.r., and as i had been over that road, i wished to go over the c.b. & q.r.r. for a change; so we met only to separate. i left on the 12.45, wednesday, and for a way traveled over the same road that i have before described. there is not much to tell of prairie land in the early spring time and i am too tired to write. we crossed the mississippi river at burlington, 207 miles from chicago, but it is night and we are deprived of seeing what would be an interesting view. indeed it is little we see of iowa, "beautiful land," as so much of it is passed over in the night. 482 miles from chicago, we cross the missouri river at plattsmouth. 60 miles farther brings us to lincoln, arriving there at 12 m. march 27. i surprised deacon keefer's again just at tea-time. mother keefer received me with open arms, and my welcome was most cordial from all, and i was invited to make my home with them during my stay in lincoln. my next work was to see about the printing of my book. i met mr. hathaway, of the state journal co., and found their work and terms satisfactory, and on the morning of the 24th of april, just one year from the day our colony left bradford and the work of writing my book began, i made an agreement with the journal company for the printing of it. i truly felt that with all its pleasures, it had been a year of hard labor. how often when i was busy plying the pen with all heart in the work, kind friends who wished me well would come to me with words of discouragement and ask me to lay aside my pen, saying: "i do not see how you are to manage about its publication, and all the labor it involves." "i do not know myself, but i have faith that if i do the work cheerfully, and to the best of my ability, and 'bearing well my burden in the heat of the day,' that the dear lord who cared for me all through my wanderings while gathering material for this work, and put it into the hearts of so many to befriend me, will not forsake me at the last." "did he forsake me," do you ask? "no, not for one moment." when asked for the name of some one in lincoln as security, i went to one of my good friends who put their name down without hesitation. "what security do you want of me?" i asked. "nothing, only do the best you can with your book." "the dear lord put it into your heart to do this in answer to my many prayers that when the way was dark, and my task heavy, helping hands would be reached out to me." "why god bless you, little girl! the lord will carry you through, so keep up brave heart, and do not be discouraged." i would like to tell you the name of this good friend, but suffice it to say he is one whom, when but a lad, abraham lincoln took into his confidence, and by example taught him many a lesson of big-heartedness such as only abraham lincoln could teach. _friday, may 9th._ i went to wymore to pay my last visit to my dear aunt, fearing that i would not find her there. but the dear father spared her life and she was able to put her arms about me and welcome me with: "the lord is very good to bring you to me in time. i was afraid you would come too late." sunday her spirit went down to the water's edge and she saw the lights upon the other shore and said: "what a beautiful light! oh! if i had my will i would cross over just now." but life lingered and i left her on monday. wednesday brought me this message: "mother has just fallen asleep." with this shadow of sorrow upon me i went to milford that day to begin my maying of '84 with a row on the river and a sun-set view on the blue. "is there a touch lacking or a color wanting?" i asked, as i looked up to the western sky at the beautiful picture, and down upon the mirror of waters, and saw its reflection in its depth. the 15th of may dawned bright and beautiful; not a cloud flecked the sky all the livelong day. we gathered the violets so blue and the leaves so green of shady cliff and the retreat, talking busily of other may-days, and thinking of the loved ones at home who were keeping my may-day in the old familiar places. then back to lincoln carrying bright trophies of our maying at milford, and just at the close of day, when evening breathes her benediction, friends gathered round while two voices repeated: "with this ring i thee wed. by this token i promise to love and cherish." and now reader, hoping that i may some day meet you in _my_ "diary of a minister's wife," i bid you good-bye. [illustration: fremont, elkhorn and missouri valley r.r. and connections, to the free homes for the million.] the mystery of the locks by e. w. howe author of "the story of a country town" boston james r. osgood and company 1885 _copyright, 1885_, by james r. osgood and company. _all rights reserved._ c. j. peters and son, electrotypers. contents. i. the town of dark nights ii. the locks iii. the face at the window iv. davy's bend v. a troubled fancy vi. pictures in the fire vii. the locks' ghost viii. a remarkable girl ix. the "apron and password" x. tug whittle's booty xi. the whispers in the air xii. ruined by kindness xiii. the rebellion of the baritone xiv. the ancient maiden xv. a shot at the shadow xvi. the step on the stair xvii. the pursuing shadow xviii. the rise in the river xix. mr. whittle makes a confession xx. the search in the woods xxi. little ben xxii. tug's return xxiii. the going down of the sun the mystery of the locks. chapter i. the town of dark nights. davy's bend--a river town, a failing town, and an old town, on a dark night, with a misty rain falling, and the stars hiding from the dangerous streets and walks of the failing town down by the sluggish river which seems to be hurrying away from it, too, like its institutions and its people, and as the light of the wretched day that has just closed hurried away from it a few hours since. the darkness is so intense that the people who look out of their windows are oppressed from staring at nothing, for the shadows are obliterated, and for all they know there may be great caverns in the streets, filled with water from the rising river, and vagabond debris on their front steps. it occurs to one of them who opens the blind to his window a moment, and looks out (and who notices incidentally that the rays from his lamp seem afraid to venture far from the casement) that a hard crust will form somewhere above the town, up where there is light for the living, and turn the people of davy's bend into rocks as solid as those thousands of feet below, which thought affects him so much that he closes his blinds and shutters tighter than before, determined that his rooms shall become caves. the rain comes down steadily, plashing into little pools in the road with untiring energy, where it joins other vagrant water, and creeps off at last into the gutter, into the rivulet, and into the river, where it joins the restless tide which is always hurrying away from davy's bend, and bubbles and foams with joy. the citizen who observed the intense blackness of the night comes to his window again, and notes the steady falling of the rain, and in his reverie pretends to regret that it is not possible for the water to come up until his house will float away like an ark, that he may get rid of living in a place where the nights are so dark and wet that he cannot sleep for thinking of them. when he returns to his chair, and attempts to read, the pattering rain is so persistent on the roof and at the windows that the possibility of a flood occurs to his mind, and he thinks with satisfaction that, should it come to pass, davy's bend would at last be as well off as ben's city; and this possibility is so pleasant that he puts out his light, the only one showing in the town, and goes to bed. at the foot of a long street, so close to the river that its single light casts a ghastly glare into the water, stands the railroad station, where the agent awaits the arrival of the single train that visits the place daily,--for only a few people want to go to davy's bend, and not many are left to move away,--so the agent mutters at the rain and the darkness, and growls at the hard fate that keeps him up so late; for, of all the inhabitants of the place, he is the only one who has business to call him out at night. there are no people in davy's bend who are overworked, or whose business cares are so great as to make them nervous or fretful; so they sleep and yawn a great deal, and have plenty of time in which to tell how dull their own place is, and how distressingly active is ben's city, located in the country below them, and which is admired even by the river, for it is always going in that direction. fortunately, on this misty night the agent has not long to wait; for just as he curls himself up in his chair to rest comfortably, certain that the train will be late, there is a hoarse blast from a steam whistle up the road, which echoes through the woods and over the hills with a dismal roar, and by the time he has seized his lantern, and reached the outside, the engine bell is ringing softly in the yard; the headlight appears like a great eye spying out the dark places around the building, and before he has had time to look about him, or express his surprise that the wheels are on time, a few packages have been unloaded, and the train creeps out into the darkness, hurrying away from davy's bend, like the river and the people. there is but one passenger to-night: a man above the medium height and weight, dressed like a city tradesman, who seems to own the packages put off, for he is standing among them, and apparently wondering what disposition he is to make of them; for the agent is about to retire into the station with his books under his arm. evidently the stranger is not good natured, for he hails the official impatiently, and inquires, in a voice that is a mixture of indignation and impudence, if the hotels have no representatives about, and if he is expected to remain out in the rain all night to guard his property. the agent does not know as to that, but he does know that the stranger is welcome to leave his packages in the building until morning, which arrangement seems to be the best offering, for it is accepted, after both men have denounced the town until they are satisfied; for no one pretends to defend davy's bend, so the agent readily assents to whatever the stranger desires to say that is discreditable to his native place, while he is helping him to carry the trunks and bundles into the light. when the rays of the single lamp in the station fall upon the stranger, the agent at first concludes that he is middle-aged, for a new growth of whiskers covers his face completely; but he thinks better of this during the course of his inspection, and remarks to himself that the owner of the packages is not as old as he seemed at first glance, but he is a man not satisfied with himself, or with anything around him,--the agent is sure of that; and as he helps with the baggage, of which there is a great deal, he keeps thinking to himself that it will stand him in hand to be more polite than usual, for the stranger looks sullen enough to fight with very little provocation. his quick, restless eyes were always busy,--the agent feels certain that he has been measured and disposed of in a glance,--but the longer he looks at the stranger the more certain he becomes that the packages he is helping to handle contains goods of importance, for their owner is evidently a man of importance. "there must be gold in that," the agent says, as he puts his end of one of the trunks down, and pauses to rest. "i have been agent here a good many years; but if that is not an excess, i never had hold of one. now for the rest of them." the work is soon finished, and after extinguishing the light the agent steps upon the outside, locks the door, and puts the key into his pocket. "i am sorry," he says, as he stands with the stranger outside the door, on a covered platform, where they are protected from the rain, "but i go in this direction, while the hotel lies in that," pointing the way. "it's a rough road, and you may have trouble in getting them up, but i guess you will get there if you go far enough, for the hotel stands directly at the head of the street. it's a pity that the town does not afford an omnibus, or a public carriage, but it doesn't, and that ends it. i intend to go away myself as soon as i can, for the company does not treat me any too well, though it is generally said that another man could not be found to do the work as i do it for the money." by this time the agent has his umbrella up, which appears to be as dilapidated as the town, for it comes up with difficulty, so he says good night cheerily, and disappears; and the traveller, after shivering awhile on the platform, starts out to follow the direction given him, floundering in the mud at every step. there is a row of houses on either side, with great gaps between them, and he is barely able to make out the strip of lighter shade which he judges is the street he is to follow, the night is so dark; but as the hotel is said to lie directly across his path, he argues that he is sure to run into it sooner or later, so he blunders on, shivering when he realizes that he is becoming wet to the skin. after travelling in this manner much longer than was desirable, finding the sidewalks so bad that he takes to the middle of the street, and finally goes back to the walk again in desperation; stumbling over barrels and carts, and so much rubbish that is oozy and soft as to cause him to imagine that everything is turning into a liquid state in order that it may leave the place by way of the gutters, the rivulets, and the river, he becomes aware that a lantern, carried by one of two men, whose legs are to be seen in long shadows, is approaching, and that they are very merry, for they are making a good deal of noise, and stop frequently to accuse each other of being jolly old boys, or thorough scoundrels, or dreadful villains, or to lean up against the buildings to discuss ribald questions which seem to amuse them. apparently they have no destination, for after one of their bursts of merriment they are as apt to walk up the street as down it; and believing them to be the town riff-raff out for a lark, the stranger tries to pass them without attracting attention when he comes up to their vicinity; but the one who carries the lantern sees him, and, locking arms with his companion, adroitly heads the traveller off, and puts the lantern so close to his face that he dodges back to avoid it. "tug," the man says, in an amused way, "a stranger. there will be a sensation in davy's bend to-morrow; it hasn't happened before in a year." believing the men to be good-natured prowlers who can give him the information he is seeking, the stranger patiently waits while they enjoy their joke; which they do in a very odd fashion, for the man who carries the lantern, and who, the stranger noticed when the lantern was raised, was rather small, and old, and thin-faced, leans against his companion, and laughs in an immoderate but meek fashion. the fellow who had been addressed as tug had said nothing at all, though he snorted once, in a queer way, which threw his companion into greater convulsions of merriment than ever, and changing their position so that they support themselves against a building, one of them continues to laugh gayly, and the other to chuckle and snort, until they are quite exhausted, as though a stranger in davy's bend is very funny indeed. "there will be a train going the other way in three hours,--for both the trains creep through the town at night, as if they were ashamed to be seen here in daylight," the little man says to the traveller, recovering himself, and with a show of seriousness. "you had better take it, and go back; really you had. davy's bend will never suit you. it don't suit anybody. the last man that came here stood it a week, when off he went, and we never expected to see another one. look at these deserted houses in every direction," he continues, stepping out farther into the middle of the street, as if to point around him, but remembering that the night is so dark that nothing can be seen, he goes back to his companion, and pokes him in the ribs, which causes that worthy to snort once more in the odd way that the stranger noticed on coming up. this reminds them of their joke again; so they return to the building, leaning against it with their arms, their heads, and their backs, laughing as they did before. meanwhile the stranger stands out in the rain, watching the two odd men with an air of interest; but at last, recollecting his condition, he says,-"it happens that i am looking for a place that suits nobody, and one that is generally avoided. if you will point out the way to the hotel, i will decide that question for myself to-morrow." the little man picks up the lantern immediately when the hotel is mentioned. "i never thought of the hotel," he exclaims, on the alert at once, and starting up the street, followed by his snorting companion, who ambled along like the front part of a wagon pushed from behind. "it is my business to be at the station when the train arrives, to look for passengers," the man continues as he hurries on with the light; "but it seemed like a waste of time to go down there, for nobody ever comes; so i thought i'd spend the time with tug." the man says this in a tone of apology, as though accustomed to making explanations for lack of attention to business; and as he leads the way he is not at all like the jolly fellow who laughed so immoderately, while leaning against the building, at his own weak joke; but perhaps he is one thing when on duty, and another when he is out airing himself. however this may be, the stranger follows, taking long strides to keep up, and occasionally stumbling over the person who has been referred to as tug, and who appears to be unjointed in his legs; for when room is made for him on the left-hand side of the walk, he is sure suddenly to turn up on the right. thus they hurry along without speaking, until at length a dim light appears directly ahead of them, and coming up to this presently, the stranger finds that it comes from a building lying across the course in which they are travelling; for the street leading up from the river and the station ends abruptly in that direction with the hotel, as it ended in the other with the station. another street crosses here at right angles, and the hotel turns travellers either to the right or to the left. when the three men enter the place, and the light is turned up, the traveller sees that it had formerly been a business place; that it has been patched and pieced, and does not seem to answer the purpose for which it is being used without a protest, for the guests fall down two steps when they attempt to enter the dining-room, and everyone is compelled to go outside the office to get to the stairway leading to the rooms above. in its better days the room used as an office had probably been a provision store; for the whitewash on the walls does not entirely cover price-lists referring to chickens and hams and oats and flour. "i am the clerk here," the man who had carried the lantern says, as he brings out a chair for the stranger, but condemns it after examination because both the back legs are gone, and it can only be used when leaning against the wall. "i am sorry i was not at the station to meet you; but it is so seldom that anyone comes that i hope you will not mention it to him," pointing his thumb upward, evidently referring to the proprietor sleeping above. the arrival was thinking that queer little men like the one before him were to be found at every country hotel he had ever visited, acting as clerk during the hours when there was no business, and as hostler and waiter during the day, but he rather liked the appearance of this fellow, for he seemed more intelligent than the most of them, so he turned to listen to what he was saying, at the same time recollecting that he himself had suddenly become very grave. "this is not much of a hotel," the clerk continues, at last fishing out a chair that seems to be strong, and placing it in front of the guest; "but it is the best davy affords. the hotel, though, is better than the town; you will find that out soon enough." a small man, of uncertain age, the clerk turns out to be, now that the light is upon him. he may be thirty, or forty, or fifty; for, judged in some ways, he looks old, while judged in other ways he looks young; but it is certain that he is not jolly around the hotel as he was on the street, for he is very meek, and occasionally strokes his pale face, which is beardless, with the exception of a meek little tuft on either side, as though he thinks that since he has been caught laughing it will go hard with him. after looking at his companion, with an amused smile, for a moment, the stranger says that he will not mention anything, good or bad, "to him," whoever he may be, and, while thinking to himself that "davy" is a familiar way of referring to davy's bend, he notices that the man who has already been called tug, and who has found a chair and is sitting bolt upright in it, is eyeing him closely. he also remarks that tug is hideously ugly, and that he is dressed in a suit of seedy black, which has once been respectable, but is now so sleek, from long use, that it glistens in the lamplight. he has a shock of hair, and a shock of beard, both of which seem to have been trimmed recently by a very awkward person; and the stranger also notices, in the course of his idle examination, that one of tug's eyes, the left one, is very wide open, while the other is so nearly shut that generally the man seems to be aiming at something. when tug winks with the eye that is wide open, the one that is nearly shut remains perfectly motionless, but follows the example presently, and winks independently and of its own accord, so that the stranger thinks of him as walking with his eyes, taking a tremendous leap with his left, and then a limp with his right. tug continues his observations, in spite of the cold stare of the stranger, and makes several discoveries, one of which is, that the stranger has a rather good-looking face and a large and restless eye. tug imagines that he can read the man's character in his eye as easily as in an open book, for it has varying moods, and seems to be resolute at one moment, and gloomy and discontented at another. although he is looking straight at him, tug is certain that the stranger's thoughts are not always in davy's bend; and, while thinking that the stranger has important matters to think of somewhere, the clerk returns from the kitchen, carrying in his arms a great piece of cold beef, a loaf of bread, a half a pie in a tin plate, and a coffee-pot and a tumbler. covering with a newspaper a round table that stands in the room, he places the articles upon it, and asks the guest to sit up and help himself. the stranger declined, but he noticed that tug, from his position against the wall, was walking toward the table with his eyes, with first a long step and then a short one, and that at a sign from his friend he walked over hurriedly with his legs, and went to work with a ravenous appetite, putting pieces of meat and bread into his mouth large enough to strangle him. this convinced the stranger that the lunch was really prepared for tug, and that there would have been disappointment had he accepted the clerk's invitation. "i don't suppose you care to know it," the clerk said, seating himself, and apparently enjoying the manner in which tug was disposing of the cold meat, "but my name is silas davy. i am what is known as a good fellow, and my father was a good fellow before me. he discovered this town, or located it, or settled here first, or something of that kind, and once had a great deal of property; but, being a good fellow, he couldn't keep it. if you will give me your name, i will introduce you to my friend, mr. tug whittle." "i don't care to know him," the guest replied, somewhat ill-humoredly, his restless eyes indicating that his thoughts had just returned from a journey out in the world somewhere, as they finally settled on tug. "i don't like his looks." tug looked up at this remark, sighted awhile at the guest with his right eye, and, after swallowing his last mouthful, with an effort, pointed a finger at him, to intimate that he was about to speak. "did you see any ragged or sore-eyed people get off the train to-night?" he inquired, in a deep bass voice, still pointing with his bony finger, and aiming along it with his little eye. the guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply, but at last said he was the only passenger for davy's bend. "i was expecting more of my wife's kin," tug said, with an angry snort, taking down his finger to turn over the meat-bone, and using his eye to look for a place not yet attacked. "come to think about it, though, they are not likely to arrive by rail; they will probably reach town on foot, in the morning. they are too poor to ride. i wish they were too sick to walk, damn them. do you happen to know what the word ornery means?" the guest acted as though he had a mind not to reply again, but finally shook his head, after some hesitation. "well," the ugly fellow said, "if you stay here,--which i don't believe you will, for you look too much like a good one to remain here long,--i'll introduce you not only to the word but to the kin. after you have seen my wife's relations, you'll fight when anybody calls you ornery." finding a likely spot on the meat-bone at the conclusion of this speech, mr. whittle went on with his eating, and was silent. "there are a great many people who do not like tug's looks," the clerk went on to say, without noticing the interruption, and looking admiringly at that individual, as though he could not understand why he was not more generally admired; "so it is not surprising that you are suspicious of him. i do not say it with reference to you, for you do not know him; but my opinion is that the people dislike him because of his mind. he knows too much to suit them, and they hate him." by this time tug had wiped up everything before him, and after transferring the grease and pie crumbs from his lips and beard to his sleeve, the three men were silent, listening to the rain on the outside, and taking turns in looking out of the windows into the darkness. "i suppose the shutters are rattling dismally up at the locks to-night," silas davy said. "and the windows! lord, how the windows must rattle! i've been told that when there isn't a breath of air the shutters and windows at the locks go on at a great rate, and they must be at it to-night, for i have never known it to be so oppressive and still before." "and the light," tug suggested, removing his aim from the stranger a moment, and directing it toward davy. "yes, the light, of course," davy assented. "they say--i don't know who says it in particular, but everybody says it in general--that on a night like this a light appears in the lower rooms, where it disappears and is seen in the front hall; then in the upper hall, and then in an upper room, where it goes out finally, as if someone had been sitting down-stairs, in the dark, and had struck a light to show him up to bed. there is no key to the room where the light disappears, and those who visit the house are not permitted to enter it. i have never seen the light myself, but i have been to the house on windy, noisy days, and it was as silent on the inside as a tomb. the windows and shutters being noisy on quiet nights, i suppose they feel the need of a rest when the wind is blowing." the guest was paying a good deal of attention, and davy went on talking. "the place has not been occupied in a great many years. the man who built it, and occupied it, and who owns it now, made money in davy's bend, and went away to the city to live, where he has grown so rich that he has never sent for the plunder locked up in the rooms; i suppose it is not good enough for him now, for i am told that he is very proud. he has been trying to sell the place ever since, but davy began going down hill about that time, and the people have been kicking it so sturdily ever since that nobody will take it. and i don't blame them, for it is nothing more than a nest for ghosts, even if it is big, and respectable-looking, and well furnished." the guest's mind is evidently in davy's bend now, for he has been paying close attention to the clerk as he talks in a modest easy fashion, even neglecting his first ambition to stare mr. whittle out of countenance. it may be that he is in need of an establishment, and is looking out for one; but certainly he takes considerable interest in the place silas davy referred to as the locks. "who has the renting of the house?" he interrupted the clerk to inquire. the clerk got up from his chair, and, walking over to that portion of the room where the counter was located, took from a nail a brass ring containing a number of keys of about the same size. "here are the keys," davy said, returning to his chair, and holding them up for inspection. "number one admits you to the grounds through the iron gate; number two opens the front door; number three, any of the rooms leading off from the hall down stairs; number four, any of the rooms opening off from the hall up stairs; and number five and number six, any of the other rooms. _we_ are the agents, i believe, though am not certain; but anyway we keep the keys. the place came to be known as the locks because of the number of keys that were given to those who applied to see it, and the locks it has been ever since." the stranger rose to his feet, and paced up and down the room awhile, thinking all the time so intently that it occurred to tug that he was puzzled to decide whether his family would consent to live in a place which had the reputation of being visited by a ghost carrying a light. "i would like to see this house," he said, stopping in his walk finally, and addressing davy. "i may become a purchaser. will you show me the way to it, now?" up to this time, since polishing the meat-bone, tug had occupied himself by aiming at the stranger, but as if the suggestion of a walk up to the locks was pleasing to him, he jumped to his feet, and walked towards the door. silas davy made no other reply than to put the ring containing the keys on his arm, and, putting out the light, the three men stepped out into the rain together. the locks appear to be located towards the river; not down where the railway train stops to take people on who desire to get away from davy's bend, but higher up the street running at right angles in front of the hotel, for the men walk in that direction, davy and tug ahead carrying the lantern, with their arms locked together, and the stranger behind, who thinks the two men are a queer pair, for they seem to enjoy being out in the rain, and one of them, the smaller one, laughs frequently but timidly, while the other snorts in a manner which the stranger recognizes as signifying pleasure. occasionally they stop to light the stranger's steps on reaching a particularly bad place, and when he has passed it they go on again; up hill and down, toward the river, and when they stop at last, it is so dark that the stranger does not know that they have reached a stone wall with an iron gate opening into an enclosure, until he comes entirely up to them. the lock turns heavily, and tug condescends to hold the lantern while silas applies both hands to the key. upon the inside a long stone walk, leading toward the house, then a flight of stone steps, and a porch is reached, where they are out of the rain. silas selects a key from the collection he carries on his arm, and, once more calling upon tug to hold the light, opens the door, and they all enter the wide hall. considering that the house has not been occupied for eight years, it is in good condition. as they walk through the different rooms, davy opening the doors from the bunch of keys on his arm, the stranger notices that they are decently furnished, everything being plain and substantial; and he hears for the first time, while standing in front of the door that is not to be opened, that an old lady and her grand-daughter live on the grounds in a detached building, who, when she sees fit, airs and dusts the rooms, and that she has lived there for eight years, in the pay of the owner. this explains the good condition of everything, and they continue their investigation by the dim light of the lantern. there are ten rooms in all, counting the two in the attic, all of them furnished, from the kitchen to the parlor; and the stranger is so well pleased that he inquires the rent asked, and the purchase price. silas davy is not certain as to either, but promises that his proprietor will give full particulars in the morning. "i will take the house," the stranger finally says, after a lamp has been found and lighted, and seating himself in a chair as an intimation that he is ready for the two men to depart. "if i do not buy it i will rent it, and i will stay here to-night." tug is willing to depart at once, but silas lags behind, and seems to be ill at ease. "have you any objection to giving me your name, that i may record it at the house?" he respectfully asks. "oh, my name," the stranger returns. "sure enough; i had forgotten that." it seems to have escaped him, for while silas stands waiting, he studies for a long time, contracting his brow until he looks so fierce and savage that tug, who has been aiming at him from the door, steps out into the hall to get out of the way. "you may register me as allan dorris," he said at last, getting up from his chair, and looking confused, "from nowhere-in-particular. it is not important where i am from, so long as i am responsible; and i will convince your proprietor of that in the morning. you will oblige me if you will step over to the quarters of the old lady you spoke of, and inform her that there is a new master at the locks, and that he has taken possession. when you return i will show you out." "i neglected to mention," silas says, after making a note of what the stranger has said on an envelope, "that you can open and close the gate from this room, and lock and unlock it. there is also a speaking-tube leading from this room, whereby you can converse with persons on the outside. i will call you up when i go out. it is located here, behind the door." the two men step over to examine it, and tug creeps in to look too, and after sighting at it awhile returns to the hall. the apparatus consists of an iron lever, with a show of chains running over pulleys and disappearing through the floor, and a speaking-tube. silas explains that when the lever is up the gate is open, and when it is down the gate is shut and locked. both men try it, and conclude that, with a little oil; it will work very well, leaving it open so that the men may pass out. there being no further excuse for remaining, silas and his ugly friend start down the stairs, the stranger holding the light at the top; and after they have passed out of the door and slammed it to work the spring lock, and tried it to see that it is locked, allan dorris returns to the room they have just left. the grate in the room is filled with wood, and there is kindling at the bottom, probably put there years before, judging by the dust; and the stranger lights this, intending to dry his wet clothing. while about it there is a whistle from the speaking-tube, and going over to it and replying, a sepulchral voice comes to him from somewhere to the effect that mrs. wedge, the housekeeper, is delighted to hear that the house is to be occupied at last; that she will call upon the new master in the morning to pay her respects, as well as to make her arrangements for the future; and, good night. the stranger says good night in return, pulls the lever down, which closes and locks the gate, and returns to the fire, which is burning brightly by this time. "allan dorris, from nowhere-in-particular," he mutters after he is seated, and while watching his steaming garments. there is an amused look on his face at first, as he repeats the name, but a frown soon takes its place, that grows blacker as he crouches down into his chair, and looks at the fire. at length he seems to tire of his thoughts, for he gets up and walks the floor, pausing occasionally to look curiously at the pictures on the walls, or at the carpet, or at the furniture. if he returns to his chair, the frown appears on his face again, and once more he walks to get rid of his thoughts. this is continued so long that the darkness finally gets tired of looking in at the windows, and hurries away at the approach of day. from time to time, as the light increases, he steps to the window and looks out; and when walking away, after a long look at davy's bend through the morning mist, he mutters:-"allan dorris, if you are from nowhere-in-particular, you are at home again." chapter ii. the locks. from the southern windows of the locks, allan dorris looked with curious interest the day after his arrival, and the week and the month following, for he remained there for that length of time without going out, except to walk along the country roads for exercise, where he occasionally met wagons containing men who cursed the town they were leaving for its dullness. the dwellings of davy's bend were built upon hills sloping toward the little valley where the business houses were, and which poured a flood of water and mud into the long streets in rainy weather through gaping gullies of yellow clay. the rains seemed to be so fierce and frequent there that in the course of time they had cut down the streets, leaving the houses perching on hills above them, which were reached by flights of steps; and this impression was strengthened by the circumstance that it was a wet time, for it rained almost incessantly. the houses were a good way apart, so far as he could see from his southern windows; and this circumstance caused him to imagine that the people were suspicious of each other, and he noticed that while many of them had once been of a pretending character, they were now generally neglected; and that there was a quiet air everywhere that reminded him of the country visited in his walks. the houses themselves appeared to look at him with a cynical air, as the people did, as if to intimate that he need not hope to surprise them with his importance, or with anything he might do, for their quiet streets had once resounded to the tread of busy feet, and they had seen strangers before, and knew the ways of men. some of the dwellings perching on the hills, deserted now except as to bats and owls, resembled unfortunate city men in a village; for there was a conspicuous air of decayed propriety about them, and an attempt at respectability that would have been successful but for lack of means. these in particular, he thought, made faces at him, and sneered as he passed through their part of the town in his walks to and from the country roads. several times he heard parties of men passing his house at night, talking loudly to make themselves heard above the jolting of their wagons; and these usually had something to say about the new owner of the locks, from which he imagined that there was much speculation in the town concerning him. the house in which he lived was such a gloomy place, and he was shut up in it alone for such a length of time, that he came to listen to the sound of human voices with pleasure, and often went to the windows to watch for the approach of wagons, that he might hear the voices of their occupants; for there were no solitary travellers that way, and while the men may have been dissatisfied with themselves and their surroundings, they at least had company. he longed to join these parties, and go with them to their homes, for he thought the companionship of rough men and their families would be preferable to the stillness of his house; but the wagons drove on, and allan dorris returned to his walk across the room, and back again. from the window most patronized by him in his lonely hours he could see a long stretch of the river, and at a point opposite the town a steam ferry was moored. usually smoke was to be seen flying from its pipes during the middle hours of the day, as it made a few lazy trips from one shore to the other; but occasionally it was not disturbed at all, and sat quietly upon the water like a great bird from morning until night. from making excursions about his own premises, as a relief from doing nothing, he found that the house in which he lived was situated in a wooded tract of several acres in extent, entirely surrounded by a high stone wall, with two entrances; one in front, by means of a heavy iron gate, which looked like a prison door, and a smaller one down by the stable. the stable, which was built of brick, had been occupied by pigeons without objection for so many years that they were now very numerous, and protested in reels and whirls and dives and dips in the air against the new owner coming among them at all; perhaps they imagined that in time they would be permitted to occupy the house itself, and rear their young in more respectable quarters. there were a few fruit and ornamental trees scattered among the others, but they had been so long neglected as to become almost as wild as the native oaks and hickories. occasionally a tall poplar shot its head above the others, and in his idleness allan dorris imagined that they were trying to get away from the dampness below, for in the corners, and along the stone wall, there was such a rank growth of vines and weeds that he was almost afraid to enter the dank labyrinth himself. there was a quaking asp, too, which was always shivering at thought of the danger that might be concealed in the undergrowth at its feet, and even the stout hickories climbed a good way into the air to insure their safety. close to the south wall, so close that he could almost touch it, stood a stone church, with so many gables that there seemed to be one for every pigeon from the stable, and on certain days of the week someone came there to practise on the organ. at times the music was exquisite, and in his rambles about the place he always went down by the south wall to listen for the organ, and if he heard it he remained there until the music ceased. the music pleased him so much, and was such a comfort in his loneliness, that he did not care to see the player, having in his mind a spectacled and disagreeable person whose appearance would rob the spell of its charm; therefore he kept out of his way, though, on the days when the music could be expected, dorris was always in his place, impatiently waiting for it to commence. there was something in the playing with which he seemed to have been acquainted all his life; it may have been only the expression of weariness and sad melancholy that belongs to all these instruments, but, however it was, he regarded the organ as an old acquaintance, and took much pleasure in its company even when it was silent, for it occupied a great stone house like himself, and had nothing to do. between the stable and the house was the residence of mrs. wedge, the housekeeper--a building that had originally been a detached kitchen, but the cunning of woman had transformed the two rooms into a pleasant and cozy place. this looked home-like and attractive, as there were vines over it and flowers about the door; and here allan dorris found himself lingering from day to day, for he seemed to crave companionship, though he was ashamed to own it and go out and seek it. instead of dining in the stone house, he usually sat down at mrs. wedge's table, which he supplied with a lavish hand, and lingered about until he thought it necessary to go away, when he tried to amuse himself in the yard by various exercises, which were probably recollections of his younger days; but he failed at it, and soon came back to ask the motherly old housekeeper odd questions, and laugh good-naturedly at her odd answers. a highly respectable old lady was mrs. wedge, in her black cloth dress and snowy white cap, and no one was more generally respected in davy's bend. during his life mr. wedge had been a strolling agent, never stopping in a town more than a week; and thus she lived and travelled about, always hoping for a quiet home, until her good-natured but shiftless husband took to his bed one day, and never got up again, leaving as her inheritance his blessing and a wild son of thirteen, who knew all about the ways of the world, but nothing of industry. hearing of davy's bend soon after as a growing place,--which was a long time ago, for davy's bend was not a growing place now,--she apprenticed her son to a farmer, and entered the service of the owner of the locks, under whose roof she had since lived. the wild son did not take kindly to farming, and ran away; and his mother did not hear of him again until four years after she was living alone in the locks, when a little girl five years old arrived, accompanied by a letter, stating that the son had lived a wanderer like his father, and that the child's mother being dead, he hoped mrs. wedge would take care of his daughter betty until the father made his fortune. but the father never made his fortune; anyway, he never called for the child, and mrs. wedge had found in her grand-daughter a companion and a comfort, passing her days in peace and quiet. therefore when the new owner offered her a home there, and wages besides, in return for her agreement to undertake his small services, she accepted--having become attached to the place--and lived on as before. the house itself, which was built of stone, and almost square, contained ten rooms; four of about the same size below, and four exactly like them above, and two in the attic or half story in the roof. there were wide halls up stairs and down, and out of the room that allan dorris had selected for his own use, and which was on the corner looking one way toward the gate in front, and the other toward the town, began a covered stairway leading to the attic. in this room he sat day after day, and slept night after night, until he almost became afraid of the quiet that he believed he coveted when he came to davy's bend; and at times he looked longingly toward the speaking-tube behind the door, hoping it would whistle an announcement that a visitor had arrived; for his habit of sitting quietly looking at nothing, until his thoughts became so disagreeable that he took long walks about the place to rid himself of them, was growing upon him. but no visitors came to vary the monotony, except the agent on the morning after his arrival, who received a quarter's rent in advance, and afterwards named a price so low that allan dorris bought the place outright, receiving credit for the rent already paid. had the dark nights that looked in at allan dorris's windows, and for which davy's bend seemed to be famous, been able to remark it, there would have been much mysterious gossip through the town concerning his strange actions. whenever he sat down, his eyes were at once fixed on nothing, and he lost himself in thought; he was oblivious to everything, and the longer he thought, the fiercer his looks became, until finally he sprang from his chair and walked violently about, as if his body was trying to escape from his head, which contained the objectionable thoughts. at times he would laugh hoarsely, and declare that he was better off at the locks than he had ever been before, and that davy's bend was the best place in which he had ever lived; but these declarations did not afford him peace, for he was soon as gloomy and thoughtful as ever. that he was ill at ease, the dark nights could have easily seen had they been blessed with eyes; for the dread of loneliness grew upon him, and frequently he sent for mrs. wedge, confessing to her that he was lonely, and that she would oblige him by talking, no matter what it was about. mrs. wedge would politely comply, and in a dignified way relate how, on her visits to the stores to purchase supplies, great curiosity was everywhere expressed with reference to the new master of the locks,--what business he would engage in; where he came from; and, most of all, there was a universal opinion that he had bought the locks for almost nothing. "a great many say they would have taken the place at the price themselves," mrs. wedge would continue, smoothing down the folds of her apron, a habit of which she never tired, "but this is not necessarily true. the people here never want to buy anything until it is out of the market; which gives them excuse for grumbling, of which they have great need, for they have little else to do. i believe the price at which you took the house was lower than it was ever offered before,--but that is neither here nor there." then mrs. wedge would tell of the queer old town, in a quaint way, and of the people, which amused her employer; and noticing that, in his easy chair, he seemed to enjoy her company, she would smooth out her apron once more, and continue:-"they all agree,"--there would be an amused smile on mrs. wedge's face as she said it,--"they all agree that you do not amount to much, else you would have gone to ben's city, instead of coming here. this is always said of every stranger, for davy's bend is so dull that its people have forgotten their patriotism. i have not heard a good word for the town in ten years, but it is always being denounced, and cursed, and ridiculed. i think we despise each other because we do not move to ben's city, and we live very much as i imagine the prisoners in a jail do,--in cursing our home, in lounging, in idle talk, and in expecting that each one of us will finally be fortunate, while the condition of the others will grow worse. we are a strange community." dorris expressed surprise at the size of the church near the locks, and wondered at the deserted houses which he had seen in his walks, whereupon mrs. wedge explained that davy's bend was once a prosperous city, containing five thousand busy people, but it had had bad luck since; very bad luck, for less than a fifth of that number now remained, and even they are trying to get away. what is the cause of this decrease in population? the growth of ben's city, thirty miles down the river. the belief which existed at one time that a great town would be built at davy's bend turned out to be a mistake. ben's city seemed to be the place; so the people had been going there for a number of years, leaving davy's bend to get along as best it could. this, and much more, from mrs. wedge, until at a late hour she notices that dorris is asleep in his chair, probably having got rid of his thoughts; so she takes up the lamp to retire with it. holding it up so that the shade throws the light full upon his face, she remarks to herself that she is certain he is a good, an honorable, and a safe man, whoever he is, for she prides herself on knowing something about men, and arranging the room for the night, although it does not need it, she goes quietly down the stairs, out at a door in a lower room, and into her own apartment. chapter iii. the face at the window. allan dorris sleeps on, unconscious of the darkness peering in at him from the outside, which is also running riot in the town, and particularly down by the river, where the crazy houses with their boarded windows seem to collect shadows during the day for use at night, robbing the sunlight for the purpose; for there is little brightness and warmth at davy's bend, but much of dampness and hazy atmosphere. there is light and life down this way; a light in the window of the wretched house occupied by mr. tug whittle, and all the neighboring buildings are alive with rats and vermin. tug occupies his house for the same reason that the rats occupy theirs, for in this quarter of the town the tenants pay no rent. some of the buildings were once busy warehouses and stores, but they have been turned over to the rats these ten years, and tug occupies a little frame one from choice, as he argues that if it falls down from old age, there will not be so many ruins in which to bury the tenants. besides, the big buildings shelter him from the cold north winds in winter, and do not interfere with the southern breezes from the river in summer; therefore the faded sign of "t. whittle, law office," swings in front of the little frame building back from the street, instead of from the more imposing ones by its side. everybody knows tug whittle, and admits that he is perfectly harmless and hopelessly lazy--always excepting silas davy, who believes that his friend is very energetic and dangerous; therefore when silas is unable to hold a position because he is a good fellow, or because he spends so much time at night with tug that he is unfit for work during the day, he is also an inhabitant of the little law office, along with the lawyer and the rats, although it is not much of a law office, for it contains nothing but a stove, half cooking and half heating, a bed that looks as though it came from the fourth story of a cheap hotel, a few broken chairs, a box that is the lawyer's table, and a few other articles common to a kitchen, all of them second-hand, and very poor. there is nothing about the place to suggest a law office save the sign in front, and a single leather-covered book on the inside; a ponderous volume to which mr. whittle applies for everything, including kindling. silas has seen him look through it to decide questions in science, theology, law, and history, and tear leaves out of it with which to start his fire; and while a cunning man would have guessed that mr. whittle made up his authority, instead of finding it in the book, silas davy, who is not cunning, believes that it is a repository of secrets of every kind, although it is really a treatise on a law which has been repealed many years. when silas so far forgets himself as to mildly question something his companion has said, mr. whittle refers to the book, and triumphantly proves his position, no difference what it may be; whereupon the little man feels much humiliated. mr. whittle has even been known to refer to the book to convict his enemies in davy's bend of various offences; and silas has so much respect for the volume that he has no trouble in imagining that the den in which tug lives is not only a law office, but a repository of profane, political, and sacred history, to say nothing of the sciences and the town scandal. like the rats again, tug lies by during the day, and goes abroad at night, for he is seldom seen on the streets until the sun goes down, and he is not entirely himself until after midnight. occasionally, on dark, bad days he is to be seen walking about, but not often, and it is known that he sleeps most of the day on the rough bed in his rough office. if he is disturbed by idle boys, which is sometimes the case, he gets up long enough to drive them away, and returns to his bed until it is dark, when he yawns and stretches himself, and waits patiently for silas davy, who is due about that hour with his supper. but for silas davy, like the rats again, tug would be compelled to steal for a living; for he never works, but silas believes in him, and admires him, and whenever he is employed, he saves half of what he gets for his friend, who eats it, and is not grateful. indeed, he often looks at silas as much as to say that he is not providing for him as well as he should, whereupon silas looks downcast and miserable; but, all in all, they get along very well together. up to the present rainy and wet year of our lord eighteen hundred and no difference what, tug has never admired anyone, so far as is known; but he admires allan dorris, the new owner of the locks, and frequently says to silas that "_there_ is a man," at the same time aiming his big eye in the direction dorris is supposed to be. there is every reason why tug should admire silas davy, who is very good to him, but he does not, except in a way, and which is a very poor way; and there is no reason why he should admire allan dorris, who is suspicious of him, but he does, and on this night, silas having arrived early with his supper, he is killing two birds with one stone, by discussing both at the same time. "by the horns of a tough bull," tug says, which is his way of swearing, "but there _is_ a man. muscle, brain, clothes, independence, money; everything. what, no butter to-night?" he says this impatiently after running through the package his companion has brought, and not finding what he was looking for; and silas humbly apologizes, saying he could not possibly get it at the hotel. "well, no matter," tug continued in an injured way, using a pickle and two slices of bread as a sandwich. "it will come around all right some day. when i come into my rights, i'll have butter to spare. but this impudent dorris; i like him. he has the form of an apollo and the muscle of a giant. if he should hit you, you would fall so fast that your rings would fly off your fingers. he's the kind of a man i'd be if i had my rights." while tug is munching away at his supper, davy remembers how unjust the people are with reference to these same rights; how they say he has none, and never will have, except the right to die as soon as possible. the people say that tug's wife, the milliner, drove him from her house because he would not work, and because he was ugly in disposition, as well as in face and person; that it was soon found out that he was not so dangerous, after all, when men were talking to him, so they have regarded him as a harmless but eccentric loafer ever since. some of the people believe that tug does not appear on the streets during the day for fear of meeting his wife, while others contend that he goes out only at night because he is up to mischief; but neither class care to question him about the matter, for he has a mean tongue in his head, and knows how to defend himself, even though he is compelled to invent facts for the purpose. but davy knows that tug can tell a very different story, and tell it well, and he is sure that there will be a genuine sensation when he finally tells it, and comes into his own. "what a voice he has, and what a eye," mr. whittle goes on to say, throwing a leg over a chair to be comfortable. "i usually despise a decent man because i am not one myself, but this fellow--damn him, i like him." silas davy was the sort of a man who is never surprised at anything. had he been told on a dark night that it was raining blood on the outside, he would not have disputed it, or investigated it, believing that such storms were common, though they had escaped his observation; therefore he was not surprised that tug admired allan dorris, although he knew he had no reason to. "i have known people to come here and denounce us for a lack of culture who knew nothing about propriety except to eat pie with a fork," mr. whittle said again; "but this dorris,--i'll bet he practises the proprieties instead of preaching them. he don't remind me of the people who come here and call us ignorant cattle because we do not buy their daub paintings at extravagant prices, or take lessons from them; _he_ don't look like the cheap fellows who declare that we lack cultivation because we refuse to patronize their fiddle and pianow concerts, therefore look out for dorris. he's a man, sure enough; i'll stake every dollar i'm worth and my reputation on it." although he had neglected to bring butter, the supper silas had brought was good enough to put mr. whittle in a cheerful humor, and he continued,-"the people around here put me in mind of the freaks in a dime museum; but dorris's clothes fit him, and he looks well. there are plenty of men so common that they look shabby in broadcloth, and who are so miserably shaped that no tailor can fit their bones; but this fellow--he would look well with a blanket thrown over his shoulders, and running wild. hereafter, when i refer to my rights, understand that i would be a dorris sort of a fellow were justice done me. did you bring me a drink?" silas produced a flask from his pocket, and while tug was mixing the contents with sugar, by means of stirring them together with a spoon in a tumbler, making a cheerful, tinkling sound the while, he delivered a stirring temperance lecture to his companion. he did this so often that silas regarded himself as a great drunkard, although that was not one of his failings; but he felt grateful to tug, who drank a great deal, for his good advice. he was so mortified to think of his bad habits and tug's worthiness, that he turned his face away, unable to reply. "dorris reminds me of a young widow two years after the funeral," mr. whittle said, after drinking the dram he had prepared. "handsome, clean, well-dressed, and attractive. i have an ambition to be a young widow myself, but owing to the circumstance that i have been defrauded of my rights, at present i look like a married woman with six children who does not get along with her husband. in short, i am slouchy, and ill-tempered, and generally unattractive, with an old wrapper on, and my hair down. ben, come here." the light in the room was so dim that it had not yet revealed to the eyes of silas the form of a boy seated on a low box at the side of the room farthest from him, who now came over into the rays of the lamp, and looked timidly at tug. silas knew the boy very well; little ben whittle, the son of his friend, who worked on a farm three miles in the country, and who came to town occasionally after dark to see silas, who treated him well, but always returning in time to be called in the morning; for his employer was a rough man, and very savage to his horses and cattle and boys. ben was dressed in a coat no longer than a jacket, buttoned tightly around his body, and his pants were so short that they did not nearly touch the tops of his rough shoes. he wore on his head a crazy old hat, through the torn top of which his uncombed hair protruded, and altogether he was such a distressing sight that davy was always pitying him, although he was never able to do him much good, except to treat him kindly when he came to the hotel at long intervals, and give him something to eat. "are you hungry?" tug inquired, looking sharply at the boy, as he stood cringing before him. "yes, sir, if you please." "then help yourself," his father roughly returned, crabbed because ben had told the truth, and pointing to the table; whereupon the boy went to nibbling away at the crumbs and bones remaining of the lunch brought by silas. little ben was so surprisingly small for a boy of eleven that he was compelled to stand to reach the crumbs and bones, but his father regarded him as a brawny youth as tough as dogwood. "when i was a boy of his age," tug said to davy, "they dressed me up in good clothes, and admired me, and thought i was about the cutest thing on earth, but i wasn't." davy looked up as if to inquire what he really was at ben's age, and received an answer. "i was an impudent imp, and detested by all the neighbors; that's the truth. my father used to go around town, and tell the people the cute things i said, instead of making me go to work, and teaching me industry; but the people didn't share his enthusiasm, and referred to me as that 'worthless whittle boy.' ben, what can you do?" "i can cut corn, sir, and drive the team, and plough a little," the boy replied, startled by his father's loud voice. "anything else?" "i can't remember everything, sir. i do as much as i can." little ben did not look as though he could be of much use on a farm, for he was very thin, and very weak-looking; but apparently this did not occur to his father, who continued to stare at him as though he wondered at his strength. "think of that, will you," tug continued, addressing silas again. "he can cut corn, and plough, and all that, and only eleven years old. why, when he gets to be thirteen or fourteen he will whip old quade, and take possession of the farm! what could i do when i was eleven years old? nothing but whine, and i was always at it, although i was brought up in a house with three-ply carpets on the floor, and always treated well. i was treated _too_ well, and i intend to make a man out of ben by seeing that he is treated as mean as possible. look here, you," he added turning toward the boy, "when old quade fails to lick you twice a day, get your hat and run for me; and i'll try and make you so miserable that you'll amount to something as a man." it was the opinion of davy that ben was meanly enough treated already, not only by his father, but by the farmer with whom he worked; for no one seemed to be kind to the boy except himself, and he made his long journeys to town for no other reason than to hear davy's gentle voice. but davy was afraid to say this to tug, and in his weakness could do nothing to help him. in the present instance he looked out of the window. "you are a fortunate boy in one respect, at least," the admiring father said to his son again. "your mother hates you, and you have a prospect of becoming a man. many a boy at your age has a good bed to sleep on, and plenty to eat, and will grow up into a loafer; but here you are on the high road to greatness. had my father been a wise man, as your father is, i might have been a storekeeper now instead of what i am; therefore don't let me hear you complain--i'll give you something to complain about if i do. the ways of providence may be a little mysterious to you now, you robust rascal; but when the hon. benjamin whittle goes to congress he will tell the reporter who writes him up that his father was a kind, thoughtful man who did a great deal for him." there was something more than the darkness peering in at the window when silas davy looked that way; a good deal more--a strange man's face, which was flattened against the lower pane. at the moment that silas saw him, the man seemed to be using his eyes in investigating the other corner of the room, for he did not know for a moment that he was detected. when his gaze met silas davy's, he quickly drew away from the window, and disappeared; but not until silas remarked that it was a swarthy, malicious face, and that cunning and determination were expressed in its features. silas was not at all astonished at the appearance, as was his custom; but when he looked at tug again, to pay respectful attention to his next observation, he saw that he, too, had seen the face, for he was preparing to go out. "another stranger," tug said, as he looked for his hat. "we are becoming a great town." silas asked no questions, but when his companion stepped into the dirty street, leaving little ben alone, he followed, and walked a few paces behind him, as he hurried along in the direction of the inhabited portion of the town. as they neared the dismal lamps, and while they were yet in the darkness, they saw the figure of a tall man, enveloped in what seemed to be a waterproof cloak, turn into the main street, which ran parallel with the river, and walk toward the hotel where davy was employed. but the man wearing the cloak did not stop there, except to examine a scrap of paper under the light; after which he turned again, and walked in the direction of the locks. silas and his companion followed, as rapidly as they could, for there were no lights now, and they stumbled over the hills, and into the gullies, until the locks gate was reached, which they found ajar. this strange circumstance did not deter them from entering at once, though quietly and with caution, and together they crept up the pavement, and up the front steps, through the front door, which was wide open, and up the stairway, until they stopped in front of the door leading into the room occupied by allan dorris. everything was still; and as they stood there in the dark, listening, tug was surprised to find that davy was in front of him, whereas he had believed that he was in his rear. likewise silas davy was surprised, for while he was sure that tug had passed him, and gone lightly down the stairs, a moment afterward he put his hand on him, and knew that he was bending over, and listening at the keyhole. but nothing could be heard except the regular breathing of allan dorris as he slept in his chair, although they now realized that the mysterious stranger had passed them on the stairs, and was on the outside; so they crept down the stairs, and into the street, closing the door and gate after them. over the hills and into the hollows again; so they travelled back to their retreat down by the river, where they greatly surprised little ben and the rats by opening the door suddenly and walking in upon them. silas dropped down on the bed, and tug into a chair, where they remained a long time without speaking. "what do you make of it?" tug inquired at last. "nothing," silas returned. there was another long silence, which was finally broken by tug remarking,-"i make nothing of it, myself. we are agreed for once." chapter iv. davy's bend. it was generally agreed among the people of davy's bend--a thousand in number, the census said; six hundred they said themselves, for they changed the rule, and exaggerated their own situation unfavorably--that the town possessed more natural advantages than any other in the world. they demonstrated this with great cleverness, by means of maps drawn on brown wrapping-paper inside of the stores, and, after looking at their maps, they triumphantly exclaimed, with a whack of their fists on the counter, "there are the figures; and figures won't lie." but in spite of their maps showing valleys occupied with railroads (which capital neglected to build), ben's city, below them, continued to prosper, whereas davy's bend continued to go steadily down the hill. the people did little else than wonder at this, and curse capital because it did not locate in a town where nature was lavish in the matter of location, instead of going to a place where it would always find the necessity of contending against odds confronting it. such a town was ben's city, in the estimation of those living at davy's bend; but they must have been mistaken, for great houses and institutions grew up where little had been planted, and men with money trampled upon each other in their mad haste to take advantage of the prosperity that seemed to be in the air. those who drew the maps declared that a crash was soon to come, when the capitalists who did not know their own interests would trample upon each other in their haste to get away; but those who bought ben's city property, no difference at what price, soon sold out again at an advance; and the prosperity of the place was quite phenomenal. never was capital so thoroughly hated as in davy's bend. it was cursed a thousand times a day, and shown to be fickle and foolish and ungrateful; for evidences of these weaknesses on the part of capital abounded on every hand. there were railroads to be built out of davy's bend that would pay immensely, as had been demonstrated times without number by the local paper; but capital stubbornly refused to build them, preferring to earn a beggarly per cent elsewhere. there were manufactories to be built in davy's bend that would make their owners rich, as every child knew; but capital, after a full investigation, was so dull that it could not see the opportunity. the town was alive with opportunities for profitable investments, but capital, with a mean and dogged indifference, refused to come to davy's bend; therefore capital was hated, and bullied, and cursed, and denounced; and it was generally agreed that it deserved no better fate than to go to ruin in the general crash that would finally overtake ben's city. the people of davy's bend were a good deal like a grumbling and idle man, who spends the time which should be devoted to improving his condition to grumbling about his own ill luck and the good luck of his industrious rival, who is steadily prospering; and as men frequently believe that the fates are against them when they are themselves their only opposition, so it was generally believed in this wretched little town that some sort of a powerful and alert goddess was in league with ben's city. while they readily admitted their own points of advantage, even to the extent of giving themselves more credit than they deserved, they refused to be equally fair with their competitor, as men do, and contended, with an ignorant persistency, that ben's city was prosperous because of "luck," whereas they should have known that there is no such thing, either good or bad. but, in course of time, when they found that they would always be in the rear, no difference whether they liked it or not, the people of the bend, in order to more thoroughly denounce their own town for its lack of ability to attract capital, began to exaggerate the importance of ben's city. a four-story building there became seven stories high, and those who visited the place vied with each other in giving vivid and untruthful accounts of its growth and prosperity on their return; all of which their acquaintances repeated over and over, though they knew it to be untrue, even adding to the exaggerated statements, in order to bully their own meek town. probably they were not proud of the greatness of their rival; for they talked of it as a cowardly man might exaggerate the strength of the fellow who had whipped him, using it as an excuse for defeat. indeed, they were proud of nothing, except their own accounts of the greatness of davy's bend a long while before, when the huge warehouses were occupied, and before capital had combined against it; of this they talked in a boastful way, magnifying everything so much that many of the listeners who had not heard the beginning of the conversation imagined that they were talking of ben's city; but of bettering their present condition they had no thought,--by common consent it was so very bad that attempts to become prosperous again were useless, so the bend was a little worse off every year, like an old and unsuccessful man. most of the business men of davy's bend had been clerks in the days of the town's prosperity, making their own terms when their energetic employers wanted to get away, and in spite of the general dullness and lack of success, they entertained very good opinions of themselves; for no difference what a citizen's misfortunes were, he loaded them all on the town, and thus apologized for his own lack of ability. but for the circumstance that he was tied to davy's bend, he would have been great and distinguished; they all said the same thing, and in order to get his own story believed, every man found it necessary to accept the explanations of the others, or pretend to; so it happened that the people did not hold themselves responsible for anything,--the town in which they lived was to blame for everything that was disagreeable, and was denounced accordingly. the esteem with which the people regarded themselves was largely due to the manner in which they were referred to in the local paper, a ribald folio appearing once a week. none of the business men were advertisers, but they all gave the publisher free pardon if he referred to them in complimentary terms in his reading columns, and sent in his bill. thus, the merchant who did not own the few goods he displayed was often referred to as a merchant prince, with an exceedingly shrewd business head on his shoulders. sometimes notices of this character were left standing from week to week by the shiftless editor; a great number of them would occasionally get together on the same page, referring to different men as the shrewdest, the wisest, the most energetic, etc.; and it was very ridiculous, except to the persons concerned, who believed that the people read the notices with great pleasure. so great was the passion for puffery among them that designing men who heard of it came along quite frequently, and wrote the people up in special publications devoted to that kind of literature. there would be a pretence that the special edition was to be devoted to the town, but it really consisted of a few lines at the beginning, stating that davy's bend had more natural advantages than any other town in the world, and four pages of puffs of the people, at so much per line; whereupon the men made fun of all the notices except their own, believing that its statements were true, and generally accepted as a part of the town's history. a few of those who were able had engravings inserted, and the puff writers, in order to make the notices and bills as large as possible, told how long and how often the subjects had been married; how many children they had, together with their names, where they came from, and much other mild information of this character. it was known that many of the complimentary sketches were written by the persons to whom they referred; but while harrisonfield, the grocer, gave wide circulation to the fact that porterfield, of the dry-goods store, had referred to himself as an intellectual giant, and a business man of such sterling ability that he had received flattering offers to remove to ben's city, he did not know that porterfield was proving the same indiscretion with reference to himself. every new man who wrote up the town in this manner was more profuse with compliments of the people than his predecessor had been; and finally the common language was inadequate to describe their greatness, and they longed for somebody to come along who could "write," and who could fully explain how much each one was doing for the town; but although they all professed to be doing a great deal constantly for davy's bend, there was no reason to believe that any of them were accomplishing anything in this direction, for it could not have been duller than it was in the year of our lord just referred to. but there was an exception to this rule, as there is said to be to all others,--thompson benton, the merchant; the dealer in everything, as the advertisements on his wrapping-paper stated, for he advertised nowhere else. but he was reliable and sensible, as well as stout and surly; so it was generally conceded that he was the foremost citizen of the bend. not that he made a pretence to this distinction; old thompson was modest as well as capable, and whatever good was said of him came from the people themselves. had there been new people coming to davy's bend occasionally, it is possible that old thompson would not have been the leading citizen, for it was said that he "improved on acquaintance," and that people hated the ground he walked on until they had known him a dozen years or more, and found out his sterling virtues; but they had all known him a great many years, and therefore admired him in spite of themselves. thompson benton had been a resident of the town in the days of its prosperity, and ranked with the best of those who had moved away; but he preferred to remain, since he had become attached to his home, and feared that he could not find one which would suit him equally well elsewhere. besides, he owned precious property in the davy's bend cemetery, and lavished upon it the greatest care. hard though he was in his transactions with men, the memory of his wife was sacred to him; and many believed that, had she lived, he would have been less plain-spoken and matter-of-fact. this devotion was well known; and when the people found it necessary to forgive him for a new eccentricity,--for it was necessary to either forgive him or fight him,--they said he had never recovered his spirits since the day a coffin was driven up to his house. his store was always open at seven in the morning, and the proprietor always opened it himself, with a great iron key that looked as venerable and substantial as the hale old gentleman whose companion it had been so many years; for it was not a key of the new sort, that might lock up a trifling man's affairs, but a key that seemed to say as plainly as could be that it had money and notes and valuable goods of many kinds in its charge. at six in the evening his store was closed, and the proprietor turned the key, and put it into his pocket. at noon he ate his frugal dinner while seated on a high stool at his desk, and he had been heard to say that he had not eaten at home at midday in fifteen years; for on sundays he dined in state at five o'clock. there were no busy days in davy's bend, therefore he got along without a clerk, and managed his affairs so well that, in spite of the dulness of which there was such general complaint, he knew that he was a little richer at the close of every day, and that he was probably doing better than many of his old associates who were carrying on business with a great deal of noise and display in ben's city. certainly he was reputed to be rich, and those who were less industrious said that he should have retired years before, and given others a chance. thompson benton was known as a plain-spoken man, and if he thought one of his customers had acted dishonestly with him, he said so at the first opportunity, and gruffly hoped it wouldn't happen again; by which he was understood to mean that if it _did_ happen again, there would be a difficulty in which the right would triumph. indeed, he had been known to throw men out of the front door in a very rough manner, two and three at a time; but the people always said he was right, and so it usually turned out, for he was never offended without cause. if an impostor came to the town, the people were fully revenged if he called at benton's store, for the proprietor told him what he thought of him, and in language so plain that it was always understood. thompson benton's principal peculiarity was his refusal to be a fool. the men who threatened to leave the town because they were not appreciated received no petting from him; indeed, he told them to go, and try and find a place where they would not grumble so much. the successors of the business men who had moved away were always trying to invent new methods as an evidence of their ability, and some of them did not pay their debts because that was an old, though respectable, custom; they rejected everything old, no matter how acceptable it had proved itself, and got along in an indifferent manner with methods invented by themselves, though the methods of their inventing were usually lame and unsatisfactory. for such foolishness as this old thompson had no charity, as he believed in using the experience of others to his own profit; so he raised his voice against the customs of the town, and though he was usually abused for it, it was finally acknowledged that he was right. but notwithstanding his austere manner, the people had confidence in old thompson, and many of the town disputes were left to him. if the people had spare money, they asked the privilege of leaving it in his iron safe (which had belonged to the last bank that moved away), and took his receipt for it. when they wanted it again, it was always ready; and if the ben's city cracksmen ever came that way to look at the safe, they concluded that the proprietor would prove an ugly customer, for it was never disturbed. his family consisted of a maiden sister almost as old and odd as himself, and his daughter annie, who had been motherless since she was five years old. the people said that old thompson never smiled during the day except when his pretty daughter came in, and that his only recreation was in her society during two hours in the evening, when she read to him, or played, or sang. they were all certain that he was "wrapped up" in her, and it was also agreed that this devotion was not without cause; for a better girl or a prettier girl than annie benton was not to be found in all the country round. the house in which he lived was as stout as brick and mortar could make it; for the people said that he inspected every brick and stick as it was used; and when it was completed, his prudish sister, whom he referred to as the "ancient maiden," was equally careful in the furnishing, so that it was a very good house, and kept with scrupulous neatness. the ancient maiden's drafts were always honored, for nothing was too good for thompson benton's home; and those who went there never forgot the air of elegant comfort which pervaded everything. though thompson benton went down town in the morning with the men who worked by the day, and carried a lunch basket, he dined in the evening in state, surrounded by silver and china both rich and rare; though he worked ten hours a day, and ate a lunch at noon, he slept at night in a bed and in a room which would have rested a king; and his house was as good as any man's need be. very early in life annie benton learned, somehow, that it had been one of her father's pleasures, when he came home at night, to listen to her mother's piano-playing, when that excellent lady was alive; and, resolving to supply the vacant place, she studied so industriously with the poor teachers the town afforded that at fifteen she was complimented by frequent invitations to play for the glum and plain-spoken merchant. if she selected something frivolous, and played it in bad taste or time, and was not invited to play again for a long while, she understood that her music did not please him, and studied to remedy her fault. in course of time she found out what he wanted, though he never gave her advice or suggestion in reference to it; and he had amply repaid her for all the pains she had been to by saying once, after she had played for him half an hour in a dark room, while he rested on a sofa near her, that she was growing more like her mother every day. "there were few ladies like your mother, annie," old thompson would say, when the girl thanked him for his appreciation. "it pleases me that you remind me of her, and if you become as good a woman as she was, it will be very remarkable, for you have had no mother, poor child, to direct you in her way." annie would try harder than ever, after this, to imitate the virtues of the dead woman, and bothered the ancient maiden a great deal to find out what she was like. she was not a drone, that much was certain; therefore the daughter was not, and tried to be as useful in the hive as she imagined her mother had been, in every way in which a worthy woman distinguishes herself. in like manner the girl learned to read to please her father, and every day he brought home with him something he had come into possession of during the day, and which he wanted read; a book, a pamphlet, or a marked paragraph in a newspaper,--he seemed to read nothing himself except business letters; but none of these, or any mention of his affairs, ever came into his home. annie benton's mother had been organist in the big stone church near the locks, which the first residents had built in the days of their prosperity, and the girl learned from family friends that her father regularly attended both services on sunday, to hear the music; perhaps there were certain effects possible on the great organ which were not possible on a more frivolous instrument; but it was certain that he never attended after her death until two or three years after his daughter became the organist, and after she was complimented on every hand for her voluntaries before and after the services, and for her good taste in rendering the hymns; for old thompson was not a religious man, though he practised the principles of religion much better than many of those who made professions. but one summer morning the girl saw her father come in, and occupy the seat he had occupied before her mother's death, and regularly after that he came early and went away late. except to say to her once, as they walked home together, that she was growing more like her mother every day, he made no reference to the subject, though he pretended to wonder what the matter was when she threw her arms about his neck after they reached the house, and burst into tears. one sunday afternoon he had said to her that if she was going down to the church to practise, he would accompany her, and after that, every sunday afternoon he was invited to go with her, although she never had practised on sunday afternoons before. arriving there, an old negro janitor pumped the organ, and the girl played until she thought her father was tired, when they returned home again, where he spent the remainder of the day alone; thinking, no doubt, of his property in the cemetery, and of the sad day when it became necessary to make the purchase. chapter v. a troubled fancy. it was annie benton's playing which allan dorris occasionally heard as he wandered about the yard of the locks, for she came to the church twice a week in order that she might pretend to practise on sunday afternoons, and please her father's critical ear with finished playing; and dorris was so much impressed with the excellence of the music that he concluded one afternoon to look at the performer. in a stained-glass window looking toward the locks there was a broken square, little larger than his eye, and he climbed up on the wall and looked through this opening. a pretty girl of twenty, a picture of splendid health, with dark hair, and features as regularly cut as those of a marble statue, instead of the spectacled professor he expected to see. allan dorris jumped down on the outer side of the wall, and, going around to the front of the church, entered the door. the player was so intent with her work that she did not notice his approach up the carpeted aisle, until she had finished, and he stood almost beside her. she gave a little start on seeing him, but collected herself, and looked at him soberly, as if to inquire why he was there. "t hope you will pardon me," he said in an easy, self-possessed way, "but i live in the place next door called the locks, and having often heard you play of late, i made bold to come in." "all are welcome here," the girl replied, turning the leaves of the book before her, and apparently paying little attention to dorris. "you have as much right here as i, and if i can please anyone with my dull exercises, i am glad of the opportunity." allan dorris seated himself in a chair that stood on the platform devoted to the choir, and observed that the girl had splendid eyes and splendid teeth, as well as handsome features. "do you mind my saying that i think you are very pretty?" he inquired, after looking at her intently as she turned over the music. allan dorris thought from the manner in which she looked at him that she had never been told this before, for she blushed deeply, though she did not appear confused. "i don't say it as a compliment," he continued, without giving her an opportunity to reply; "but i enjoyed the playing so much that i was afraid to look at the performer, fearing he would be so hideously ugly as to spoil the effect; but you are so much handsomer than i expected that i cannot help mentioning it." "you are a surprise to me, too," the girl replied, avoiding the compliment he had paid her, and with good nature. "i imagined that the new occupant of the locks was older than you are." there was a polite carelessness in his manner which indicated that he was accustomed to mingling with all sorts of people; for he was as much at his ease in the presence of annie benton as he had been with mrs. wedge, or with silas and tug. "i am so old in experience that i often feel that i look old in years," he replied, looking at the girl again, as though about to repeat his remark concerning her beauty. "i am glad i do not appear old to you. you have returned my compliment." the girl made no other reply than to smile lightly, and then look intently at her music, as an apology for smiling at all. "how old are you?" he asked abruptly. annie benton looked a little startled at the question, but replied,---"twenty." "have you a lover?" this seemed to require an indignant answer, and she looked at him sharply for that purpose, when she discovered that there was not a particle of impudence in his manner, but rather a friendly interest. he made the inquiry as an uncle might, who had long heard of a pretty niece whom he had never met; so she compromised the matter by shaking her head. "that's strange," he returned. "it must be because the young men are afraid of you, for you are about the prettiest thing of any kind i have ever seen. it is fortunate that you live in davy's bend; a more intelligent people would spoil you with flattery. will you be kind enough to play for me?" the girl was rather pleased than offended at what he said, for there was nothing of rudeness in his manner; and when she had signified her willingness to grant his request, he went back to the pews, and sat down to listen to the music. when the tones of the organ broke the silence, dorris was satisfied that the girl was not playing exercises, for the music was very beautiful, and rendered with excellent judgment. her taste seemed to run in the direction of extravagant chords and odd combinations; the listener happened to like the same sort of thing, too, and the performance had such an effect upon him that he could not remain in his seat, but walked softly up and down the aisle. the frown upon his face was very much like that which occupied it when he walked alone in his own room, after permitting himself to think; for there were wild cries in the music, and mournful melodies. when it ceased, he walked up to the player, and asked what she had been playing. "i don't know myself," she answered, looking at him curiously, but timidly, as if anxious to know more of him. "it was a combination of many of the chords i have learned from time to time that pleased me. my father, who is a very intelligent man, likes them, and i thought you might. it was made up from hymns, vespers, anthems, ballads, and everything else i have ever heard." "the performance was very creditable, and i thank you for the pleasure you have afforded me," he said. "would you care if i should seat myself here in this chair while you play, and look at you?" the girl laughed quietly at the odd request, and there was a look of mingled confusion and pleasure in her face as she replied,-"i wouldn't care, but i could not play so well." "then i will go back to the pews; i don't wish to interfere with the music. if you don't mind it, i will say that i think you are very frank and honest, as well as pretty and accomplished. many a worse player than you are would have claimed that the rare combination of chords i have just heard was improvising." "it is my greatest fault," the girl answered, "to let my fancy and fingers run riot over the keys, without regard to the instructions in the book, and of which i am so much in need. the exercises are so dull that it is a great task for me to practise them; but i never tire of recalling what i have learned heretofore, and using the chords that correspond with my humor. i have played a great deal, lately, with the locks in my mind, for i have heard much of you, and have known of the strange house all my life. perhaps i was thinking of you when you were listening." "if you will close up the book, and think about me while you are playing, i will go back to the door, and listen. the subject is not very romantic, but it is lonely enough, heaven knows. i should think the old organ might have sympathy with me, and do the subject justice, for it is shut up from day to day in a great stone house, as i am." allan dorris went back by the door, and the organ was still for such a length of time that he thought it very correctly represented the silence that hung over his house like a pall; but finally there was the thunder of the double-bass, and the music began. the instrument was an unusually good one, with a wide range of effects in the hands of such a player as annie benton proved to be; and allan dorris thought she must have learned his history somehow, and was now telling it to whoever cared to listen. dirges! the air was full of them, with processions of mourning men and women. the girl seemed to have a fondness for odd airs, played in imitation of the lower and middle registers of the voice, with treble accompaniment, and the listener almost imagined that a strong baritone, the voice of an actor in a play, was telling in plain english why allan dorris, the occupant of the locks, came to davy's bend, and why he was discontented and ill at ease. the actor with the baritone voice, after telling everything he knew, gave way for a march-movement, and a company of actors, representing all the people he had ever known, appeared before him under the magic of the music. some of them looked in wonder, others in dread and fear, as they passed him in procession; but the march kept them going, and their places were soon taken by others, from the store in his memory, who looked in wonder, and in dread and fear, at the strange man in the back pew, though he was no stranger to them. not by any means; they knew him very well. what an army! they are still coming, flinging their arms to the time of the march; but the moment they arrive they look toward the back pew, and continue looking that way, until they disappear; as though they have been looking for him, and are surprised at his presence in that quiet place. after a pause, to arrange the stops, the music sounded as if all those who had appeared were trying to make their stories heard at once. their hatred, their dread, their fear,--all were represented in the chords which he was now hearing, but in the din there was nothing cheerful or joyous. if any of the actors in the play he had been witnessing knew anything to the credit of allan dorris, their voices were so mild as to be drowned by the fiercer ones with stories of hate and fear and dread. the music at last died away with the double-bass, as it began, and the player sat perfectly still after she had finished; nor did dorris move from his position for several minutes. the music seemed to have set them both to thinking, for nothing could be heard for a long time except the working of the bellows; for the old janitor was so deaf that he did not know that the music had ceased. "what have you heard about the locks?" he asked, after he stood beside the girl, feeling as though there was nothing concerning him which she did not know; for she had expressed it all in the music. "everything about the locks, and a great deal about you," she answered. "i didn't suppose that you had ever heard of me. who talks about me?" "the people." "what do they say?" "i wouldn't care to tell you all they say," she answered; "for in a dull town, like this, a great deal is said when a mysterious man arrives, and takes up his residence in a house that has been regarded with superstitious fear for twenty years." she was preparing to go out now, and he respectfully followed her down the aisle. "whatever they say," he said, when they were standing upon the outside, "there was a great deal more than art in the piece you dedicated to me. you know, somehow, that i am lonely, and thoroughly discontented. do the people say that?" "no." "then how did you know it?" "i saw it in your manner. anyone could see that." "a perfectly contented man would become gloomy were he to live long in that house," he replied, pointing to the locks. "when the stillness of night settles upon it there never was a scene in hell which cannot be imagined by those so unfortunate as to be alone in it. i believe the wind blows through the walls, for my light often goes out when the windows and doors are closed; and there is one room where all the people i have ever known seem collected, to moan through the night. did you ever hear about the room in the locks into which no one is permitted to look?" "no." "even the new owner was asked to give a promise not to disturb that room,--it adjoins the one i occupy,--or look into it, or inquire with reference to it; and if i look ill at ease, it must be because of the house i occupy. i am sincerely obliged to you for the music. may i listen to you when you practise again?" "certainly," she answered. "i could not possibly have an objection." she bowed to him, and walked away, followed by the limping negro janitor, who turned occasionally to look at dorris with distrust. chapter vi. pictures in the fire. allan dorris was seeing pleasant pictures in the cheerful fire which burned in his room, for he watched it intently from early evening until dusk, and until after the night came on. the look of discontent that had distinguished his face was absent for the first time since he had occupied the strange old house. perhaps a cheerful man may see pleasant pictures in a fire which produces only tragedies for one who is sad; for it is certain that allan dorris had watched the same fire before, and cursed its pictures, and walked up and down the room in excitement afterward with clenched fists and a wicked countenance. but there was peace in his heart now, and it could not be disturbed by the malicious darkness that looked in at his windows; for the nights were so dark in davy's bend that they seemed not an invitation to rest, but an invitation to prowl, and lurk, and do wicked things. when mrs. wedge brought in the lamp, and put it down on the mantel, he did not look up to say a cheerful word, as was his custom, but continued gazing into the fire; and she noticed that he was in better humor than he had ever been before during their acquaintance. usually his thinking made him frown, but to-night he seemed to be enjoying it. the worthy woman took pleasure in finding excuses to go to his room as often as possible, for he seemed to bless her for the intrusion upon his loneliness; but for once he did not seem to realize her presence, and he was thinking more intensely than usual. mrs. wedge had come to greatly admire the new occupant of the locks. that he was a man of intelligence and refinement there was no doubt; she believed this for so many reasons that she never pretended to enumerate them. besides being scrupulously neat in his habits, which was a great deal in the orderly woman's eyes, he was uniformly polite and pleasant, except when he was alone, when he seemed to storm at himself. there was a certain manly way about him--a disposition to be just to everyone, even to his housekeeper--that won her heart; and she had lain awake a great many nights since he had come to the locks, wondering about him; for he had never dropped the slightest hint as to where he came from, or why he had selected davy's bend as a place of residence. she often said to herself that a bad man could not laugh as cheerfully as allan dorris did when he dropped in at her little house to spend a half-hour, on which occasions he talked good-humoredly of matters which must have seemed trifling to one of his fine intelligence; and she was certain that no one in hiding for the commission of a grave offence could have captured the affections of betty as completely as he had done, for the child always cried when he returned to his own room, or went out at the iron gate to ramble over the hills, and thought of little else except the time when she could see him again. mrs. wedge had heard that children shrink from the touch of hands that have engaged in violence or dishonor, and watched the growing friendship between the two with a great deal of interest. mrs. wedge believed that he had had trouble of some kind in the place he came from, and that he was trying to hide from a few enemies, and a great many friends, in davy's bend; for mrs. wedge could not believe that anyone would select davy's bend as a place of residence except under peculiar circumstances; but she always came to the same conclusion,--that allan dorris was in the right, whatever his difficulty had been. she watched him narrowly from day to day, but he never gave her reason to change her mind--he was in the right, and in the goodness of her heart she defended him, as she went about her work. "were it betty's father come back to me, instead of a stranger of whom i know nothing," the good woman would say aloud, as she swept, or dusted, or scoured in her little house, "i could not find less fault with him than i do, or be more fond of him. i know something about men, and allan dorris is a gentleman; more than that, he is honest, and i don't believe a word you say." "grandmother," the child would inquire in wonder, "who are you talking to?" "oh, these people's tongues," mrs. wedge would reply, with great earnestness, looking at betty as though she were a guilty tongue which had just been caught in the act of slandering worthy people. "i have no patience with them. even mr. dorris is not free from their slander, and i am tired of it." "but who says anything against mr. dorris, grandmother?" sure enough! who had accused him? no one, save his friend mrs. wedge, unless his coming to davy's bend was an accusation; but she continued to defend him, and declared before she went to sleep every night; "i'll think no more about it; he is a worthy man, of course." but whatever occupied his thoughts on the evening in question, allan dorris was not displeased to hear an announcement, from the speaking-tube behind the door, of visitors, for they were uncommon enough; and going to it, a voice came to him from the depths announcing that silas and tug were at the gate, and would come up if he had no objection. pulling the lever down, which opened the gate, he went down to admit them at the door, and they came back with him. during his residence in the place he had met the two men frequently, for they took credit to themselves that he was there at all, since his coming seemed to please the people (for it gave them something to talk about, even if they did not admire him); and when he returned to his house in the evening, he often met the strange pair loitering about the gate. he had come to think well of them, and frequently invited them to walk in; but though they apparently wanted to accept his invitation, they acted as though they were afraid to: perhaps they feared he would lose the little respect he already entertained for them on acquaintance. but they had evidently concluded to make him a formal call now, induced by friendliness and curiosity, for they were smartened up a little; and it had evidently been arranged that silas should do the honors, for tug kept crowding him to the front as they walked up the stairs. apparently tug did not expect a very warm reception at the locks, for he lagged behind, and sighted at allan dorris with his peculiar eyes, as though he had half a mind to try a shot at him; and when he reached the landing from the level of which the doors opened into the rooms of the second story, he looked eagerly and curiously around, as if recalling the night when he traced the shadow there, but which had escaped him. allan dorris invited both men into the apartment he usually occupied, and there was a freedom in his manner that surprised them both. the pair had decided to visit him from a curiosity that had grown out of their experience with the shadow; and although they expected to find him stern and silent, and angered at their presence, he was really in good humor, and seemed glad to see them; perhaps he was so lonely that he would have welcomed a visit from a ghost. they both noticed that the ragged beard which he had worn on his face when he first arrived was now absent; for he was clean shaven, and this made him appear ten years younger. he looked a good deal more like a man in every way than he did on the night of his arrival, when he sat moping in the hotel office; and silas and tug both wondered at the change, but they were of one mind as to his clean face; it was a disguise. tug's suit of black glistened more than ever, from having been recently brushed; and as soon as he had seated himself, he set about watching allan dorris with great persistency, staring him in the face precisely as he would look at a picture or an ornament. silas seated himself some distance from the fire, and seemed greatly distressed at his friend's rudeness. "i like you," mr. whittle said finally, without moving his aim from dorris's face. dorris seemed amused, and, laughing quietly, was about to reply, when tug interrupted him. "i know you don't like me, and i admire you for it, for every decent man despises me. i am not only the meanest man in the world, but the most worthless, and the ugliest. my teeth are snags, and my eyes are bad, and my breath is sour, and i am lazy; but i like you, and i tell you of it to your teeth." tug said this with so much seriousness that his companions both laughed; but if he understood the cause of their merriment, he pretended not to, for he said,-"what are you laughing at?" glaring fiercely from one to the other. "i am not trying to be funny. i hate a funny man, or a joky man. i have nothing for a funny man but poison, and i have it with me." dorris paid no more attention to his fierce companion than he would to a growling dog, and continued laughing; but silas shut up like a knife, as tug took from his vest pocket a package carefully wrapped in newspaper, and after looking at it a moment with close scrutiny, continued,-"whenever you find me telling jokes, expect me to giggle at my own wit, and then pour the contents of this package on my tongue, and swallow it; and it will be no more than i deserve. i have but one virtue; i am not funny. you have no idea how i hate the low persons who advertise themselves as comedians, or comediennes, or serio-comic singers, or you would not accuse me of it." silas had often seen this package before, for tug had carried it ever since they had been acquainted, frequently finding it necessary to renew the paper in which it was wrapped. from certain mysterious references to it tug had dropped, silas believed the powder was intended for a relative more objectionable than any of the others, though he occasionally threatened to use it in a different manner, as in the present instance. indeed, he seemed to carry it instead of a knife or a pistol; and silas had noticed on the night when they were following the shadow that his companion carried the package in his hand, ready for instant use. "you are the kind of a man i intended to be," tug continued, putting away his dangerous package with the air of a desperado who had been flourishing a pistol and took credit to himself for not using it. "i might have been worthy of your friendship but for my wife's relations, but i admire you whether you like it or not. do your worst; i am your friend." tug had not taken his huge eye from dorris's face since entering, except to look at the poison; but he removed it as mrs. wedge came in to prepare the table for the evening meal. dorris was a good deal like tug in the particular that he did not sleep much at night, but he slept soundly when the morning light came up over the woods to chase away the shadows which were always looking into his window; therefore he frequently ate his breakfast at noon, and his supper at midnight. there was a roast of beef, a tea urn, a pat of butter, and a loaf of bread, on the platter carried by the housekeeper, while betty followed with the cups and saucers, and the potatoes, the napkins, and the sugar. "i am obliged to you for your good opinion," dorris said, while the cloth was being laid, "and if you will remain to supper with me, we will become better acquainted." it occurred to silas that dorris looked at tug, in spite of his politeness, as he might look at an amusing dog that had been taught to catch a bacon rind from off his nose at the word of command, and wondered that tug felt so much at home as he seemed to; for he was watching the arrangements for supper with great eagerness. silas was sure the invitation to supper would be accepted, too, for tug had never refused an invitation of any kind in his life, except invitations to be a man and go to work, which the people were always giving him. at a look from dorris, mrs. wedge went out, and soon returned with additional plates, besides other eatables that seemed to be held in reserve; and during her absence the master had been placing the chairs, so that by the time the table was arranged, the three men were ready to sit down, which they did without further ceremony. among other things mrs. wedge brought in a number of bottles and glasses, which were put down by the side of dorris, and these now attracted the aim of tug. "if you offer us drink," he said, "i give you fair warning that we will accept, and get drunk, and disgrace you. we haven't a particle of decency, have we, you scoundrel?" this, accompanied by a prodigious poke in the ribs, was addressed to silas davy, who had been sitting meekly by, watching the proceedings. tug had a habit of addressing silas as "his dear old scoundrel," and "his precious cut-throat," although a milder man never lived; and he intently watched dorris as he opened one of the bottles and filled three of the glasses. two of them were placed before tug and silas, and though silas only sipped at his, tug drank off the liquor apportioned to him greedily. this followed in rapid succession, until two of the bottles had been emptied, dorris watching the proceedings with a queer satisfaction. he also helped them liberally to the roast beef and the gravy, and the potatoes, and the bread and butter, to say nothing of the pickles and olives; but tug seemed to prefer the liquor to the tea, for he partook of that very sparingly, though he was anxious to accept everything else offered; for he occasionally got up from the table to tramp heavily around the room, as if to settle that already eaten to make room for more. allan dorris enjoyed the presence of the two men, and encouraged the oddities of each by plying them with spirits. although the drink had little effect on silas, who was very temperate, tug paid tribute to its strength by opening his wide eye to its greatest extent, as if in wonder at his hospitable reception, and closing the other tighter, like a man who had concluded to give one side of his body a rest. as the evening wore away, and the liquor circulated more freely through his blood, tug recited, between frequent snorts, what a man he had been until he had been broken up and disgraced by his wife's relations, silas earnestly vouching for it all, besides declaring that it was a shame, to which their host replied with enthusiasm that it was an outrage that such a bright man and such a good-looking man as tug had been treated so unjustly, at the same time filling up the glasses, and proposing that they drink to the confusion and disgrace of the relations. neither of them seemed to realize that dorris was making game of them; for tug listened to all he said--and he said a great deal--with an injured air that was extremely ludicrous; and when davy related that when mr. whittle was in practice, the judges begged the favor of his opinion before rendering their decisions on difficult legal questions, dorris regretted that he had not known the judges, for he felt sure that they were wise and agreeable gentlemen. but at the same time dorris felt certain that if he should be invited to attend the man's funeral, he would laugh to himself upon thinking how absurdly dignified he must look in his coffin. silas had never known tug when he was great, of course, for he had flourished in the time of silas's father; but he nevertheless believed it, and seemed to have personal knowledge of the former magnificence of the rusty old lawyer. indeed, but few of the present inhabitants of davy's bend had known tug when he was clean and respectable, for he always claimed that his triumphs were triumphs of the old days, when davy's bend was important and prosperous, and among the energetic citizens who had moved away and made decay possible. "i don't amount to anything except when i am drunk--now," tug said, getting on his feet, and taking aim at his host, "but fill me with aristocratic liquor, and i am as cute as the best of them. have you ever heard the story of the beggar on horseback? well, here he is, at your service. will the rich and aristocratic owner of this house oblige the beggar by pouring out his dram? ha! the beggar is at full gallop." dorris good-naturedly obeyed the request, and while tug was on his feet, his aim happened to strike silas. "silas, you greatest of scoundrels," he said, "you thoroughly debased villain, loafer, and liar, i love you." reaching across the table, tug cordially shook hands with his friend, who had been doing nothing up to that time save enjoying tug's humor, and indorsing whatever he said. whether silas enjoyed being called a scoundrel, a villain, a loafer, and a liar, is not known, but he certainly heard these expressions very frequently; for tug seemed to tolerate him only because of his total and thorough depravity, though the other acquaintances of silas regarded him as a mild-mannered little man without either vices or virtues. "i have but two friends," tug said again, seating himself, and gazing stiffly at his host, "rum and davy; rum cheers me when i'm sad, and davy feeds me when i'm hungry, though the splendid thief does not feed me as well as he might were he more industrious. rum has a bad reputation, but i announce here that it is one of my friends. i am either ravenously hungry, or uncomfortable from having eaten too much, all the time, so that i do not get much comfort from victuals; but rum hits me just right, and i love it. you say it will make me drunk. very well; i _want_ to get drunk. if you argue that it will make me reckless, i will hotly reply that i _want_ to be reckless, and that a few bottles will make me as famous as a lifetime of work and success will make a sober man. therefore i hail rum as my best friend, next to the unscrupulous rascal known for hailing purposes, when there are boots to be polished, or errands to run, as hup-avy." the eminent legal mind hurriedly put his hand to his mouth, as though thoroughly humiliated that he had hiccoughed, and, looking at dorris with the air of a man who commits an unpardonable indiscretion and hopes that it has not been noticed, continued with more care, with a great many periods to enable him to guard against future weakness. "although i have but two friends, i have a host of enemies. among them tigley. my wife's cousin. when i was a reputable lawyer, tigley appeared in davy's bend. tigley was a fiddler. and spent his time in playing in the beer halls for the drinks. the late mrs. whittle believed him to be a great man. she called him a mastero, though he played entirely by ear; and excused his dissipation on the ground that it was an eccentricity common to genius. if tigley ever comes in my way again there will be something to pay more disagreeable than gold. he taught me to like rum." silas, who acted as a kind of chorus, intimated to dorris that his friend referred to a word of four letters beginning with an "h," and ending with an "l." "that's _one_ reason why i am a drunkard," the victim of too many relatives added, after a moment's thought. "the other is that i could never talk up to the old women except when i was drunk, and it was necessary to talk up to her so often that i finally craved spirits." tug crooked his elbow and produced the package from his vest pocket, which he waved aloft as an intimation that tigley's nose should be held, when next they met, until he swallowed its contents. "by-the-way," tug said, as if something new had occurred to him, "i warn you not to believe anything i say; i lie because i enjoy it. drinking whiskey, and lying, and loving davy, are my only recreations. then there was veazy vaughn, the vagrant--my wife's uncle--he is responsible for my idleness. when he came here, twenty odd years ago, i tried to reclaim him, and went around with him; but he enjoyed vagrancy so much, and defended his position so well, that i took a taste of it myself. i liked it. i have followed it ever since." there was not the slightest animation about tug, and he sat bolt upright like a post while he talked with slow and measured accent, to avoid another hiccough, and his great eye was usually as motionless as his body. "the late mrs. whittle treated her relatives so well that other worthless people who were no kin to her began to appear finally, and claim to be her cousins and nieces and nephews," tug said. "and she used my substance to get up good dinners for them. they came by railroad. by wagon. on foot. and on horseback. i was worse than a mormon, for i married a thousand, at least, on my wedding-day. some of them called me 'uncle w,' while others spoke of me as their 'dear cousin t;' but when the last dollar of my money was invested in dried beef, and the relatives had eaten it, i protested, and then they turned me out. the relations have my money, and i have their bad habits. i have nothing left but the poison, and they are welcome to that." he once more produced the package, and as he laid it on the table, dorris half expected to see a troop of ill-favored people come dashing in, grab up the paper, and run away with it. but none of them came, and tug went on: "i was a polite man until my wife's relations made me selfish. we always had gravy when they were around, and good gravy at that; but by the time i had helped them all, there was none left for me. i now help myself first. will the prince pass the pauper the fresh bottle of rum?" the bottle was handed over, and the rare old scoundrel helped himself to a full glass of its contents, drinking as deliberately as he had talked, apparently taking nine big swallows without breathing, at the same time thinking of the one he loved the best, as a means of curing the hiccoughs. "i like mrs. wedge," tug said, looking at that excellent woman with a tipsy grin, as she came into the room with some new delicacy for her employer's guests. "she looks so common, somehow, and i don't believe she knows any more about manners than i do. whenever you see her eating her dinner, you'll find that she puts her arms on the table, as i do, though it's not polite. polite things are not natural, in my opinion; mind i don't assert it as positive. i hate cold water, but it's polite to bathe; and your respectable shirt-collars rub all the hide off my neck. and anything that's good for me, i don't like. there's oatmeal, and graham grits, and such like--they are healthy, therefore i don't like their taste; but give me milk gravy, or salt risin' bread, or fried beef, or anything else that's not good for me, and you'll find me at home, as the man who had the party said on his cards." during this discourse mr. whittle's great eye was following mrs. wedge about the room, but when she disappeared it lit on dorris. "i'm with the crowd, though, when it comes to my wife's kin," he said, eyeing his host in an impudent way. "a good many don't say so; but it makes them all hot to fill their houses with their relations. whenever you go to see your relations, depend upon it that they are glad when you are gone. they may pretend to like you, but they don't, except when you are away from them. but in all other respects i'm common. common! i'm so common that i like boiled cabbage; and the olives you blow about--i'd as soon eat green pignuts soaked in brine. _common!_" he yelled out the words as though he were calling some one of that name in the cellar. "if men were judged by their commonness, i would be a chief with plumes in my hat." allan dorris and silas davy were seated with their backs to the windows overlooking the town, while tug sat opposite them, and in transferring his gaze from one to the other, in dignified preparation for resuming his conversation, which both his companions were enjoying, he saw the mysterious face he had seen once before peering into the room, and which was hastily withdrawn. tug jumped up from his chair at sight of it, and hurried to the window with such haste that the table was almost upset; but the face, as well as the figure to which it belonged, had disappeared. throwing up the sash, tug found that he could step out on to a porch, and from this he dropped into the yard with a great crash through the vines and lattice-work. silas davy quickly followed, by way of the stairs, suspecting the cause of tug's disappearance; and dorris was left alone. all this had occupied but a few moments, and he probably thought of the circumstance as one of the many eccentricities of the two odd men; for after pulling down the lever to close the gate (it is a wonder that he was not surprised to find it open) he sat down before the fire and engaged in the pleasant thoughts that were interrupted early in the evening. * * * * * silas did not come up with tug until he reached the vicinity of the hotel, where a single street lamp burned all night, and while they were hurrying along without speaking, the figure they were pursuing passed quickly on the opposite side of the street from the hotel. the rays of the lamp were so feeble that the figure was only a shadow; but they easily recognized it as the one seen before--that of a man above the medium height, enveloped in a long cloak, not unlike those worn by women in wet weather, with a slouch hat pulled down over his face. the two men hurried after it, but in the darkness they were frequently compelled to stop and listen for the footsteps of the pursued, in order to detect his course. each time the echoes were more indistinct, for the fellow was making good use of his legs; and in this manner they traced his course to the river bank, near the ferry landing, where the ferry-boat itself was tied up for the night. they concluded that the fugitive had a skiff tied there somewhere, which he intended to use in leaving the place, and, hurrying on board the ferry-boat, they rapped loudly at the door of the little room on the upper deck where the crew usually slept, with a view of procuring means of following. the fellow who had charge of the ferry, a native of the low lands lying along the river, was known as "young bill young," although he greatly desired that the people call him "old captain young;" therefore both men pounded vigorously on the door, and loudly called "captain young," as a tribute to his vanity. "captain young" soon appeared, for he always slept in a bunk with his clothes on, which he said reminded him of his sea days, although he had never really seen any other water than that on which he operated his ferry. as the two hurriedly explained to him that they wanted a boat, young bill young went to the lower deck, and unlocked one that floated at the stern, and soon tug and his friend were pulling down the river with long strokes, for there were two pairs of oars. occasionally they stopped rowing to listen, but nothing could be heard save the gentle ripple of the current; whereupon they worked with greater vigor than before. they had rowed in this manner for an hour or more, when, stopping to listen again, the plash of oars was indistinctly heard on the water ahead of them. lying down in the prow of the boat, tug could see the boat and its occupants low down on the water, between him and the first rays of light of the coming morning. there was a heavy fog on the river, which was lying close to the water, but this had lifted sufficiently to permit an inspection through the rising mist. there were two figures in the boat; one rowing, who was evidently the man they had twice seen looking in at them, and the other a much smaller person, who was seated in the stern, and steering. this fact tug regarded as so remarkable that he told davy to lie down, and take a look, and when davy returned to his oars, after a long inspection, he said:-"i make out two." "a big one and a little one," tug replied, bending to the oars, and causing the boat to hurry through the water. "earn your supper up at the locks, and i'll introduce you to them." on the left hand a smaller stream put into the main river, and at its mouth there was an immense growth of willows, besides a chute, an island, and a bend. into this labyrinth the boat they were pursuing effectually disappeared; for though tug and silas rowed about until broad daylight they could find no trace of it or its occupants. a short distance up the smaller stream was a lonely station on a railroad that did not run into davy's bend, and while rowing around in the river, the roar of an approaching train was heard, and the fact that this stopped at the station, with a blast from the engine-whistle indicating that it had been signalled, may have been important; but it did not occur to either silas or tug, who pulled their boat back to town in silence. chapter vii. the locks' ghost. there was general curiosity in davy's bend with reference to the new occupant of the locks, and when the people had exhausted themselves in denouncing their own town more than _it_ deserved, and in praising ben's city more than it deserved, they began on allan dorris, and made him the subject of their gossip. whoever was bold enough to invent new theories with reference to him, and express them, was sure of a welcome at any of the houses where the speculation concerning his previous history went on from day to day; and, this becoming generally known, there was no lack of fresh material for idle tongues. whenever he walked into the town, he knew that the stores turned out their crowds to look at him, and that in passing the residences which were occupied, the windows were filled with curious eyes. but although there were a hundred theories with reference to him, it was only positively known that he one day appeared at his gate, two months after his arrival, and tacked up a little sign on which was inscribed in gold letters: dr. dorris. this curiosity of the people brought dr. dorris a great deal of business, for many of them were willing to pay for the privilege of seeing him, and he applied himself to practice with such energy that he was soon in general demand. as the people knew more of him, their curiosity became admiration; and many of them defended him from imaginary charges as warmly as did mrs. wedge, for there was every reason that the people should admire him, except that he had located at davy's bend. that he was skilful and experienced as a physician became apparent at once, and it was therefore generally believed that he was only there temporarily; for certainly no one who was really capable would consent to remain long in davy's bend. his heart was not in his work; this was a part of the gossip concerning him, though it is difficult to imagine how the idea originated; for he appeared to be pleased when he was called out at night, as though the companionship of even those in distress suited him better than the solitude of his own house; but though he was always trying to be cheerful, he could not disguise the fact that his mind was busy with matters outside of his work. perhaps this was the excuse of the people for saying that his heart was not in his work, and the charge may have been true. while busy, he gave whatever was in hand careful and intelligent attention, but as soon as he was idle again, he forgot his surroundings, and permitted his mind to wander--nobody knew where. when addressed, he good-naturedly remembered that he was in davy's bend, and at the service of its people, and did whatever was expected of him with so much gentleness and ability that he won all hearts. this was his brief history during the summer following his arrival, except as shall be related hereafter. the sun, which had been struggling for mastery over the mist and the fog, had triumphed after a fashion, and the pleasanter weather, and his business, served to make him more cheerful than he had been; and had he cared to think about such matters, the conviction would no doubt have forced itself upon his mind that he was doing well, and that he had every reason to feel contented, though he was not. still there were times when he was lonely in spite of his rather busy life, and nights when he sent for mrs. wedge and betty to keep him company; for there were strange sounds through his house, when the summer air was still and oppressive, and the doors and windows rattled in the most unaccountable manner. thus it came about that they were with him one night long after their usual time to retire, dorris being particularly nervous and restless, and having asked them to come up to his room rather late in the evening. mrs. wedge had told him of annie benton a dozen times already, but she made it a baker's dozen, and told him again of her simple history; of her popularity in the town, though the people all seemed to be shy of her, and of her gruff father, who, in mrs. wedge's opinion, would resent the appearance of a lover in the most alarming manner. mrs. wedge thought she observed that dorris was fond of this subject, and kept on talking about it; for he was paying close attention as he lounged in his easy chair. dorris laughed in such a way at the accounts of thompson benton's jealousy of his daughter that mrs. wedge believed that he regarded him as he might regard a growling mastiff, which growled and snapped at whoever approached, knowing it was in bad taste and not expected of him. mrs. wedge was sure her employer was not afraid of old thompson,--or of any one else, for that matter,--so she added this declaration to the great number she was constantly making in his defence, and repeated it to herself whenever he was in her mind. she was pleased with the circumstance that he admired annie benton, and though she said a great deal in her praise, it was no more than the truth, for she was a girl worthy of admiration and respect. but the subject was exhausted at last, and when she got up to go out, dorris roused himself from one of his reveries, and asked her to tell him the history of the locks, as a last resort to induce her to keep him company. the worthy woman seated herself again, smoothed down the folds of her apron, and began by saying,-"betty, open the door leading into the hall." the child did as she was directed, and, coming back, brought up a low chair, and rested her head on her grandmother's knee. "listen," mrs. wedge said again. they were all perfectly quiet, and a timid step could be distinctly heard on the stair; it came up to the landing, and, after hesitating a moment, seemed to pass into the room into which no one was to look. the little girl shivered, and was lifted into her grandmother's lap, where she hid away in the folds of her dress. dorris was familiar with this step on the stair, for he had heard it frequently, and at night the thought had often occurred to him that some one was in the house, going quietly from one room to another. a great many times he had taken the light, and looked into every place from the cellar to the attic, but he found nothing, and discovered nothing, except that when in the attic he heard the strange, muffled, and ghostly noises in the rooms he had just left. "it is not a ghost to frighten you," mrs. wedge said, looking at her employer, "but the spirit of an unhappy woman come back from the grave. whenever the house is quiet, the step can always be heard on the stair, but i have never regarded it with horror, though i have been familiar with it for a great many years. i rather regard it as a visit from an old friend; and before you came i often sat alone in this room after dark, listening to the footsteps. "jerome dudley, who built the locks, was a young man of great intelligence, energy, and capacity; but his wife was lacking in these qualities. perhaps i had better say that he thought so, for i never express an opinion of my own on the subject, since they were both my friends. i may say with propriety, however, that they were unsuited to each other, and that both knew and admitted it, and accepted their marriage as the blight of their lives. differently situated, she would have been a useful woman; but she was worse than of no use to jerome dudley, as he was contemptible in many ways towards her in spite of his capacity for being a splendid man under different circumstances. "the world is full of such marriages, i have been told; so i had sympathy for them both, and was as useful to them as i could be. when i came here as housekeeper, i knew at once that they were living a life of misery, for they occupied different rooms, and were never together except at six o'clock dinner. "mr. dudley always went to his business in the morning before his wife was stirring, and did not return again until evening; and, after despatching his dinner, he either went back to his work, or into his own room, from which he did not emerge until morning. he was not a gloomy man, but he was dissatisfied with his wife, and felt that she was a drawback rather than a help to him. "the management of the house was turned over to me completely, and when i presided at the table in the morning, he was always good-natured and respectful, (though he was always out of humor when his wife was in the same room with him) and frequently told me of his successes, and he had a great many, for he was a money-making man; but i am sure he never spoke of them to his wife. his household affairs he discussed only with me, and the fact that i remained in his service until i entered yours should be taken as evidence that i gave satisfaction." dorris bowed respectfully to mrs. wedge in assent, and she proceeded,-"mrs. dudley spent her time in her own room in an indolent way that was common to her, doing nothing except to look after her little girl, who was never strong. the child was four years old when i came, and the father lavished all his affection upon it. he had the reputation of being a hard, exacting man in his business, and gave but few his confidence, which i think was largely due to his unsatisfactory home; and i have heard him say that but two creatures in all the world seemed to understand him--the child, and myself. it was a part of my duty to carry the child to its father's room every night before putting it to bed; and though i usually found him at a desk surrounded with business papers, he always had time to kiss its pretty lips if asleep, or romp with it if awake. "while the mother cheerfully turned over the household affairs to me entirely, she was jealous of the child, and constantly worried and fretted with reference to it. the father believed that his daughter was not well cared for, in spite of the mother's great affection, for she humored it to its disadvantage; and i have sometimes thought that the child was sick a great deal more than was necessary. from being shut up in a close room too much, it was tender and delicate, and when the door was open, it always went romping into the hall until brought back again, which resulted in a cold and a spell of sickness. this annoyed mr. dudley, and from remarks he occasionally made to me i knew he believed that if the little girl should die, the mother would be to blame. "'it would be better if she had no mother,' he was in the habit of saying. when children are properly managed, they become a comfort; but if a foolish sentiment is indulged in, the affections of the parents are needlessly lacerated, and they become a burden. i say this with charity, and i have become convinced of it during my long life. little dudley was managed by the mother with so much mistaken affection that she was always a care and a burden. instead of going to bed at night, and sleeping peacefully until morning, as children should, she was always wakeful, fretful, and ill, and mr. dudley's rest was disturbed so much that i thought he had some excuse for his bad humor; for nothing is so certain as that all this was unnecessary. the child was under no restraint, and was constantly doing that which was not good for her, and though her mother protested, she did nothing else. "because the father complained of being disturbed at all hours of the night, the mother accused him of heartlessness and of a lack of affection, but he explained this to me by saying that he only protested because his child was not cared for as it should be; because that which was intended as a blessing became an irksome responsibility, and because he was in constant dread for its life. "whether the mother was to blame or not will perhaps never be known; but it is certain that the child died after a lingering illness, and the father was in a pitiful state from rage and grief. he did not speak to his wife during the illness, or after the death, which she must have accepted as an accusation that she was somehow responsible; for she soon took to her bed, and never left it alive except to wearily climb the stairs at twelve o'clock every night, to visit the child's deserted room,--the room next to this, and into which no one is permitted to look. her bed was on the lower floor, in the room back of the parlor, and every night at twelve o'clock, which was the hour the child died, she wrapped the coverings about her, and went slowly up the stairs, clinging to the railing with pitiful weakness with one hand, and carrying the lamp with the other. "i frequently tried to prevent her doing this; but she always begged so piteously that i could not resist the appeal. she imagined, poor soul, that she heard the child calling her, and she always asked me not to accompany her. "one night she was gone such a long time that at last i followed, and found her dead, kneeling beside her child's empty crib, and the light out. mr. dudley was very much frightened and distressed; and i think the circumstance hastened his departure from davy's bend, which occurred a few weeks later. he has never been in the house since. "it is said that once a year--on the third of may--at exactly twelve o'clock at night, a light appears in the lower room, which soon goes out, and appears in the hall. a great many people have told me that they have seen the light, and that it grows dimmer in the lower hall, and brighter in the upper, until it disappears in the room where the empty crib still stands, precisely as if it were carried by some one climbing the stair. it soon disappears from the upper room, and is seen no more until another year rolls round. i have never seen the light, but i have often heard the step. sometimes it is silent for months together, but usually i hear it whenever i am in the main house at night. just before there is a death in the town, or the occurrence of any serious accident, it goes up and down with unvarying persistency; but there is a long rest after the death or the accident foretold has occurred." when mrs. wedge had ceased talking, there was perfect silence in the room again, and the footsteps were heard descending the stair. occasionally there was a painful pause, but they soon went on again, and were heard no more. "poor helen," mrs. wedge said, wiping her eyes, "how reluctantly she leaves the little crib." mrs. wedge soon followed the ghost of poor helen down the stair, carrying betty in her arms; and as dorris stood on the landing lighting them down, he thought, as they passed into the shadow in the lower hall, that poor helen had found her child, and was leaving the house forever, content to remain in her grave at last. chapter viii. a remarkable girl. annie benton had said that she usually practised once a week in the church; and during the lonely days after his first meeting with her, allan dorris began to wonder when he should see her again. the sight of her, and the sound of her voice, and her magic music, had afforded him a strange pleasure, and he thought about her so much that his mind experienced relief from the thoughts that had made him restless and ill at ease. but he heard nothing of her, except from mrs. wedge, who was as loud in her praise as ever; though he looked for her as he rode about on his business affairs, and a few times he had walked by her father's house, after dark, and looked at its substantial exterior. there was something about the girl which fascinated him. it may have been only the music, but certainly he longed for her appearance, and listened attentively for notice of her presence whenever he walked in his yard, which was his custom so much of late that he had worn paths under the trees; for had he secured all the business in davy's bend he would still have had a great deal of time on his hands. during these weeks he sometimes accused himself of being in love with a girl he had seen but once, and laughed at the idea as absurd and preposterous; but this did not drive thoughts of annie benton out of his mind, for he stopped to listen at every turn for sounds of her presence. after listening during the hours of the day when he was not occupied, he usually walked in the path for a while at night, hoping it might be possible that she had changed her hours, and would come to practise after the cares and duties of the day were over. he could see from his own window that the church was dark; but he had little to do, so he took a turn in the path down by the wall to convince himself that she was not playing softly, without a light, to give her fancy free rein. but he was always disappointed; and, after finding that his watching was hopeless, he went out at the iron gate in front, and walked along the roads until he recovered from his disappointment sufficiently to enter his own home. this was his daily experience for several weeks after his first meeting with the girl, for even the sunday services were neglected for that length of time on account of the pastor, who was away recruiting his health; when one afternoon he heard the tones of his old friend the organ again. climbing up on the wall, and looking at the girl through the broken window, he imagined that she was not playing with the old earnestness, and certainly she frequently looked toward the door, as if expecting someone. jumping down from the wall, he went around to the front door, which he found open, and entered the church. the girl heard his step on the threshold, and was looking toward him when he came in at the door leading from the vestibule. "i seem to have known you a long time," he said, as he sat down near her, after exchanging the small civilities that were necessary under the circumstances, "and i have been waiting for you as anxiously as though you were my best friend. i have been very busy all my life, and i don't enjoy idleness, though i imagined when i was working hard that i would relish a season of rest. i have little to do here except to wait for you and listen to the music. had you delayed your coming many days longer i should have called on you at your home. you are the only acquaintance i have in the town whose society i covet." there was no mistaking that the girl had been expecting him, and that she was pleased that he came in so promptly. her manner indicated it, and she was perfectly willing to neglect her practice for his company, which had not been the case before. she was better dressed, too; and surely she would have been disappointed had not dorris made his appearance. annie benton, like her father, improved on acquaintance. she was neither too tall nor too short, and, although he was not an expert in such matters, dorris imagined that her figure would have been a study for a sculptor. a woman so well formed as to attract no particular comment on first acquaintance, he thought; but he remarked now, as he looked steadily at her, that there was a remarkable regularity in her features. there are women who do not bear close inspection, but annie benton could not be appreciated without it. her smile surprised every one, because of its beauty; but the observer soon forgot that in admiring her pretty teeth, and both these were forgotten when she spoke, as she did now to dorris, tiring of being looked at; for her voice was musical, and thoroughly under control: "i have dreaded to even pass the locks at night ever since i can remember," she said with some hesitation, not knowing exactly how to treat the frankness with which he acknowledged the pleasure her presence afforded him, "and i don't wonder that anyone living in it alone is lonely. they say there is a ghost there, and a mysterious light, and a footstep on the stair; and i am almost afraid to talk about it." allan dorris had a habit of losing himself in thought when in the midst of a conversation, and though he said he had been waiting patiently to hear the music, it did not arouse him, for the girl had tired of waiting for his reply, and gone to playing. now that he was in her presence he did not seem to realize the pleasure he expected when he walked under the trees and waited for her. perhaps he was thinking of the footstep on the stair, which he had become so accustomed to that he thought no more of it than the chirping of a cricket; but more likely he was thinking that what he had in his mind to say to the girl, when alone, was not at all appropriate now that he was with her. "an overture to 'poor helen,'" dorris thought, when he looked up, and heard the music, after coming out of his reverie; for it was full of whispered sadness, and the girl certainly had that unfortunate lady in her mind when she began playing, for she had spoken of her tireless step on the stair; and when he walked back to the other end of the church, he thought of the pretty girl in white, at the instrument, as a spirit come back to warn him with music to be very careful of his future. where had the girl learned so much art? he had never heard better music, and though there was little order in it, a mournful harmony ran through it all that occasionally caused his flesh to creep. she was not playing from notes, either, but seemed to be amusing herself by making odd combinations with the stops; and so well did she understand the secret of the minors that her playing reminded him of a great orchestra he had once heard, and which had greatly impressed him. where had this simple country-girl learned so much of doubt, of despair, and of anguish? allan dorris thought that had _his_ fingers possessed the necessary skill, _his_ heart might have suggested such strains as he was hearing; but that a woman of twenty, who had never been out of her poor native town, could set such tales of horror and unrest and discontent to music, puzzled him. the world was full of hearts containing sorrowful symphonies such as he was now listening to, but they were usually in older breasts, and he thought there could be but one explanation--the organist was an unusual woman; the only flower in a community of rough weeds, scrub-oaks, and thistles, wind-sown by god in his mercy; a flower which did not realize its rarity, and was therefore modest in its innocence and purity. but her weird music; she must have thought a great deal because of her motherless and lonely childhood, for such strains as her deft fingers produced could not have been found in a light heart. "there are few players equal to you," he said, standing by her side when she finally concluded, and looked around. "a great many players i have known had the habit of drowning the expert performance of the right hand with the clumsy drumming of the left; but you seem to understand that the left hand should modestly follow and assist, not lead, as is the habit of busy people. there are many people who have devoted a lifetime to study, surrounded with every advantage, who cannot equal you. i am an admirer of the grand organ, and have taken every occasion to hear it; but there is a natural genius about your playing that is very striking." "no one has ever told me that before," she replied, turning her face from him. "i have never been complimented except by the respectful attention of the people; and father once said i could play almost as well as my mother. your good opinion encourages me, for you have lived outside of davy's bend." well, yes, he _had_ lived outside of davy's bend, and this may have been the reason he now looked away from the girl and became lost to her presence. he did not do this rudely, but there was a pathetic thoughtfulness in his face which caused the girl to remain silent while he visited other scenes. perhaps allan dorris is not the only man--let us imagine so, in charity--who has lived in other towns, and become thoughtful when the circumstance was mentioned. "if there is genius in my playing, i did not know it, for it is not the result of training; it comes to me like my thoughts," the girl finally continued, when dorris looked around. "when you were here before, you were kind enough to commend me, and say that a certain passage gave evidence of great study and practice. i am obliged to you for your good opinion, but the strains really came to me in a moment, and while they pleased me, i never studied them." the girl said this with so much simple earnestness that allan dorris felt sure that his good opinion of her playing would not cause her to practise less in the future, but rather with an increased determination for improvement. "i think that your playing would attract the attention of the best musicians," he said. "the critics could point out defects, certainly, for a great many persons listen to music not to enjoy it, but to detect what they regard as faults or inaccuracies; but the masters would cheerfully forgive the faults, remembering their own hard experience, and enjoy the genius which seems to inspire you. i only wonder where you learned it." "not from competent teachers," she replied, as though she regretted to make the confession. "the best music i ever heard was that of the bands which visit the place at long intervals. i have seldom attended their entertainments, but my father has listened with me when they played on the outside, and we both enjoyed it. all that i know of style and expression i learned from them. i once heard a minstrel band play in front of the hall, on a wet evening, when there was no prospect of an audience, and there was such an air of mournfulness in it that i remember it yet. it is dreadful to imitate minstrel music in a church, but you have spoken so kindly of my playing that i will try it, if you care to listen." they were both amused at the idea, and laughed over it; and after dorris had signified his eagerness to hear it, and reached his favorite place to listen, the back pew, he reclined easily in it, and waited until the stops were arranged. the music began with a crash, or burst, or something of that kind, and then ran off into an air for the baritone. this was the girl's favorite style of playing, and there was really a very marked resemblance to a band. there was an occasional exercise for the supposed cornets, but the music soon ran back into the old strain, as though the players could not get rid of the prospect of an empty house, and were permitting the baritone to express their joint regrets. the accompaniment in the treble was in such odd time, and expressed in such an odd way, that dorris could not help laughing to himself, although he enjoyed it; but finally all the instruments joined in a race to get to the end, and the music ceased. he started up the aisle to congratulate the player, and when half way she said to him: "at another time i heard a band coming up from the river. the players seemed to be in better spirits that day"-a distant march, and a lively one, came from the organ, and surely there were banners in front of the players. the music gradually became louder, and finally the girl said,-"now it turns the corner of the street." then came a crash of melody, and dorris was almost tempted to look out of the window for the procession that he felt sure was passing. it was just such an air as a band-master might select to impress the people favorably on his first appearance in a town; and every member did his best until the grand finale, which exhausted the powers of the organ. when the girl turned round, dorris was laughing, and she joined him in it. "it is a dreadful thing for a girl to do," she said, though her face indicated that she did not think it was so dreadful, after all, and that she enjoyed it; "but when father comes to hear me practise, he insists on hearing the band pieces; and he sometimes calls for jigs, and quadrilles, and waltzes, and imitations of the hand-organ. the hand-organs, with their crippled players, have been of great use to me, for their music is all well arranged, and father says that if i can equal them he will be very proud of me. please don't laugh at the idea, for father never says anything that is silly, and he knows good music when he hears it. i know it is the fashion to make light of the barrel-organ; and the people talk a great deal about bribing the players to leave town; but father says a great many customs are not founded in good sense, and perhaps this is one of them. we so rarely find innocent pleasure that we should be free to enjoy it, no matter what it is, or where found, whether custom happens to look on approvingly or not." "i am glad you said that," dorris returned, "for i enjoy coming here to listen to your practising, and whether the world approves or not, i intend to come whenever there is opportunity, and you do not object. it is my opinion that you have never been appreciated here, and i will repay you for the music by fully and thoroughly appreciating it. do you know that you are a remarkable girl?" dorris was a bold fellow, the girl thought, but there was nothing offensive in his frankness. he seemed to say whatever occurred to him, without stopping to think of its effects. "it never occurred to me," she said. "really and truly?" "really and truly," she replied. "if there is merit in my playing, i might have lived all my life without finding it out, but for you." "then let me be the first to tell you of it. you are very pretty, and you have talent above those around you. i hear that your father is a very sensible man; he no doubt appreciates what i have said, but dreads to tell you of it, fearing you will become discontented, and lose much of the charm that is so precious to him. the friends of cynthia miller force themselves into the belief that you are no handsomer than she, and that your playing is no better than her drumming. all the other davy's bend maids have equally dull and enthusiastic friends; but i, who have lived in intelligent communities, and am without prejudice, tell you that i have never seen a prettier girl in my life. you have intelligence and capacity, too. mrs. wedge has told me the pretty story of how you became an organist, and i admire you for it. some people i have known were content to be _willing_ to do creditable things, and came to believe in time that they had accomplished all they intended, without really accomplishing anything; but i admire you because you do not know yourself how much of a woman you are; at least you make no sign of it. i am glad to be the first to do justice to a really remarkable woman." the remarkable woman was evidently surprised to hear this; for she was very much flustered, and hung her head. "if a girl as pretty and intelligent as you are," he continued, "should fall in love with me, i believe i should die with joy; for a girl like you could find in her heart a love worth having. i don't know what i should do under such circumstances, for i have had no experience; but i imagine i should be very enthusiastic, and express my enthusiasm in some absurd way. no one ever loved me, that i can remember; for as a child i do not believe i was welcome to the food i ate, though i was not more troublesome than other children who receive so much attention that they care nothing for it. i have been indignant at men for beating their dogs, and then envied the love the brutes displayed while the smart was yet on their bodies. it has so chanced that the dogs i have owned were well treated and ungrateful, and finally followed off some of the vagrants who were hard masters. i have thought that they despised me because they were fat and idle, believing these conditions to be uncomfortable, having never experienced poverty and hard treatment; but certainly they regarded me with indifference and suspicion. but i didn't try to force them to admire me; i rather kept out of their way; for an animal cannot be driven to love his master, and you cannot force or persuade a man to admire any one he dislikes." "it is possible that you only imagine it," the girl said. "such doubts as you express have often come to me, but i have comforted myself with the poor reflection that there is so little love in the world that when it is divided among the people, it does not amount to as much as they wish. i know nothing of your situation, past or present, but is it not possible that everyone has the same complaint that you have?" "there is force in your suggestion," he replied thoughtfully, "but i do not believe that i overdraw my condition; i know too much of real wretchedness to permit myself to worry over fancied wrongs. i hope i am too sensible to weave an impossible something out of my mind, and then grieve because of a lack of it. i might long for something which does not exist, but so long as i am as well off as others, i will be as content as others; but when i have seen that which i covet, and know that i am as deserving as others who possess my prize, its lack causes me regret which i can shake off, but which, nevertheless, is always in my mind. this regret has no other effect than to make me gloomy, which no man should be; i can get it out of my actions when i try, but i cannot get it out of my mind. happiness is not common, i believe; for i have never known a man or woman who did not in some way excite my pity on closer acquaintance, but owing to a strange peculiarity in my disposition, i have always felt the lack of honest friendship. this is my malady, and perhaps my acquaintances pity me because of it, as i pity them because of their misfortunes. it must be that i have a disagreeable way about me, and repel friendship, though i am always trying to be agreeable, and always trying to make friends. i have little ambition above this; therefore i suppose it may be said that i am no more unfortunate than others who have greater ambitions, and fail in them. i have been told that men who have great success find friends a bother and a hindrance; so it comes about that we are all disappointed, and i am no worse off than others. how old are you?" "i shall be twenty on my next birthday; you asked me that before." "a little too old to become my pupil," he continued, "but let me say that if you are as contented as you look, make no experiments in the future; pursue the course you have already pursued as long as you live, and never depart from it. if you are given to dreaming, pray for sound slumber; if you occasionally build castles, and occupy them, extol your plain home, and put aside everything save simplicity, honesty, and duty. there is nothing out in the great world, from which i came, which will afford the happiness you know here. i know everything about the world except the simplicity and peace of your life, and these are the jewels which i seek in davy's bend. the road leading from this town is the road to wretchedness, and i have heard that those who have achieved greatness would scatter their reputation to the quarters from whence it came for the quiet contentment you know. many lives have been wrecked by day dreaming, by hope, by fancy. pay attention only to the common realities. if you feel that there is a lack in your life, attack it as an evil, and convince yourself that it is a serious fault; an unworthy notion, and a dangerous delusion." "must all my pretty castles come tumbling down, then?" she said, in a tone of regret. "can this be the sum of life, this round of dull days? this dreaming which you say is so dangerous--i have always believed it to be ambition--has been the only solace of my life. i have longed so intensely to mingle with more intelligent people than we have here, that i cannot believe it was wrong; i almost believe you are dangerous, and i will leave you." she walked half way down the aisle, as if intending to go out, but as dorris did not move, and continued looking at the floor, she came back again. "that is what you ought to do--go away and never come into my presence again," he said, raising his eyes and looking into her face. "that was a good resolve; you should carry it out." annie benton looked puzzled as she asked why. "because every honest sentiment i ever expressed seemed wrong, and against the established order. the friendship of the people does not suit me--neither does their love; and, miserable beggar though i am to feel dissatisfied with that which the king offers, i am not content with it. i wander aimlessly about, seeking--i know not what. a more insignificant man than i it would be difficult to find; but in a world of opulence, this mendicant, this prince myself, finds nothing that satisfies him. a beggar asking to be chooser, i reject those things that men prize, and set my heart upon that which is cheap but impossible. sent into the world to long for an impossibility, i have fulfilled my mission so faithfully that i sometimes wonder that i am not rewarded for it. _you_ must not follow a path that ends in such a place." he pointed out of the window, and the girl thought he referred to the locks; certainly it was not a cheerful prospect. "for you, who are satisfied with everything around you, and who greet every new day for its fresh pleasures, i am a dangerous companion, for my discontent is infectious. and though i warn you to go away, you are a suspicion of that which i have sought so long. your music has lulled me into the only peace i have ever known; but principle--which has always guided me into that which was distasteful--demands that i advise you to keep out of my company, though i cannot help hoping that you will not heed the advice." "i regret that what you say--that i am contented with everything around me--is not true," the girl replied, "but though i am not, and wish i were, i do not repine as you do. you are the gloomiest man i ever knew." "not at all gloomy," he answered. "listen to my laugh. i will laugh at myself." surely such a good-natured laugh was never heard before; and it was contagious, too, for the girl joined him in it, finally, though neither of them knew what they were laughing about. "i seldom afflict my friends with melancholy," he said, "for i am usually gay. gay! i am the gayest man in the world; but the organ caused me to forget. it's all over now; let's laugh some more." and he did laugh again, as gayly as before; a genteel, hearty laugh it was, and the girl joined him, as before, though she could not have told what she was laughing about had her life depended upon it, except that it was very funny that her companion was laughing at nothing. the different objects in the church, including the organ, seemed to look at the pair in good humor because of their gayety; perhaps the organ was feeling gay itself, from recollections of the minstrel band. "it makes me feel dreadfully gay to think you are going home presently, and that i am to return to my cheerful room in the locks, the gayest house in the world. bless you, there is no ghost's walk about that place, and the sunshine seems to be brighter there than anywhere else in the town. i leave it with regret, and return to it with joy; and the wind--i can't tell you what pleasing music the wind makes with the windows and shutters. but if you will let me, i will walk home with you, although i am dying with impatience to return to my usual gayety. i wish it would rain, and keep you here a while longer. i am becoming so funny of late i must break my spirit some way." it was now dusk, and the girl having signified her willingness to accompany him, they walked out of the church, leaving the old janitor to lock the door, which he probably did with unusual cheerfulness, for dorris had given him an amount of money that was greater than a month's wages. "they say here that if thompson benton should see a gentleman with his daughter," dorris said, as they walked along, "that he would give it to him straight. i suppose they mean, by that, that he would tell him to clear out; but i will risk it." "they say a great many things about father that are unjust," the girl answered, "because he does not trifle. father is the best man in the world." "the lion is a dear old creature to the cub," he replied, "but i am anxious to meet this gentleman of whom i have heard so much, so you had better not invite me in, for i will accept. a lion's den would be a happy relief to the gayety of the locks, where we go on--the spectres and i--in the merriest fashion imaginable." dorris seemed determined to be gay, and as they walked along he several times suggested another laugh, saying, "now, all together," or, "all ready; here we go," as a signal for them to commence, in such a queer way that the girl could not help joining. "i am like the organ," he said, "gay or sad, at your pleasure. just at present i am a circus tune, but if you prefer a symphony, you have only to say the word. i am sorry, though, that you cannot shut a lid down over me, and cause me to be oblivious to everything until you appear again. something tells me that the stout gentleman approaching is the lion." they were now in the vicinity of the home of the bentons', and the girl laughingly replied that the stout gentleman was her father. by the time they reached the gate, he was waiting for them, and glaring at dorris from under his shaggy eyebrows. annie presented the stranger to her father, who explained who he was, and said that, having been attracted by the music in the church, he had taken the liberty of walking home with the player. "i have the habit myself," old thompson grunted, evidently relieved to know that dorris was not a lover, and looking at him keenly. he held the gate open for the girl, who walked in, and then closed it, leaving dorris on the outside. he raised his hat, wished them good night, and walked away, and he imagined when he looked back that the girl was standing at the door looking after him. chapter ix. the "apron and password." the guests at the hotel, with their dull wit and small gossip, had disappeared, and the proprietor was seated at the long table in the dining-room, eating his supper, with no companion save silas davy, the patient man-of-all-work. a queer case, the proprietor. instead of being useful to the hotel, as would naturally be expected, he was a detriment to it, for he did not even come to his meals when they were ready, making a special table necessary three times a day, greatly to the disgust of mrs. armsby, who did about everything around the place, from tending the office to superintending the kitchen; and she succeeded so well in all these particulars that occasional strangers had been known to familiarly pat her husband on the back, and congratulate him on keeping a house which was known far and near for its fine attention to guests. armsby did not drink, or gamble, or anything of that kind, but he owned a gun and a hunting dog, and knew exactly when the ducks appeared in the lakes, and when the shrill piping of quail might be expected in the thickets; and he was usually there, in his grotesque hunting costume, to welcome them. in addition to this he was fond of fishing, and belonged to all the lodges; so that he had little time to attend to business, even had he been inclined that way. mrs. armsby regarded the men who sold powder and fishing-tackle, and encouraged the lodges, about as many another sad-hearted woman regards the liquor-sellers; and, as she went wearily about her work, had been heard to wonder whether hunting and fishing and lodge-going were not greater evils than drinking; for she had no use for her husband whatever, although he was a great deal of trouble. he never got out of bed without being called a dozen times, but when he did get up, and was finally dressed (which occupied him at least an hour) he was such a cheerful fellow, and told of his triumph at the lodge election the night before, or of his fancy shots the day before, with such good nature that he was usually forgiven. indeed, the people found no other fault with his idleness than to good-naturedly refer to his hotel as the "apron and password," probably a tribute to the english way of naming houses of public entertainment; for they argued that if mrs. armsby could forgive her husband's faults, it was no affair of theirs; and by this name the place was known. but he had one good habit; he was fond of his wife--not because she made the living, and allowed him to exist in idleness, but really and truly fond of her; though everyone was fond of capable mrs. armsby: for though she was nearly always at work, she found time to learn enough of passing events to be a fair conversationalist, and sometimes entertained the guests in the parlor by singing, accompanying herself on the piano. it was said that as a girl mrs. armsby had been the favorite of a circle of rich relatives and friends, and that she spent the earlier portion of her life in a pleasant and aristocratic home; but when she found it necessary to make her own living, and support a husband besides, she went about it with apparent good nature, and was generally regarded as a very remarkable woman. she had been annie benton's first teacher, in addition to her regular duties, and a pupil still came to the house occasionally, only to find her making bread in the kitchen, or beds in the upper rooms. armsby had been out hunting, as usual, and his wife had prepared his supper with her own hands, which he was now discussing. "there are a great many unhappy women in the world, davy," armsby said, looking admiringly at the contents of the plates around him, "for the reason that most husbands are mean to their wives. i wouldn't be a woman for all the money in thompson benton's safe; i am thankful that i am a man, if for nothing else. it is very pretty to say that any woman is so good that she can have her pick of a husband, but it is not true, for most of them marry men who are cross to them, and unfair, and thoughtless; but mrs. armsby has her own way here. she has a maid and a man, and i fancy she is rather a fortunate woman. instead of being bossed around by her husband, he keeps out of the way and gives her full charge. pull up to the table and eat something, won't you? help yourself to the sardines." davy accepted the invitation, and was helping himself when mr. armsby said: "you will find them mighty good; and they ought to be good, for they cost sixty cents a box--the three you have on your plate cost a dime. but they are as free as the air you breathe. help yourself; have some more, and make it fifteen cents." davy concluded not to take any sardines after this, and after browsing around among the mixed pickles and goat-cheese awhile, and being told that they ought to be good, for they cost enough, he concluded that armsby's hospitality was intended as a means of calling attention to his rich fare; for he was very particular, and in order to please him his wife always provided something for his table which was produced at no other time. there was a bottle of olives on the table, and when davy took one of them, armsby explained that he had imported them himself at enormous expense, although they had been really bought at one of the stores as a job lot, the proprietor having had them on hand a number of years. "any guests to-night?" armsby inquired, trying to look very much vexed that the clerk had not accepted the invitation to refresh himself. "no," davy answered, a little sulky because of his rebuff. "i am sorry for that," armsby continued. "mrs. armsby enjoys a lively parlor, and she has a great deal of time in which to make herself agreeable. what a wonderful woman she is to fix up! always neat, and always pleasant; but she has little else to do. you don't take very kindly to the ladies yourself, davy?" the boarders frequently accused davy of being fond of various old widows and maids in the town, whom he had really never spoken to, and gravely hinted that the streets were full of rumors of his approaching nuptials; but he paid no attention to these banters, nor did he now, except to give a little grunt of contempt for any one so foolish as to marry. "why, bless me, davy," armsby said, laying down his knife and fork in astonishment; "how bald you are becoming! let me see the back of your head." silas turned his back to his employer's husband, and looked up at the ceiling. "it's coming; you will be as bald as a plate in a year. but we must all expect it; fortune has no favorites in this respect. i know a man who does not mistreat his wife, but i never knew one who wasn't bald. you might as well quit washing your head in salt water, davy; for it will do no good." the facts were that davy gave no sign of approaching baldness; but armsby, being very bald himself, was always trying to discover that other people's hair was falling out. "better remain single, though," he continued, referring to matrimony again, "than to marry a woman and mistreat her. all the men are unjust to their wives, barring the honorable exception just named; therefore it has always been my policy to make mrs. armsby a notable exception. is there another woman in the bend who handles all the money, and does exactly as she pleases? you are around a good bit; do you know of another?" davy thought to himself that she was entitled to the privilege of handling the money, since she earned it all, besides supporting a vagrant husband; but he said nothing, for silas was not a talkative man. "whatever she does is entirely satisfactory to me," continued the model husband. "i never complain; indeed, i find much to admire. there is not another woman like her in the world, and it contains an awful lot of people." mrs. armsby appeared from the kitchen at this moment, and, greeting her husband pleasantly, really seemed charmed with his presence. while she was looking after his wants, he told her of his hunting that day; how he had made more double shots than any of his companions; how his dog had proved, for the hundredth time, that he was the very best in the country, as he had always contended; how tired and hungry he was, and how fortunate it was that there was no lodge that night, as in that event he would have to be present. his wife finally disappeared into the kitchen again, to arrange for the first meal of the next day, and armsby said to davy,-"poor woman, she has so little to occupy her mind that she has gone into the kitchen to watch jennie peel the potatoes. if business was not so dull--you say it is dull; i know nothing about it myself--i would hire a companion for her; someone to read to her, and walk about with her during the day. it's too bad." unfortunately for the patrons of the apron-and-password, armsby had been to new york; and though he had remained but two days, since his return he had pretended to a knowledge of the metropolis which was marvellous. when a new york man was mentioned, armsby pretended to know him intimately, telling cheerful anecdotes of how their acquaintance began and ended. whenever a new york institution was referred to, he was familiar with it, almost to intimacy; and a few of the davy's bend people amused themselves by inventing fictitious names and places in new york, and inducing armsby to profess a knowledge of them, which he did with cheerful promptness. he never neglected an opportunity to talk about his trip, therefore when he put his chair back from the table, and engaged in quiet meditation, silas felt sure he was about to introduce the subject in a new way; for armsby was a very ingenious as well as a very lazy man. "you ought to wear the apron, silas," mr. armsby said, looking at silas with the greatest condescension and pity; "but it would be dreadful if your application should be greeted with the blacks. i don't recommend that you try it, mind, for that is not allowed, and the records will show that we lodge men have so much regard for principle that it has never been done; but it is something that everyone should think about, sooner or later. only the very best men wear this emblem of greatness. but if you have faults, i should advise you not to run the risk of being humiliated, for the members are very particular. a lazy man, or a shiftless man, or a bad man of any kind, cannot get in; and when a man belongs to a lodge, it can be depended upon that he is as near right as they make them. this is the reason we must be particular in admitting new members. reputation is at stake; for, once you are in, the others stand by you with their lives and their sacred honor. there's nothing like it." the landlord occupied himself a moment in pleasant thought of the lodges, in connection with their cheapness and general utility, and then continued, after smiling in a gratified way over his own importance in the lodge connection,-"when i first went to new york i became acquainted with the very best people immediately; for every man who wears the apron has confidence in every other man who wears it; each knows that the other has been selected from the masses with care, and they trust each other to the fullest extent. one day i went over into--" armsby could not remember names, and he snapped his fingers now in vexation. "it is strange i am unable to name the town," he said; "i am as familiar with it as i am with my own stable. well, no matter; anyway it is a big suburb, and you reach it by crossing the--" again he stopped, and tried to recall the name of the bridge he had crossed, and the city he had visited, but to no avail; though he rapped his head soundly with his knuckles, for its bad behavior, and got up to walk up and down the room. "if i should forget your name, or mrs. armsby's, it would not be more remarkable," he continued, at last, giving up in despair. "i was brought up in sight of them; but what i started out to say was, that i walked into a bank one day, and the fine-looking man who was at the counter looked at me, at first, with the greatest suspicion, thinking i was a robber, no doubt, until i gave him a certain sign. you should have seen the change in his manner! he came through a little door at the side, and shaking hands with me in a certain way, known only to those on the inside, took me into a private office in the rear, where a number of other fine-looking gentlemen were seated around a table. "'president judd,' he said to them, 'this gentleman wears the apron.' "all the elegant gentlemen were delighted to see me. it was not feigned, either, for it was genuine delight; and a controversy sprang up as to which of them should give his time to my entertainment while in the city, though i protested that i was so well acquainted that i could get along very well alone. but they insisted upon it, and when they began to quarrel rather fiercely about it, i gave them a sign (which reminded them of their pledge to be brothers), whereupon they were all good-natured at once, and one of them said,-"'thank you for reminding us of our duty, brother; the best of us will occasionally forget. will you do us the favor to pick out one of our number to show you about, and make your stay in the city pleasant?'" davy noticed that mrs. armsby was listening at the kitchen door, though armsby did not know it, for his back was turned toward her; but he did not mention the circumstance. "i liked the looks of mr. judd," armsby continued, "so i said that if the other brothers would not take offence, i would like his company. the others said, 'oh, not at all,' all of them making the sign to be brothers at the same time, and president judd at once began arranging his business so he could go out with me, not neglecting to put a big roll of money in his pocket; and, though it was very big, the others said it wasn't half enough." davy believed everything the people saw fit to tell him, and vouched for the truth of it when he repeated it himself, and was very much interested in what armsby was saying. "well, sir, when we went out, the sign was everything. you cannot imagine how potent it was. we made it when we wanted a carriage, and the driver regarded it as a favor to carry us for nothing; we made it when we were hungry, and it assured us the greatest attention at the hotels, which were nothing like this, but larger--very much larger." davy gave evidence of genuine astonishment on learning that there were hotels larger than the "apron and password;" but as the proprietor himself had made the statement, he presumed it must be true, though it was certainly very astonishing. "i can't think of the name of it now, but they have a railroad in the second story of the street there, and instead of collecting fare, when the proprietors came around they put money in our outside pockets, thinking we might meet someone who was not a brother. judd remained with me five days, taking me to his own residence at night, which was twice as big as the locks, and when we finally parted, he loaded me down with presents, and shed tears. next to the sign, the apron is the greatest thing in the world; i am sorry you do not wear it." armsby wandered leisurely out into the office soon after, probably to smoke the cigars his wife kept there in a case for sale, when mrs. armsby came into the dining-room, and sat down, looking mortified and distressed. "silas," she said, "don't believe a word armsby has said to you, or ever will say, on this subject. before he became a slave to this dreadful lodge habit, he was a truthful man, but you can't believe a word he says now. do you know what they do at the lodges?" davy shook his head, for of course no one except a member _could_ know. "let me tell you, then. they tie cooks' aprons around their waists, put fools' caps on their heads, and quarrel as to whether the hailing sign, or the aid sign, or whatever it is, is made by holding up one finger when the right thumb is touching the right ear, or whether it is two or three or four fingers. it is all about as ridiculous as this, and my advice to you is, never join. armsby has been talking to you a good deal about the matter lately, and i suspect he wants the fun of initiating you, which is accompanied with all sorts of tricks, which gives them opportunity to make fun of you from behind their paper masks." since it was impossible to believe both stories, silas made up his mind to ask tug's opinion,--tug would know,--but he said nothing. "some of them wear swords," mrs. armsby went on to say; "but, bless you, they can't draw them, and even if they should succeed in getting them out, they couldn't put them back in their scabbards again. armsby came home one night wearing his sword, and in this very room he took it out to make a show of himself, and was so awkward with it that he broke half the dishes on the dresser, besides upsetting the lamp and wounding me on the hand. to complete his disgrace, he was compelled to ask me to put it in its case again; but i fear the lesson did the misguided man little good, for he has been as bad as ever since. but while these men might be pardoned for their foolishness if they remained in their halls, they are utterly unpardonable for disgracing their wives and friends by appearing on the street, which they occasionally do, dressed in more fantastic fashion than ever. if you should join, you would be expected to do this, and after one appearance you could never look a sensible person in the face again, unless you are lost to all sense of self-respect. besides, it is expensive; my husband keeps me poor in attending grand lodges, and most of the failures are caused by neglecting business to talk lodge. my only fear is that my misguided husband will finally consider it his duty to kill somebody for telling about the signs and grips, and then we will all be disgraced. it is your misfortune as well as mine, silas, that armsby is not a drunkard. drunkards are occasionally reformed, and are of some use in their sober intervals; but a lodge man never reforms. if a lodge man engages in business, he fails, for he does not attend to it; but a drinking man admits that he is doing wrong, and sometimes succeeds in his efforts to do better; whereas a lodge man argues all the time that his foolishness is good sense, and therefore don't try to get out of the way. compared to me, mrs. whittle is a very fortunate woman." mrs. armsby got up at this and went out; and as silas was preparing to follow, he heard a whistle which he recognized at once as tug's. whenever tug had use for silas early in the evening, he had a habit of whistling him out, since he never came into the hotel until his friend had possession. silas at once put on his hat and went down to the wagon yard, where he found tug impatiently waiting, who started off at a rapid swinging gait toward the lower end of the town and the river as soon as silas caught sight of him. when the pair travelled, davy always lagged behind, as he did in this instance; for in the presence of genius like tug's, he felt that his place was in the rear. others might doubt the ability or even the honesty of his friend, but silas had no doubt that tug would some day be a wonderful man, and prove that everything said to his discredit was untrue. it was a favorite saying of his that when he "came into his own," he would move about, with the magnificence of a circus procession, on the back of an elephant, with a brass band in front and a company of trumpeters behind; and silas was content to wait. tug occasionally illustrated this idea now as he walked along, by swinging and flinging his body about as those who ride on elephants do, and it occurred to silas that "his own" must have arrived by boat, and that he was going after it; for he walked rapidly toward the river without looking around. tug had not spoken a word since setting out, and after reaching the street which led down to the crazy collection of houses where he lived, he travelled down that way a while, and at last turned off toward the right, following the course of the river through alleys and back yards, and over fences and gaping sloughs, until at last he stopped near an old warehouse, which had been used a great many years before in storing freight arriving by the boats when the bend was an important town. it was entirely deserted now, and as the two men stopped in its shadow, tug gave his companion to understand that he must be very quiet and secret. after they had blown awhile, tug began crawling around the building on his hands and knees, followed by his companion, occasionally raising his hand as a warning when they both stopped to listen. when tug had reached the other end of the warehouse, he motioned davy to come up to him; and when he did so this is what he saw:-a light skiff tied to the bank, with the oars laid across it, and a woman seated in the stern--the woman they had seen when they followed the shadow down the river, after its appearance at allan dorris's window. they were certain it was the same woman, because she wore a waterproof cloak, as she did on the night when they followed the shadow down the river, and she was very small. her back was turned toward them, and she was motionless as a statue; and realizing that as her ears were covered with the waterproof she could not hear well, the two men arose to their feet after a careful inspection, and walked back to the other end of the building. "i intend to steal her," tug whispered into his companion's ear, at the same time reaching down into davy's pocket and taking out a handkerchief, which he arranged in his hand like a sling ready for use. chapter x. tug whittle's booty. after resting a while, and looking carefully around to make sure that they were not watched, tug and silas crawled cautiously back to the bank which overlooked the boat and its singular occupant, and after warning his companion to remain where he was by shaking his hand at him like a club, tug began to climb down the bank, feeling every step as he went with the cunning stealth of a tiger. gradually he worked his way to the water's edge; so careful was he, that even silas, watching him with breathless interest above, could not hear his step, and at last he stood on the brink of the water. the boat was in an eddy, floating easily about, and when it came within tug's reach, he clapped the handkerchief over the woman's mouth, tied it in a knot at the back of her head, and came clambering up the bank with her on his shoulders. without saying a word, he started to retrace his steps, only stopping once or twice to see that his booty was not smothering, when, finding the little woman all right, he went on over the fences and sloughs, and through the alleys and yards, until he entered his own door. "now then, sister," he said, putting the woman on her feet, and breathing heavily from his exercise, "tell us who you are. davy, make a light." silas came lagging in about this time, and did as he was told, though he was a long time about it, for the matches were damp, and the flame slow in coming up. everything seemed to be damp in davy's bend, and it was no wonder that the matches were slow and sleepy, like the other inhabitants of the town; therefore they came to life with a sputtering protest against being disturbed. while silas was rubbing them into good humor, tug was closely watching the little woman with his great eye, and getting his breath; and when the light was fairly burning, he went over to her side, and removed the handkerchief from her mouth. "gentlemen!" she cried out, in a weak voice, as soon as she could. "gentlemen! in the name of god! i appeal to you as gentlemen!" "don't gentleman me," tug said, bringing the light over to look at the woman's face. "i'm not a gentleman; i'm a thief, and i've stolen a woman. nor is _he_ a gentleman," pointing to davy, and holding his head to one side to get a bead on him. "he's the greatest scoundrel that ever lived. look at the audacious villain now! look at him! did you ever see a person who looked so much like the devil? and he _is_ the devil, when he gets started. he's keen to get at you now, and i'll have trouble with him if you are at all unreasonable." davy looked like anything but a villain as he meekly watched the pair from the other side of the room; indeed, he was thinking that tug was carrying the matter entirely too far, and was becoming alarmed. but tug did not share this feeling of apprehension, for he seemed desperately in earnest as he held the lamp close to the woman's face, who tried to shield it from his sight with her thin, trembling hands, and cried out in the same weak voice: "gentlemen! in the name of god! i appeal to you as gentlemen!" a very small woman, with shrivelled face and sharp features, was tug's booty, and she trembled violently as she piteously held out her hands to the two men. tug thought of her as the key to the problem he had been attempting to solve, so he stood between her and the door to prevent escape. but silas felt sure that the woman had but lately risen from a sick bed; for she was weak and trembling, and from sitting long in the damp river air, there was a distressed and painful flush in her face. "come now, sister," tug said, seating himself in front of her, and frowning like a pirate. "tell us what you know, and be carried back to your boat. if you refuse to do it, we will take you on a journey to the hedgepath graveyard, in the woods over the river, where we will erect a stone sacred to the memory of an obstinate woman. which will you have? use your tongue; which will you have?" but the woman made no other reply than to appeal to them as gentlemen, in the name of god, and cry, and wring her hands. "in case you ever see that foxy companion of yourn again, which is extremely doubtful, for i have a companion who murders for the love of it--(here, now, take your hand off that knife, will you," tug said, by way of parenthesis to silas, looking at him sharply. then going over to him, he pretended to take a knife out of davy's inside coat pocket, and hide it in the cupboard). "if you ever see your friend sneak again, say to him that i intend to get his head. he is bothering a friend of mine, and i intend to create a commotion inside of him for it." tug walked over to the table where the lamp stood, and, taking the package of poison from his pocket, carefully divided it into two doses; a large one for a man, and the other for a smaller person, probably a woman. he also took occasion, being near to davy, to whisper to him that the woman reminded him of his wife's sister sis. "you are evidently a married woman, sister," the bold rascal said, seating himself in front of his captive, and looking at her in the dignified manner which distinguished him. "i suppose you were very handsome as a girl, and the men fell desperately in love with you, and were very miserable in consequence. but i will let you into a secret; you are bravely over your beauty now. i suppose your mother braided your hair, and did all the work, that your hands might be as pretty as your face; and certainly she believed that while the boys might possibly fail in life, _you_ would be all right, and marry a prince, and repay her for her kindness. your poor mother rented a pianow for you, too, i reckon, and hired you a teacher; and when you could drum a little, she thought you could play a great deal, and felt repaid for all her trouble, believing that you would turn out well, and make your brothers feel ashamed of themselves for being so worthless. and while i don't know it, i believe that she paid five dollars to somebody to make you a artist, and that you painted roses and holly-hocks on saucers and plates, which your poor mother, in the kindness of her heart, recognized, and greatly admired. i shall believe this as long as i live, for you _look_ like a painter and a pianowist out of practice." this train of thought amused mr. whittle so much that he paused as if to laugh; but he apparently thought better of it, though his scalp crawled over on his forehead,--an oddity which distinguished him when he was amused. "did your poor mother get to sleep peacefully at night, after working all day for you?" inquired mr. whittle fiercely. "you don't answer; but you know she didn't. you know she spent the night in wrangling with your father to induce him to give her money that she might buy you more ribbons and millinery and dry goods; and kid gloves, probably, although your brother bill was out at his toes, and hadn't so much as a cotton handkercher; and how your mother went on when your husband came courting you! he wasn't good enough for you _then_, whoever he was; though i'll bet he thinks he's too good for you _now_, whoever he is; and what a time you must have had borrowing silverware and chairs for the wedding! i've been married, and i know. your tired mother hoped that when her children grew up they would relieve her, and love her, and be good to her; but i'll bet you find fault because she didn't 'do' more for you; and that your brother bill, who ran away because you had all the pie in the house, is taking care of her, providin' she aint dead from bother and too much work, which is likely. and after all this trouble in your behalf, look at you now!" the little woman seemed to be paying some attention to what he was saying, for she looked at him timidly out of the corners of her black eyes a few times, and occasionally forgot to wring her hands and cry. "look at you now, i say! your health has gone off after your beauty, for you seem to have neither with you, and i find you wandering around at night with a thief. a great fall you've had, sister, providin' you ever were young and pretty, for i was never acquainted with a worse-looking woman than you are; and if you knew my wife you would be very indignant, for she has the reputation of being a terror for looks. when i was younger i fell in love with every girl i met, and had no relief until they married; _then_ i soon got over it, for you ought to know how they fade under such circumstances; but you are worse than the rest of them; you are so ugly that i feel sorry for you. honestly, i wonder that you do not blush in my presence; and i am not handsome, god knows. i really feel sorry for you, but in connection with your friend prowler you are annoying an amiable and a worthy gentleman, who happens to be a friend of mr. blood's, the party sitting opposite you; and i fear he does _not_ feel sorry for you. a little less of that word 'gentlemen,' sister, if you please." the woman was appealing to them again as before: "gentlemen! in the name of god! i appeal to you." "promise to take your friend prowler, and leave this country," mr. whittle continued, "and never return, and you shall go free; but if you refuse--blood!" tug sprang up and glared savagely at his meek little partner, at the same time advancing toward him. "you sha'n't satisfy that devilish disposition of yourn by shooting a woman in the back when _i'm_ around, you cut-throat," he said. "haven't i always been ready to join you in putting men out of the way, and haven't i enjoyed the pleasure of it with you? then why do you want to take the credit of this job to yourself, and enjoy it alone? you must wait, blood, until she speaks. we _may_ forgive her, providin' she speaks up cheerful and don't attempt to deceive us." again tug pretended to take a dangerous weapon from his companion, standing between davy and the prisoner while about it; after which he regarded him for a few moments in contemptuous silence. "it's your tongue, sister, and not your tears, as will do you good in this difficulty," tug said, in answer to a fresh burst of grief from the woman. "i'll give you five minutes to decide between tongue and tears. at the end of that time, if it's tears, the cravings of that bad man in the corner shall be satisfied. blood, where is the watch you took from the store? hain't got it? my guess is that you've lost it gambling, as usual. well, i'll count three hundred seconds, sister, since we have no watch. one, two, three; here we go." tug looked reverently up at the ceiling; and appeared to be engaged in counting for two or three minutes, occasionally looking at the woman and then at silas, who thought tug had been counting at least half an hour already. "two hundred and twenty-one, two hundred and twenty-two, two hundred and twenty-three," he counted aloud. "fifth call, sister, the time is going; two hundred and twenty-four, two hundred and--" at this moment there was a strange interruption to the proceedings. a tall man wearing a rubber coat, which reached below his knees, opened the door, and, leaving it open, stood just upon the inside, carrying a pistol in his right hand, which hung by his side. "the shadow!" both men thought at once; and very determined and ugly looked the shadow, with his long, sallow face, and dark moustache. "alice," he said to the woman, "come out." the woman quickly jumped up, and hurried outside. the shadow followed, backing out like a lion-tamer leaving a cage, and closing the door after him. but while he stood inside the door, although he was there only a moment, both men noticed a strange peculiarity. the upper part of his left ear was gone,--cut off clean, as if with a knife; and this peculiarity was so unusual that they remarked it more than his face. the circumstance gave them both an impression that the shadow was a desperate man, and that he was accustomed to fierce brawls. tug and silas looked at each other in blank dismay a long time after the mysterious pair had disappeared, not venturing to look out, fearing it might be dangerous; but finally tug said,-"silas, i must have a gun. do you happen to have one?" silas shook his head. "then i must steal one, for i need a gun. the shadow looks so much like an uncle of my wife's that i am more determined than ever to kill him." whereupon he went over to the table, emptied the two packages of poison on to the floor, and went to bed. chapter xi. the whispers in the air. there is a wide and populous world outside of davy's bend, from which allan dorris recently came; let the whispers in the air, which frighten every man with their secrets, answer why he had resolved never again to see annie benton. during his residence in davy's bend he had met the girl frequently, usually at the stone church near his house, where she came to practise; and after every meeting he became more than ever convinced, after thinking about it,--and he thought about it a great deal,--that if their acquaintance continued, there would come a time when he would find it difficult to quit her society. the pleasure he enjoyed in the company of the pretty organist was partly due to the circumstance that she was always pleased at his approach, although she tried to disguise it; but beyond this,--a long way beyond this,--there was reason why he should avoid her; for the girl's sake, not his own. he repeated this often to himself, as though he were a desperate man ready to engage in any desperate measure; but his manner visibly softened when he thought of the pretty girl whose ways were so engaging, innocent, and frank. he knew himself so well,--the number of times he had gone over the story of his life, in his own mind, since coming to the locks even, would have run up into the hundreds; therefore he knew himself very well indeed,--that he felt in honor bound to give up his acquaintance with her, although it cost him a keen pang of regret, this determination to hear the music no more, and never again see the player. avoiding even a look at the church, which was a reminder of how much pleasure he had found in davy's bend, and how much misery he would probably find there in the future, he passed out of the iron gate of the locks, and set his face toward the quiet country, where he hoped to walk until his body would call for rest at night, and permit him to sleep; a blessing that had been denied him of late more than before he knew annie benton, and when he thought that davy's bend contained people only fit to be avoided. but he was glad that he had resolved never to see the girl again,--for her sake, not his own. he had made this resolve after a struggle with himself, thinking of the strange fatality that had made duty painful throughout his entire life; and he walked toward the country because he believed the girl was in the direction of the town; probably seated in the church at that moment, watching the door for his approach. she was a comfort to him, therefore he must avoid her; but this had always been the case--he was accustomed to being warned that he was an intruder whenever he entered a pleasant place. there was something in store for her besides a life of hiding and fear, and an unknown grave at last, with a fictitious name on the headboard; and he would not cross a path which led toward happiness for one he so much admired. thus he argued to himself as he walked along; but when he remembered how dull his life would be should her smile never come into it again, he could not help shuddering. "but i have been so considerate of others," he said aloud, as he pursued his way, "that even the worms in my path impudently expected me to go round them, and seemed to honestly believe me unworthy of living at all if i did not. let me not show a lack of consideration now that my heart is concerned." above his house, and so near the river that the water rippled at its base, was a rugged bluff, separated from the town by a deep and almost impassable ravine, and for this reason it was seldom visited; allan dorris had found it during his first month in the town, and he resolved to visit it now, and get the full benefit of the sunshine and delightful air of the perfect summer day. it occurred to him as he sat down to rest, after making the difficult ascent, that he would like to build a house there, and live in it, where he would never be disturbed. but did he want solitude? there seemed to be some question of this, judging from the look of doubt on his downcast face. when he first came to davy's bend, he believed that the rewards of life were so unsatisfactory that all within his reach that he desired was his own company; but an experience of a month had satisfied him that solitude would not do, and he confessed that he did not know what he wanted. if he knew what it was his heart craved, he believed that it was beyond him, and unobtainable; and so his old habit of thinking was resumed, though he could never tell what it was all about. everything he desired was impossible; that within his reach was distasteful--he could make no more of the jumble in his brain, and finally sat with a vacant stare on his face, thoroughly ashamed of the vagrant thoughts which gave him a headache but no conclusions. even the pure air and the bright sunshine, that he thought he wanted while coming along the road, were not satisfactory now; and as he started to walk furiously up the hill, to tire himself, he met annie benton in the path he was following. she had been gathering wild flowers, and, as he came upon her, she was so intent on arranging them after some sort of a plan, that she was startled when he stood beside her. "i was thinking of you," she said hurriedly, instead of returning his greeting. "i intended sending you these." dorris could not help being amused that he had encountered the girl in a place where he had gone to avoid her, but there was evidence in his light laugh that he was glad of it; so he seated himself on a boulder beside the path, and asked what she had been thinking of him. "that you were a very odd man," she answered frankly. "that has always been a complaint against me," he said, with a tone of impatience. "i think i have never known any one who has not said, during the course of our acquaintance, that i was 'odd;' whatever is natural in me has been called 'odd' before. if i wanted bread, and was not satisfied with a stone, they called me 'odd.' the wishes of the horse that has a prejudice for being bridled on the left side are respected, but there is no consideration for a man who cannot be contented simply because it is his duty. i remember that we had a horse of this description in our family when i was a boy, and if he injured any one who failed to respect his wishes, the man was blamed, not the horse. but the people do not have equal charity for a man who is not content when circumstances seem to demand it of him, no difference what the circumstances are, or how repugnant they may be to his taste. so you were finding fault with me? i am not surprised at it, though; most people do." the girl had seated herself near him, and was busily engaged in arranging the flowers until he inquired again,-"so you were finding fault with me?" "no," she answered, "unless it was finding fault to think of you as being different from any other person i have ever known. it was not a very serious charge to think of you as being different from the people in davy's bend." there was something in that, for they were not the finest people in the world, by any means; nor could the town be justly held responsible for all their faults, as they pretended. "no, it is not serious," he replied; "but i am sorry you are looking so well, for i am running away from you. it would be easier, were you less becoming. i am sorry you are not ugly." there was a look of wonder in the girl's face that made her prettier than ever. "running away from _me_?" "yes, from you," he answered. she began arranging the flowers again, and kept her eyes on them while he watched her face. dorris thought of himself as a snake watching a bird, and finally looked down the river at the ferry, which happened to be moving. "why?" she asked at last. "because i am dangerous," he replied, with a flushed face. "you should run away when you see me approach, for i am not a fit companion for you. i have nothing to offer that you ought to accept; even my attentions are dangerous." the bouquet was arranged by this time, and there was no further excuse for toying with it, so she laid it down, and looked at him. "i suppose i should be very much frightened," she said, "but i am not. i am not at all afraid of you." he laughed lightly to himself, and seemed amused at the answer she had made. "i know nothing whatever about women," he said, "and i am sorry for it, for you are a puzzle to me. i know men as well as i know myself, and know what to expect of them under given circumstances; but all those of your sex i have ever known were as a sealed book. the men are always the same, but i never know what a woman will do. no two of them are alike; there is no rule by which you can judge them, except that they are always better than the men. i have never known this to fail, but beyond that i know nothing of your sex. i say to you that i am dangerous; you reply that you are not afraid of me. but you ought to be; i am sure of that." "if you desire it," she said, "i am sorry, but i feel perfectly safe in your company." "it's a pity," he returned, looking down the river again. "if you were afraid of me, i would not be dangerous. i am not liable to pelt you with stones, or rob you; but the danger lies in the likelihood of our becoming friends." "is friendship so dangerous, then?" "it _would_ be between you and me, because i am odd. look at me." she did as requested, with quiet confidence and dignity. "you say you are not afraid of me; neither am i of you, and i intend to tell you what you can hardly suspect. i am in love with you to such an extent that i can think of nothing else; but i cannot offer you an honorable man's love, because i am not an honorable man, as that expression is used and accepted. i have been looking all my life for such a woman as you are, but now that i have found you, i respect you so much that i dare not attempt to win your favor; indeed, instead of that, i warn you against myself. until i was thirty i looked into every face i met, expecting to find the one i sought; but i never found it, and finally gave up the search, forced to believe that such a one as i looked for did not exist. i have found out my mistake, but it is too late." he jumped up from the stone on which he was seated, as if he intended to run away, and did walk a distance, but came back again, as if he had something else to say. "i speak of this matter as i might tell a capable artist that i was infatuated with his picture, and could not resist the temptation to frequently admire it. i have no more reason to believe that there is a responsive feeling in your heart than i would have reason to believe that the picture i admired appreciated the compliment, but there is nothing wrong in what i have said to you, and it is a pleasure for me to say it; there can be no harm in telling a pretty, modest woman that you admire her--she deserves the compliment." annie benton did not appear to be at all surprised at this avowal, and listened to it with the air of one who was being told of something commonplace. "you do not make love like the lovers i have read about," she said, with an attempt at a smile, though she could not disguise the oddity of her position. "i do not know how to answer you." "then don't answer me at all," he replied. "i am not making love to you, for i have denied myself that privilege. i am not at liberty to make love to you, though i want to; therefore i ask the privilege of explaining why i shall avoid you in the future, and why i regret to do it. the first feeling i was ever conscious of was one of unrest; i was never satisfied with my home, or with those around me. if i thought i had a friend, i soon found him out, and was more dissatisfied than ever. of course this was very unreasonable and foolish; anyone would say that, and say it with truth, but while it is an easy explanation, i could not help it; i was born that way, nor can i help saying that i am satisfied with you. you suit me exactly, and i was never contented in my life until i sat in the old church and looked at you." though the girl continued to look at him without apparent surprise, her face was very pale, and she was breathing rapidly. "you may regard what i have said as impudent," dorris continued, "and think that while you are satisfactory to me, i would not be to you. i am not now, but i would give a great deal to convince you that i am the man you dreamed of when you last put wedding-cake under your pillow, providing you ever did such a ridiculous thing. it is not conceit for me to say that i believe i could compel you to respect me, therefore i regret that we have ever met at all, for i am not at liberty to woo you honorably; if you want to know why, i will tell you, for i would place my life in your hands without the slightest hesitation, and feel secure; but it is enough for the present to say that nothing could happen which would surprise me. i am in trouble; though i would rather tell you of it than have you surmise what it is, for i am not ashamed of it. i can convince you--or any one with equally good sense--that i am not nearly so bad as many who live in peace. would you like to hear my history?" "no," she replied; "for you would soon regret telling it to me, and i fear that you will discover some time that i am not worthy of the many kind things you have said about me. i am only a woman, and when you know me better you will find that i am not the one you have been looking for so long and so patiently." "excuse me if i contradict you in that," he said with as much grave earnestness as though he had been talking politics, and found it necessary to take issue with her. "you _are_ the one. once there came to me in a dream a face which i have loved ever since. this was early in life, and during all the years which have brought me nothing but discontent and wretchedness, it has been my constant companion; the one little pleasure of my life. from the darkness that surrounded me, the face has always been looking at me; and whatever i have accomplished--i have accomplished nothing in davy's bend, but my life has been busy elsewhere--has been prompted by a desire to please this strange friend. i have never been able to dismiss my trouble--i have had no more than my share, perhaps, as you have said, but there is enough trouble in the world to render us all unhappy--except to welcome the recollection of the dream; and although i have often admitted to myself that this communion with the unreal was absurd, and unworthy of a sensible man, it has afforded me a contentment that i failed to find in anything else; therefore the fancy made a strong impression on my mind, and it grew stronger as i grew older, causing me many a heartache because there was nothing in life like it. most men have dreams of greatness, but my only wish was to find the face that always came out of the shadows at my bidding." he paused for a moment, looking into the empty air, where his dream seemed to realize before him, for he looked intently at it, and went on to describe it. "it was not an angel's face, but a woman's, and there was no expression in it that was not human; expressions of love, and pity, and forgiveness--you have them in your face now, and i believe they are not uncommon. i have never expected unreal or impossible things, and as i grew older, and better understood the unsatisfactory nature of life, i became more than ever convinced that i would feel entirely satisfied could my dream come true. at last i came to believe that it was impossible; that i was as unreasonable as the man who pined because his tears were not diamonds; but i could not give up the recollection of the face, to which i was always so true and devoted, and comforted myself with brooding over it, and regretting my misfortune. instead of greatness or grandeur, i longed for the face, and it was the only one i ever loved." again he was gazing intently at nothing; at his fancy, but this time he seemed to be dismissing it forever, after a careful inspection to convince himself that the counterpart he had found on earth was exactly like it. "until i met you," he said, looking at annie benton again, "this sweetheart of my fancy lived in heaven, maid of air. when you turned upon me that afternoon in the church, i almost exclaimed aloud: 'the face! my vision has come true!' not a feature was missing, and your actions and your smile were precisely what i had seen so often in my fancy. therefore you are not a stranger to me; i have loved you all my life, and instead of worshipping a vision in the future i shall worship you. why don't you speak to me?" "i don't dare to," she answered, looking him full in the face, and without the slightest hesitation. "i am afraid i would say something i ought not to." he looked at her curiously for a moment, trying to divine her meaning, and concluded that if she should speak more freely, he would hear something surprising; either she would denounce him for his boldness, or profess a love for him which would compel him to give up his resolution of never seeing her again. "that was an unfortunate expression," he said. "i am sorry you said that, for it has pleased my odd fancy; indeed, it is precisely what i was hoping you would say, but there is all the more reason now for my repeating to you that i am dangerous. i know how desperate my affairs are; how desperate i am, and how unfortunate it would be if you should become involved. therefore i say to you, as a condemned prisoner might shut out the single ray of light which brightened his existence, so that he might meet his inevitable fate bravely, that you must avoid me, and walk another way when you see me approaching." a hoarse whistle came to them from the ferry in the river, and dorris thought of it as an angry warning from a monster, in whose keeping he was, to come away from a presence which afforded him pleasure. "may i speak a word?" the girl inquired, turning abruptly toward him. "yes; a dozen, or a thousand, though i would advise you not to." "is what you have said to me exactly true?" "upon my honor; exactly true," he answered. "is there no morbid selfishness in it; no foolish fancy?" "upon my honor, none!" "do you believe i am your dream come true with the same matter-of-fact belief which convinces you that there is a ferry in the river?" she pointed out the boat as it moved lazily through the water, and as he looked at it he seemed to resolve the matter carefully in his mind. "yes," he answered, "i am as certain that you are the woman i have loved devotedly all my life, as i am certain that there is a river at the foot of the hill. what i have said to you is generally regarded as sentimental nonsense except when it is protected by the charity of a sweetheart or a wife; but it is in every man's heart, though it is sometimes never expressed, and my idle life here has made me bold enough to state that it is true. i have been seeking contentment with so much eagerness, and know so well that it is hard to find, that i have come to believe that there is but one more chance, and that i would find what i lack in the love of a woman like you. even if i should discover by experience that i am mistaken in this belief, i would feel better off than i ever did before; for i would then conclude that my fancies were wrong, and that i was as well off as any man; but this feeling will always be denied me, for i am denied the privilege of happiness now that it is within my reach. my lonely life here has wrung a confession from me which i should have kept to myself, but it is every word true; you can depend on that." annie benton seemed satisfied with the answers he had made, and there was another long silence between them. "and your music--you play like one possessed," he said finally, talking to the wind, probably, for he was not looking at the girl. "every sentiment my heart has ever known you have expressed in chords. had i not known differently, i should have thought you were familiar with my history and permitted the organ to tell it whenever we met. what a voice the old box has, and what versatility; for its power in representing angels is only equalled by its power to represent devils. there is a song with which i have become familiar from hearing you play the air; it is a sermon which appealed to me as nothing ever did before. before i knew the words, i felt sure that they were promises of mercy and forgiveness; and when i found them, i thought i must have been familiar with them all my life; they were exactly what i had imagined. to look at your cold, passionless face now, no one would suspect your wonderful genius. you look innocent enough, but i do not wonder that you are regarded as a greater attraction than the minister. i have been told that you can kill the sermon, when you want to, by freezing the audience before it commences, and i believe it. i have no doubt that you take pride in controlling with your deft fingers the poor folks who worship under the steeple which mounts up below us. i only wonder that you do not cause them to cheer, and swing their hats, for they say that you can move them to tears at will." "i never feel like cheering myself," she answered, "and i suppose that is why the organ never does. but i very often feel sad, because i am so commonplace, and because there is so little in the future for me. if i play so coldly at times that even the minister is affected, it is because i am indifferent, and forget, and not because i intend it." "if you are commonplace," allan dorris replied, "you have abundant company; for the world is full of common people. we are all creatures of such common mould that i wonder we do not tire of our ugly forms. out of every hundred thousand there is a genius, who neglects all the virtues of the common folks, and is hateful save as a genius. for his one good quality he has a hundred bad ones; but he is not held to strict account, like the rest of us, for genius is so rare that we encourage it, no matter what the cost. but i have heard that these great people are monstrosities, and thoroughly wretched. i would rather be a king in one honest heart, than a sight for thousands. but this is not running away from you, as i promised, and if i remain here longer i shall lose the power. my path is down the hill; yours is up." he lifted his hat to her, and walked away; but she called to him,-"i am going down the hill, too, and i will accompany you." he waited until she came up, and they walked away together. the girl had said that she was going down the hill, too, and would accompany him; but dorris knew that she meant the hill on which they were standing, not the one he referred to. he referred to a hill as famous as wickedness, and known in every house because of its open doors to welcome back some straggler from the noisy crowd travelling down the famous hill; but he thought that should a woman like annie benton consent to undertake the journey with him, he would change his course, and travel the other way, in spite of everything. "did i do wrong in asking you to wait for me?" she inquired, after they had walked awhile in silence. "yes," he answered, "because it pleased me. be very careful to do nothing which pleases me, for i am not accustomed to it, and the novelty may cause me to forget the vow i have made. a man long accustomed to darkness is very fond of the light. what do you think of me, anyway?" "what a strange question!" the girl said, turning to look at him. "be as frank with me as i was with you. what do you think of me?" the girl thought the matter over for a while, and replied,-"if i should answer you frankly, i should please you; and you have warned me against that." dorris was amused at the reply, and laughed awhile to himself. "i didn't think of that," he said, though he probably had thought of it, and hoped that her reply would be what it was. "i am glad to hear that i am not repugnant to you, though. it will be a comfort to me to know, now that my dream has come true, that the subject of it does not regard me with distrust or aversion. i am glad, too, that after dreaming of the sunshine so long, it is not a disappointment. in my loneliness hereafter that circumstance will be a satisfaction, and it will be a pleasure to believe that the sunshine was brighter because of my brief stay in it. i can forget some of the darkness around me in future, in thinking of these two circumstances." they had reached thompson benton's gate by this time, and, the invitation having been extended, dorris walked into the house. the master was not due for an hour, so dorris remained until he came, excusing himself by the reflection that he would never see the girl again, and that he was entitled to this pleasure because of the sacrifice he had resolved to make. it was the same old story over again; allan dorris was desperately in love with annie benton, but she must not be in love with him, for he was dangerous, and whether this was true or not, his companion did not believe it. he told in a hundred ways, though in language which might have meant any one of a hundred things, that she was his dream come true, and of the necessity which existed for him to avoid her. occasionally he would forget to be grave, and make sport of himself, and laugh at what he had been saying; and at these times annie benton was convinced more than ever that he was not a dangerous man, as he said, for there was an honest gentility in his manner, and a gentle respect for her womanhood in everything he did; therefore she listened attentively to what he said, saying but little herself, as he requested. although he made love to her in many ingenious ways, and moved annie benton as she had never been moved before, he did not so intend it. could his motives have been impartially judged, that must have been the verdict; but while he knew that his love was out of place in the keeping of the girl, he could not resist the temptation of giving it to her, and then asking her to refuse it. several times annie benton attempted to speak, but he held up his hand as a warning. "don't say anything that you will regret," he said. "let me do that; i am famous for it. i never talked ten minutes in my life that i didn't say something that caused me regret for a year. but i will never regret anything i have said to you, for i have only made a confession which has been at my tongue's end for years. i have known you all my life; you know nothing of me, and care less, therefore let it be as i suggest." "but just a word," the girl insisted. "you do not understand what i would say--" "i don't know what you would say, but i can imagine what a lady like you _should_ say under such circumstances, and i beg the favor of your silence. let me imagine what i please, since that can be of little consequence to you." there was a noise at the front door, and old thompson came in. dorris bowed himself out, followed by a scowl, and as he walked along toward his own house he thought that his resolution to see annie benton no more would at least save him from a quarrel with her father. chapter xii. ruined by kindness. john bill, editor of the davy's bend _triumph_, was ruined by a railroad pass. when he taught school over in the bottoms, on the other side of the river, and was compelled to pay his fare when he travelled, he seldom travelled, and therefore put his money carefully away, but when he invested his savings in the _triumph_, and the railroad company sent him an annual pass, he made up for lost time, and travelled up and down the road almost constantly, all his earnings being required to pay his expenses. a day seldom passed that john bill did not get off or on a train at the davy's bend station, carrying an important looking satchel in his right hand, and an umbrella in his left, and though he imagined that this coming and going gave the people an idea of his importance, he was mistaken, for they knew he had no business out of the town, and very little in it: therefore they made fun of him, as they did of everything else, for the davy's bend people could appreciate the ridiculous in spite of their many misfortunes. they knew enough, else they could not have been such shrewd fault-finders, and they had rather extensive knowledge of everything worldly except a knowledge of the ways of capital, which was always avoiding them; but this was not astonishing, since capital had never lived among them and been subject to their keen scrutiny. when an event was advertised to take place on the line of road over which his pass was accepted, john bill was sure to be present, for he argued that, in order to report the news correctly, he must be on the ground in person; but usually he remained away so long, and gave the subject in hand such thorough attention, that he concluded on his return that the people had heard of the proceedings, and did not write them up, though he frequently asserted with much earnestness that no editor in that country gave the news as much personal attention as he did. still, john bill claimed to be worth a good deal of money. there was no question at all, he frequently argued, that his business and goodwill were worth fifteen thousand dollars--any man would be willing to pay that for the _triumph_ and its goodwill, providing he had the money; therefore, deducting his debts, which amounted to a trifle of eleven hundred dollars on his material, in the shape of an encumbrance, and a floating indebtedness of half as much more, he was still worth a little more than thirteen thousand dollars. the people said that everything in his office was not worth half the amount of the encumbrance, and that his goodwill could not be very valuable, since his business did not pay its expenses; but john bill could prove that the people had never treated him justly, therefore they were likely to misrepresent the facts in his case. there was a mortgage, as any one who cared to examine the records might convince himself, but it was a very respectable mortgage, and had been extended from time to time, as the office changed hands, for fifteen years past. it had been owned by all the best men in the neighborhood; but while a great many transfers were noted thereon, no credits appeared, so john bill was no worse than the rest of them. the former parties of the first part had intended paying off the trifling amount in a few weeks, and thereby become free to act as they pleased; john bill had the same intention concerning the document, therefore it was no great matter after all. besides, there were the accounts. he had a book full of them, and was always showing it to those who bothered him for money. the accounts were all against good men; a little slow, perhaps, but good, nevertheless, and the accounts should be figured in an estimate of john bill's affairs, which would add a few thousands more to the total. it was a little curious, though, that most of the men whose names appeared on john bill's ledger had accounts against john bill, and while he frequently turned to their page and showed their balances, they also turned to john bill's page in _their_ ledgers, and remarked that there was no getting anything out of him. thompson benton had been heard to say that each of these men were afraid to present their bills first, fearing that the others would create a larger one; so the accounts ran on from year to year. but whoever was in the right, it is certain that the accounts were a great comfort to john bill, for he frequently looked them over as a miser might count his money. john bill was certain the people of davy's bend were ungrateful. he had helped them and their town in a thousand ways, and spent his time (or that part of it not devoted to using his pass) in befriending them; but did they appreciate him? they did not; this may be set down as certain, for if the editor had put them in the way of making money, they were thoroughly ungrateful. indeed, the people went so far as to declare that john bill was the ungrateful one, nor were they backward in saying so. they had taken his paper, and helped him in every way possible, but he did not appreciate it; so they accused each other, and a very uncomfortable time they had of it. but though john bill claimed to be always helping the people, and though the people claimed that they had done a great deal for john bill, the facts were that neither john bill nor the people gave substantial evidence of any very great exertions in each other's behalf, so there must have been a dreadful mistake out somewhere. likewise, they quarrelled as to which had tried to bring the greater number of institutions to the town; but as to the institutions actually secured, there were none to quarrel over, so there was peace in this direction. john bill frequently came to the conclusion that his wrongs must be righted; that he must call names, and dot his i's and cross his t's, even to pointing out to the world wherein he had been wronged. he could stand systematic persecution no longer, he said, so he would fill his ink-bottle, and secure a fresh supply of paper, with a view of holding up to public scorn those who had trampled him in the dust of the street. but it was a bold undertaking; a stouter heart than john bill's would have shrunk from attacking a people with a defence as sound as the davy's bend folks could have made, so he usually compromised by writing paid locals about the men he had intended to accuse of ingratitude, referring to them as generous, warm-hearted men, who were creditable to humanity, all of which he added to the accounts at the rate of eight cents per line of seven words. john bill was so situated that he did little else than write paid locals, though he usually found time once a week to write imaginary descriptions of the rapid increase in circulation his paper was experiencing. he had discovered somehow that men who would pay for nothing else would pay for being referred to as citizens of rare accomplishments, and as gentlemen whose business ability was such that their competitors were constantly howling in rage; and it became necessary to use this knowledge to obtain the bare necessities of life. the very men who declared that john bill could have no more goods at their stores until old scores were squared would soften under the influence of the puff, and honor his "orders" when in the hands of either of the two young men who did his work. perhaps this was one reason the _triumph_ was on all sides of every question. whoever saw fit to write for it had his communication printed as original editorial; for the editor was seldom at home, and when he was, he found his time taken up in earning his bread by writing palatable falsehoods; therefore all the contributions went in, and as correspondents seldom agree, the _triumph_ was a remarkable publication. whenever a citizen had a grievance, he aired it in the _triumph_, his contribution appearing as the opinion of the editor. the person attacked replied in like manner; hence john bill was usually in the attitude of fiercely declaring _no_ one week, and _yes_ with equal determination the next. it was so on all subjects; politics, religion, local matters--everything. the republican who aired his views one week in john bill's remarkable editorial columns was sure to find himself confronted by a democrat who was handy with a pen in the next issue; the man who wrote that this, or that, or the other, was a disgrace, would soon find out that this, or that, or the other, were very creditable; for john bill's printers must have copy, and john bill was too busy travelling and lying to furnish it himself. having returned home on the night train, john bill climbed the stairway at the head of which his office was situated, and was engaged in preparing for his next issue. although he felt sure that a large amount of important mail matter had arrived during his absence, it could not be found; and therefore the editor was in rather bad humor, as he produced a list of paid notices to be written, and made lazy preparation for writing them. the editor was always expecting important mail matter, and because it never came he almost concluded that the postmaster was in the intrigue against him. while thinking that he would include that official in the exposã© he felt it his duty to write at some time in the future, a knock came at the door. he had heard no step ascending the stair, therefore he concluded it must be one of his young men; probably the pale one, who was wasting his life in chewing plug tobacco, and squirting it around in puddles, in order that he might realize on a joke which he had perpetrated by printing a sign in huge letters, requesting visitors not to spit on the floor. in response to his invitation a tall gentleman came in,--a stranger, dressed in a suit of black material that gave him the appearance of being much on the road, for it was untidy and unkempt. he looked a good deal like a genteel man who had been lately engaged in rough work, and john bill noticed that he kept his left side turned from him. the stranger's hair, as well as his moustache and goatee, were bushy, and sprinkled with gray; and he had a rather peculiar pair of eyes, which he used to such an advantage that he seemed to remark everything in the room at a single glance. an odd man, john bill thought; a man who might turn out to be anything surprising; so he looked at him curiously quite a long time. "you are mr. bill?" the stranger asked, after the two men had looked each other over to their joint satisfaction. the editor acknowledged his name by an inclination of the head, at the same time offering a chair. "i came in on the night train," the tall man said, seating himself with the left side of his face toward the door at which he had entered; "therefore i call upon you at this unseasonable hour to make a few inquiries with reference to your place. it is not probable that i shall become an advertiser, or a patron of any kind; but i think you may depend on it that i will shortly furnish you with an item of news. i have read your editorial paragraphs with a good deal of interest, and concluded that you could give me the information desired." john bill expressed a wish to himself that the stranger would never find out that he did not write the editorials he professed to admire; but there was a possibility that his visitor was not sincere. he had said that he came to the town on the night train. john bill knew this to be untrue, for he had been a passenger on that train himself, and no one else got off when he did. he was glad, however, that the determined-looking visitor did not bring a folded copy of the _triumph_ with him for convenience in referring to an objectionable paragraph; for john bill felt sure that such a man as the stranger looked to be would not go away without satisfaction of some kind. he was bothered a good deal in this way, by reason of his rather peculiar way of conducting the _triumph_; but questions with reference to davy's bend,--he could answer them easy enough. but he did not contradict the statement of his visitor concerning the time he arrived in town, for he did not look like a man who would take kindly to a thing of that sort; so the editor meekly said he would be pleased to give him any information in his power. "i will inquire first about the man calling himself--allan dorris," the stranger continued, consulting a book which he took from his pocket, and pausing a little before pronouncing the name, "and i ask that this conversation be in confidence. how long has this fellow been here?" the tall stranger put up his book, and looked at the responsible head of the _triumph_, as though he would intimate that his displeasure would be serious should his instructions be neglected. "this is october," mr. bill replied, counting on his fingers. "he came in the spring, some time; probably six months ago. i do not know him personally. he is a doctor, and lives in a place called 'the locks,' on the edge of the town, in this direction," pointing his finger toward the stone church, and the house in which allan dorris lived. "that's about all i know of him." the peculiar pair of eyes owned by the odd man followed the direction pointed out for a moment, and then settled on john bill again. "i have heard that he has a love affair with a young woman named--annie benton," the visitor said with business precision, once more consulting his book, and pausing before pronouncing the name, as he had done before. "what do you know about that?" "i have heard something of it," the editor replied, "but nothing in particular; only that he is with her a great deal, and that he meets her usually in a church near his house. the people talk about it, but i am too busy to pay much attention to such matters." john bill was trying to create the impression that he was kept busy in writing the sparkling editorials which the stranger had pretended to admire, but thinking at the last moment that his travelling was his credit, he added, with a modest cough: "besides, i travel a good deal." but this was not the first time john bill had tried to create a wrong impression. he foolishly imagined that, being an editor, he was expected to know more than other people; but as he did not, he frequently filled his mind with old dates, and names, and events, by reading of them, and then talked of the subject to others, pretending that it had just occurred to him, and usually adding a word or two concerning the popular ignorance. if he encountered a word which he did not know the meaning of, he looked it up, and used it a great deal after that, usually in connection with arguments to prove that the average man did not understand the commonest words in his language. nor was this all; john bill was a deceiver in another particular. he frequently intimated in the _triumph_ that if he were a rich man he would spend his money liberally in "helping the town;" that is, in mending the streets and sidewalks, and in building manufactories which would give employment to "labor." john bill was certainly a deceiver in this, for there never was a poor man who did not find fault with the well-to-do for taking care of their means. the men who have no money of their own claim to know exactly how money should be invested, but somehow the men who have money entertain entirely different ideas on the subject. upon invitation the editor told of old thompson benton and his disposition; of the beauty of his daughter, and of her talent as a musician; of allan dorris's disposition, which seemed to be sour one day, and sweet the next, and so on; all of which the stranger noted in his book, occasionally making an inquiry as the narrative of the town's gossip progressed. when this was concluded, the book in which the notes were made was carefully put away, and the stranger backed toward the door, still keeping his left side in the shadow, first leaving a ten-dollar note on the editorial table. "i shall need your services soon," he said, "and i make a small payment in advance to bind the bargain. when the time comes you will know it. your business then will be to forget this interview. you are also to say nothing about it until you receive the warning to forget. i bid you good-night." so saying the stranger was gone, retreating down the stairway so lightly that his footsteps could not be heard. a rather remarkable circumstance, the editor thought; a visit at such an hour from a mysterious man who inquired minutely about a citizen who was almost as much of a mystery as the visitor himself; and when he heard a step on the stair again, he concluded that the stranger had forgotten something, and was coming back, so he opened the door, only to meet mrs. whittle, the milliner, who carried a sealed envelope in her hand. john bill did not like mrs. whittle, the milliner, very well; for she had a habit of saying that "her work" was all the advertising she needed, referring to the circumstance that she had become the town busybody in her attempts to reform the people; but he received her politely, and thought to himself that when his sensation finally appeared it would refer to this party as fluffy, fat, and beardy. mrs. whittle had a good deal to say concerning the careless, good-natured wickedness of the people, and the people had a good deal to say about mrs. whittle. one thing they said was, that while she was always coaxing those who were doing very well to become better, she was shamefully neglecting her own blood in the person of little ben whittle, her only child, who was being worked to death by the farmer named quade, in whose employ he was. this unfortunate child had not seen his mother for years, and was really sick, distressed, ragged, and dirty; but while mrs. whittle imagined that he was doing very well, and felt quite easy concerning him, she could not sleep at night from worrying over the fear that other children, blessed with indulgent parents and good homes, were growing up in wickedness. her husband was a drunkard and a loafer, but mrs. whittle had no time to bother about him; there were men in the town so thoroughly debased as to remain at home, and rest on sunday, instead of going to church, and to this unfortunate class she devoted her life. she frequently took credit to herself that the best citizens of davy's bend were not in jail, and believed that they would finally acknowledge their debt to her; but of her unfortunate son and her vagrant husband she never thought at all; so john bill could not very well be blamed for disliking her. "i heard you would return to-night," the good woman said, panting from her exertion in climbing the stairs, "and i wanted to deliver this with my own hands, which is my excuse for coming at this late hour, though i don't suppose that any one would doubt that i came on a good errand, even if they had seen me coming up. bless me, what a hard stair you have!" john bill took the envelope, and, after tearing it open, hung the note it contained on an empty hook within reach of his hand, without looking at it. meanwhile mrs. whittle continued to pant, and look good. "it refers to allan dorris's affair with annie benton," she said, recovering her breath at last. "something should be done, and i don't know who else is to do it. the people all mean well enough, and they are good enough people as a rule; but when there is good to be accomplished, i usually find it is _not_ accomplished unless i take an interest in it. no one knows better than john bill that i do not suspect people, and am always inclined to believe good of them, but there is something wrong about this allan dorris. mr. ponsonboy and mr. wilton say so, and you know they are very careful of what they say." john bill had heard that statement questioned, and he mentally added their names to his black list. two greater talking old women never wore pants, john bill had heard said, than messrs. ponsonboy and wilton, and when he got at it he would skin them with the others. "better men than mr. ponsonboy and mr. wilton never lived," mrs. whittle said, "and i have concluded to write a hint which annie benton as well as allan dorris will understand. if nothing comes of it, i will try something else. i am not easily discouraged, mr. bill; i would have given up long ago if i were." mrs. whittle found it necessary to pause for another rest, and the editor took opportunity to make mental note of the fact (for use in the coming exposure) that she was dressed in the most execrable taste; that her clothes seemed to have been thrown at her from a miscellaneous assortment, without regard to color, material, or shape, and that she had not taken the trouble to arrange them. john bill felt certain that when the people were buying copies of his paper to burn, they would read that mrs. whittle was in need of the refining influences of a dress-maker. "you are a good man at heart, mr. bill," mrs. whittle said again, which was an expression the editor had heard before, for he was always being told that he was a better man than he appeared to be, though he knew a great many people who were not better than they appeared to be. "i know you are, and that you do not mean all the bad things you say sometimes. i know you will help me in doing good, for it is so important that good _should_ be done. when i think of the wickedness around me, and the work that is to be done, i almost faint at the prospect, but i only hope that my strength may enable me to hold out to the end. i pray that i may be spared until this is a better world." mr. bill promised to find a place in his crowded columns for the good woman's contribution, and she went away, with a sigh for the general wickedness. "the world will be better off for that sigh," john bill said, as he settled down in his chair, and heard mrs. whittle step off the stair into the street. "what we need is more sighing and less work. there is no lack of workers; in fact, the country is too full of them for comfort, but there is a painful lack of good people to sigh. the first one who called to-night on allan dorris business looked like a worker; a worker-off, i may say. this dorris is becoming important of late. i must make his acquaintance. hello! another!" the owner of the legs that were climbing the stairway this time turned out to be silas davy, who came in and handed john bill a piece of paper. it proved to be a brief note, which read,- "to john bill,--if the party who has just left your office left a communication concerning allan dorris, i speak for the privilege of answering it. "tug whittle." john bill read the note several times over after silas had disappeared, and finally getting up from his chair, said,-"i'll write no more to-night; there may be interesting developments in the morning." chapter xiii. the rebellion of the baritone. during the summer and winter following the arrival of allan dorris in davy's bend, he met annie benton at intervals after their strange meeting out on the hills, in spite of his resolution to keep out of her way, and though he was convinced more than ever after each meeting that their acquaintance was dangerous, he candidly admitted to himself that he was powerless to resist the temptation to see her when opportunity offered, for the girl waited as anxiously for his appearance as he did for hers; she was as deeply concerned as he was, and while this circumstance afforded him a kind of pleasure, it was also painful, for he felt certain that no good could come of it. usually he attended the services in the church once a week, and watched the organist so closely that she always divined his presence, and looked timidly toward where he sat when opportunity offered. dorris believed that he could cause the girl to think of him by looking at her, and though he changed his position at every service, he had the satisfaction of finally seeing her pick him out, and she never made a mistake, always looking directly at him when she turned her head. after the people were dismissed, he occasionally met her at the door, and walked home with her behind her glowering father, who received the attentions of dorris with little favor. a few times he remained in the church with her a few minutes after the congregation had passed out, but after each meeting he felt more dissatisfied than ever, and chafed under the restraint which held him back. a few times, also, he went into the house, after accompanying her home, which pleased annie benton as much as it displeased old thompson, but somehow he did not enjoy her company there as he did when she was alone in the church, for the ancient maiden, as well as the ancient gentleman, seemed to regard him with suspicion and distrust; therefore in spite of his vows to let her alone, which he had made with honesty and sincerity, he called on her at the church nearly every week. he believed that he was entitled to some credit because he only saw the girl occasionally, for he longed to be with her continually; and there were times, when he heard the organ, that he overcame the temptation and did not enter the church. on these occasions he turned his face doggedly toward the locks, and paced up and down in his own room until he knew the temptation was removed; when he would go out into the yard again, hoping that some good fortune had detained the player longer than usual, and that he would meet her unexpectedly. this same spirit caused him to haunt the road which she frequented on her visits to and from the town, and quite often he had occasion to appear surprised at her approach when he was not, when he would walk with her one way or the other until it seemed necessary for them to separate. it was not a deep _ruse_--nor did it deceive himself, for he often laughed at its absurdity--but it afforded occupation to a man who was idle more than half his time, and allan dorris was like other men in the particular that he wanted to do right, but found it very difficult when inclination led in the other direction. when they met in this manner, each usually had time to say only enough to excite the curiosity of the other, and to cause them to long for another meeting, and thus the winter was passed, and the early spring came on; the season of quarreling between frost and sunshine. on a certain wild march evening, after a day of idleness and longing to see the girl, dorris put on his heavy coat and walked in the yard, up and down the old path under the trees, which gave evidences of his restless footsteps even in the snows of winter. as soon as he came out he heard the music, and between his strong desire to see the player, and his conviction that he should never enter her presence, he resolved to leave davy's bend and never return. he could better restrain his love for her in some distant town than in davy's bend, therefore he would go away, and try to forget. this gave him an excuse to enter the church, though he only intended to bid her good-by; and so impatient was he that he scaled the wall, and jumped down on the outside, instead of passing out at the gate. annie benton was watching for him when he stepped into her presence from the vestibule, and as he walked up the aisle he saw so much pleasure in her face that he regretted to make the announcement of his departure; but he knew it was the best thing to do, and did not hesitate. he even thought of the prospect that she might regret his determination, and say so, which would greatly please him. "i have concluded to leave davy's bend," he said, as he took the hand she offered him, "and have called to say good-by. as soon as i can dispose of my effects i will leave this forbidden ground, and travel so far that i will forget the way back. the more i see of you, the more i love you; and if i continue to live in sight of your house, i will finally forget everything except that i love you, and do you a great harm. it will not take me long to settle up my affairs, and within a few days, at the farthest, i shall be gone." the smile on annie benton's pretty face vanished at once, as she turned her head and looked from him, at the same time trying to run her fingers over the keys; but they had lost their cunning, and her hands soon lay idly on the keyboards. when dorris finally caught her head gently, and turned it toward him, he saw that tears were in her eyes. she did not attempt to hide this, and quietly submitted when he brushed them away. "it pains me to know that you regret this announcement," dorris said, after looking at her a moment, "though it would pain me more to believe that you did not. it seems to be always so; there is sorrow in everything for me. i have cursed myself a thousand times for this quality, and thought ill of a nature which had no peace or content in it. i have hated myself for years because of the belief that nothing would satisfy me; that i would tire of everything i coveted, and that i was born a misanthrope and an embodied unrest. when i have envied others their content, i have always concluded afterwards that there was something in my nature opposed to peace, and that i was doomed to a restless life, always seeking that which could not be found. i have always believed that my acquaintances have had this opinion of me, and that for this reason they did not grant me the charity i felt the need of. but now that i am going away, and will never see you again, i hope you will pardon my saying that your absence has been the cause of the unrest which has always beset me. long before i knew you existed i was looking for you; and i know now that all my discontent would have vanished had i been free to make honorable love to you when we first met. in our weakness we are permitted to know a few things; i know this to be true." "since you have always wished me to take no interest in this acquaintance of ours," annie benton replied, in a tone which might have been only sullen, but it sounded very much like the voice of an earnest woman expressing vexation and regret, "let me at least express in words what i have often expressed in my actions--that i would have long ago shown you that your affection was returned; that you are not more concerned than i am. i have always been in doubt as to what my course should be; but let me say this, in justice to my intelligence, though it be a discredit to my womanhood, you can never love me more than i do you. nor do you more sincerely regret the necessity which you say exists for your going away." "i hope i do not take undue credit to myself," he replied, "when i say that i have known this ever since our acquaintance began, and i only asked you to remain silent because i could not have controlled myself with declarations of love from your lips ringing in my ears. you trusted my judgment fully, and refused to hear the reasons why i said our acquaintance was dangerous; and i will deserve that confidence by going away, for i know that is the best thing to do. sometimes there is a little pleasure in a great sorrow. i have known mothers to find pleasure in talking of their dead children, and i find a fascination in talking to you about a love which can never be realized. heretofore i have been a man shut up in a dungeon, craving sunlight, hating myself because i came to believe that there was no sunlight; now i realize that sunlight was a natural necessity for my well-being, for i have found it, and it is all i hoped. but i must go back into the dungeon, and the necessity is more disagreeable than i can tell you. i am an average man in every respect save that i feel that i have never had an average man's chance in this matter of love, and fret because of it. that which i crave may be a mistake of the fancy, but i am not convinced of it; therefore i am not as philanthropic as those who have outgrown in experience an infatuation such as i feel for you. i have tried everything else, and have learned to be indifferent, with all my idols broken and dishonored at my feet; but there is a possibility in love which i can never know anything about." while the girl was listening, there were times when dorris thought she would interrupt him, and make the declaration which he had forbidden; but she controlled herself, and looked steadily away from him. "it may occur to you as strange--it _is_ strange--that while i declare my love for you, i run away from it. in explanation i could only repeat what i have said before; that it is for your good that i have adopted this course. had you listened to my brief story, you would now understand why my going away seems to be necessary; since you preferred not to, i can only say in general terms that nothing could happen, except good fortune, which would surprise me. i am surrounded by danger, and while my life has been one long regret, the greatest regret of all is that which i experience in leaving you. were i to consult my own bent, i would deny all that i have intimated to my discredit, and make such love to you that you could not resist it; but i love you, and this course would not prove it. we are doing now what millions of people have done before us; making a sacrifice for the right against strong inclinations, and we should meet it bravely. there is no hesitation in my manner, i hope." annie benton turned and looked at him, and saw that he was trembling and very much agitated. "then why are you trembling?" she asked. "because of the chill in the air, i presume," he answered, "for i am very determined to carry out my resolution. i might tremble with excitement in resolving to rescue a friend from danger, though it would not indicate a lack of courage. you are willing for me to go?" "since you say it is for the best," she replied, "yes." believing that he had said all that was necessary, allan dorris hesitated between going away and remaining. walking over to the window, and looking out, he saw that the light he had been talking about was fading away from the earth, as it was fading away from him, and that the old night was coming back. a hill-top he saw in the distance he likened to himself; resisting until the last moment, but without avail, for the darkness was gradually climbing up its sides, and would soon cover it. "you will no doubt think that i should have kept away from you when i saw that my presence was not objectionable, and that our acquaintance would finally result in this," he said, coming back to the girl, and standing by her side, "but i could not; let me acknowledge my fault, and say that i am sorry for it. i could not resist the temptation to enter the only presence which has ever afforded me pleasure, try hard as i could, so i kept it up until i am now forced to run away from it. do i make my meaning clear?" "perfectly," she replied, without looking around. "life is so unsatisfactory that it affords nothing of permanent value except the love and respect of a worthy, intelligent, and agreeable woman. it is the favor i have sought, and found too late. it is fortunate that you are not as reckless as i am; otherwise no restraint would keep us apart. but for the respect i have for your good name, i would steal you, and teach you to love me in some far-away place." "you have taught me already," the girl timidly replied, still looking away. "don't say that," dorris said in alarm. "that pleases me, for it is depravity, and everything depraved seems to suit me. you must say nothing which pleases me, else i will fail in my resolve. say everything you can to hurt my feelings, but nothing to please me." "i cannot help saying it," she replied, rising from her seat at the organ, and facing him. "if it is depravity to love you, i like depravity, too." "annie," dorris said, touching her arm, "be careful of what you say." "i must say it," she returned, with a flushed face; "i am only a woman, and you don't know how much weakness that implies. i am flesh and blood, like yourself; but you have made love to me as though i were an unconscious picture. i fear that you do not understand womankind, and that you have made an idol of me; an idol which will fall, and break at your feet. my love for you has come to me as naturally as my years, and i want you to know when you go away that my heart will be in your keeping. why may not i avow my love as well as you? why may not i, too, express regret that you are going away?" the girl asked the question with a candor which surprised him; there was the innocence of a child in her manner, and the enthusiasm of a woman thoroughly in earnest. "for the reason that when i am gone it will be in the nature of things for you to forget me," he replied. "you are young, and do not know your heart as well as i know mine. in course of time you will probably form an honorable alliance; _then_ you will regret having said this to me." "it will always be a pleasure for me to remember how ardently i have loved you," she replied, trembling and faltering, as though not quite certain that the course she was pursuing was right. "i will never feel ashamed of it, no matter if i should live forever. it may not be womanly for me to say so; but i can never forget you. your attentions to me have been so delicate, and so well calculated to win a woman's affection, that i want you to know that, but for this hindrance you speak of, your dream might be realized. if i am the maid of air, the maid of air returns your affection. surely my regard for you may excuse my saying this, now that you are going away, for you may think of it with pleasure in your future loneliness. i appreciate your love so much that i must tell you that it is returned." they were standing close together on the little platform in front of the organ, and the girl leaned against him in such a manner that he put his left arm around her shoulders to support her. her head rested on his arm, and she was looking full into his face. the excitement under which she seemed to labor lent such a charm to her face that allan dorris thought that surely it must be the handsomest in the world. "kiss me," she said suddenly. the suggestion frightened the great brawny fellow, who might have picked up his companion and ran away with her without the slightest inconvenience; for he looked around the room in alarm. "i don't know whether i will or not," he replied, looking steadily at her. "were you ever kissed before?" "by my father; by no one else." "then i think i will refuse," he said, "though i would give twenty years of my life to grant your request. what a request it is! it appeals to me with such force that i feel a weakness in my eyes because of the warmth in my heart, and the hot blood never ran races through my veins before as it is doing now. you have complete possession of my heart, and i am a better man than i was before, for you are pure and good; if i have a soul, it has forgotten its immortality in loving this earthy being in my arms. but it is the proudest boast of a loyal wife that no lips save those of her husband ever touched hers, and my regard for you is such that i do not wish to detract from the peace of your future. if i have made an idol of you, let me go away without discovering my mistake; grant me the privilege of remembering you as the realization of all my dreaming. in a year from now you will only remember me to thank me for this refusal of your request." "in a year from now i will feel just as i do now. i will never change. i will have only this to remember you by, and my acquaintance with you has been the only event in my life worth remembering. _please_ kiss me." he hurriedly pressed her lips to his own, and looked around as though he half expected to be struck dead for the sacrilege, but nothing serious resulted, and the girl continued to talk without changing her position. "i have never regretted the restraint which is expected of women until i knew you, for why should i not express my preferences as well as you? in my lonely, dreamy childhood, i had few acquaintances and fewer friends, and you have supplied a want which i hardly knew existed before. ever since i can remember, i have longed so much to know the people in the great world from which you came that i accepted you as a messenger from them, and you interested and pleased me even more than i expected. my life has always been lonely, though not unhappy, and the people i read of in books i accepted as the people who lived outside of davy's bend, in the cities by the lakes and seas, where there is culture as well as plenty. i have been familiar with their songs, and played them on the organ when i should have been practising; everything i have read of them i have put to music, and played it over and over. once i read of a great man who died, and who was buried from a church filled with distinguished mourners. the paper said that when the people were all in their seats, the voice of a great singer broke the stillness, in a song of hope, and i have imitated the voice on the organ, and imagined that i was playing a requiem over distinguished dust; but in future i shall think only of you when i play the funeral march. since i have known you, i have thought of little else, and i shall mourn your departure as though you had always been a part of me. if i dared, i would ask you on my knees to remain." "i have heard you play the songs to which you refer," dorris replied musingly, "and i have thought that you played them with so much expression that, could their authors have listened to the performance, they would have discovered new beauties in them. i never knew a player before who could render the words of a song as well as the music. you do it, and with so much genius that i wonder that you have nothing but the cold, passionless notes to guide you. one dark afternoon you played 'i dreamt i dwelt in marble halls,' and a savage could have told what the words were. the entire strength of the organ seemed to be united in the mournful air, and the timid accompaniment was peopled with the other characters in the play from which the song is taken. that represented you; but you have had me before the organ, telling all i knew, a hundred times. although you have refused to hear my story, you seem to know it; for you have told it on the organ as many times as i have thought of it." "if i have told your story on the organ," the girl said, "there must have been declarations in it that you were a brave, an honorable, and an unfortunate man, for i have always thought that of you. in spite of all you have said to me against yourself, i have never doubted this for a moment, and i would trust you to any extent." "if i expect to carry out my resolution," allan dorris replied, as though in anger, though it was really an unspoken protest against doing a disagreeable thing, "i must hear no more of this; a very little more of what you have said, and retreat will be impossible. but before i leave you, let me say this: you once said i was an odd man; i will tell you why. i seem to be an odd man because you have heard every sentiment there is in my heart; i have kept nothing back. the men you have known were close-mouthed and suspicious, knowing that whatever they said was likely to be repeated, and this made them cautious. place other men in my situation as to loneliness and misfortune, and i would not seem so unusual. there are plenty of staid business men who are as 'odd' as i am, but they have never been moved to tell their secrets, as i have done to you. even were your honorable father to express the love he feels for your dead mother, it would sound sentimental and foolish, and surprise his acquaintances; but rest assured that every man will turn out a strange creature when you get his confidence. i say this in justice to myself, but it is the truth. when you know any man thoroughly, you either think more or less of him." "i don't dare to tell you what is in my mind," annie benton said, as she stood beside him, his arm still around her. "it would startle you, and perhaps cause you to change the good opinion you have expressed of me; but there can be no harm in my saying this--every day of our acquaintance has brought me more respect and love for you. let me pay you the poor compliment of saying that the more i know of you, the more i respect and honor you." "i believe i deserve that," he replied. "i have more than my share of faults, but it has always been a comfort for me to know that my best friends are those who know most of me. but though i have faults, i am not the less sensitive. i believe that should i kill a man, i would as keenly feel the slights of my fellows as would one whose hands were clean. should i become so offensive to mankind as to merit banishment, my wickedness would not cause me to forget my loneliness. my mistakes have been as trifling in their nature, and as innocent, as neglect to lock a door in a community of thieves; but i have been punished as severely as though i had murdered a town. the thieves have pursued and beaten me because i carelessly permitted them to steal my substance; and the privilege of touching a pure woman's lips with my own, and folding her in my arms, becomes a serious wrong, though it has only brought me a joy which other men have known, and no harm came of it." "i do not wish to do anything that is wrong," the girl said, with some alarm, stepping away from him, as if frightened at her situation; "but on the score of friendship, i may say that i shall be very lonely when you are gone. davy's bend was never an agreeable place, but i was content with it until you came and filled me with ambition. i wanted to become worthy of the many kind things you said of me; i hoped that i might distinguish myself in some way, and cause you to rejoice that you had predicted well of me, but now that you are going away, you will never know of it even if i succeed. i may regret your departure on this account, if nothing else. i _do_ regret it for another reason, but you reprimand me for saying it." the dogged look which distinguished him when thinking came into his face again, and though he seemed to be paying no attention, he was listening with keen interest. "regret seems to be the common inheritance," he said, after a protracted silence between them. "your regret makes me stronger; it convinces me that i am not its only victim. duty is a master we must all obey, though i wonder that so many heed its demands, since it seldom leads us in the direction we would travel. the busy world is full of people who are making sacrifices for duty as great as yours and mine; let us not fail in doing ours. in the name of the only woman i ever loved, i ask you to bid me good-by with indifference. for the good of the best woman in the world, play a joyful march while i leave your presence, never to return." without another word, the girl sprang to her seat at the organ, and allan dorris having awakened the sleeping janitor, the music commenced; a march of joy, to the time of which he left the church without once looking back. but on reaching the outside he could not resist the temptation to look once more at annie benton; so he climbed up to his old position on the wall, and looked at her through the broken pane. he saw her look around, as if to convince herself that he was gone, when the music changed from joy to regret while her face was yet turned toward the door at which he had departed. she was thinking, and expressing her thoughts with the pipes, and allan dorris knew what she was thinking as well as if she were speaking the words. there were occasional passages in the music so fierce and wild that he knew the girl was struggling with desperate thoughts; nor could she easily get rid of them, for the reckless tones seemed to be fighting for mastery over the gentler ones. the old baritone air again; but strong and courageous now, instead of mournful, and it seemed to be muttering that it had ceased to be forbearing, and had no respect for customs, or usages, or matters of conscience; indeed, there was a certain reckless abandon in it which caused the listener to compare it to the roaring song of a man reeling home to squalor and poverty--a sort of declaration that he liked squalor and poverty better than anything else. the mild notes of the accompaniment with the right hand--how like entreating human voices they sounded--a chord of self-respect, of love of home, of duty, in all their persuasive changes, urging the enraged baritone air to be reasonable, and return to the pacific state which it had honored so long; but the baritone air continued to threaten to break over all restraint, and become as wild and fierce as it sounded. occasionally the chord of self respect, of love of home, and of duty, seemed to gain the mastery, but the wicked baritone broke away again, though it was growing more mild and tractable, and allan dorris thought that it must finally succumb to the eloquent appeal in the treble. "i have been mild and gentle all my life"--it seemed to be grumbling the words, as an apology for giving in, instead of declaring them as an excuse for breaking over all restraint--"and what good has it done me? am i happier than those who have mingled joys with their regrets? my mild sacrifices have resulted in nothing, and i am tempted to try what a little spirit will do." but the unruly spirit was pacified at last, and the music resolved itself into a lullaby of the kind which mothers sing to their children; it may have been a recollection of the player's own childhood, for it soon caused her to bow her head on the keyboard, and burst into tears. chapter xiv. the ancient maiden. jane benton, old thompson's maiden sister, was as good as anybody, though no one urged the point as steadily as she did herself. had the president walked into jane benton's presence, she would have believed that he had heard of her (although there was no reason that she should entertain that opinion) and had called to pay his respects; and instead of being timid in so great a presence, she would have expected him to be timid in hers. there were people who cared to distinguish themselves: very well, let them do it; but jane benton did not have that ambition, though she had the ability, and could have easily made a name for herself which would have gone thundering down the ages. let other people distinguish themselves and pay the price; jane benton was distinguished naturally--effort was not necessary in her case. if the people did not acknowledge it, it was their loss, not hers. the ancient maiden was a book-worm, and devoured everything she heard of; but only with a determination to tear it to pieces, for of course no one could hope to amuse or instruct a lady of forty-five, who not only knew everything worth knowing already, but who had taught school in her younger days on the strength of a certificate ranging from ninety-eight to ninety-nine. this certificate had been issued by three learned men, each one of whom knew absolutely everything; and it was agreed by them that jane benton should have had an even hundred but for the circumstance that her "hand write" was a little crooked. this fault had since been remedied, and the ancient maiden still retained the certificate, and the recollection of the conclusion by the three learned men, as an evidence that, so far as education was concerned, she lacked nothing whatever. when she consented to favor a book by looking through it, there was unutterable disgust on her features as she possessed herself of the contents, since she felt nothing but contempt for the upstarts who attempted to amuse or instruct so great a woman as jane benton. and her patience was usually rewarded. thompson! annie! ring the bells, and run here! the ignorant pretender has been found out! a turned letter in the book! a that for a which! a will for a shall! a would for a should! hurrah! announce it to the people! another pretender found out! lock the book up! it is worthless! jane benton's greatness, so long in doubt, is vindicated! but while there is not a perfect book in existence now, there is likely to be one, providing jane benton lives three or four hundred years longer, for the thought has often occurred to her that she ought to do something for the race, although it does not deserve such a kindness, as a pattern for all future writers. she has done nothing in forty-five years; but she has been busy during that time, no doubt, in preparing for a book which will not only astonish the living, but cause the dead to crawl out of their graves, and feel ashamed of themselves. let the people go on in their mad ignorance; jane benton is preparing to point out their errors, and in the course of the present century--certainly not later than toward the close of the next one--a new prophet will appear in such robes of splendid perfection that even the earth will acknowledge its imperfections, and creep off into oblivion. but notwithstanding her rather remarkable conceit, jane benton was a useful woman. for fifteen years she had "pottered around," as old thompson said, and made her brother's home a pleasant one. since she could not set the world on fire, she said she did not want to, and at least knew her own home perfectly, and had it under thorough control. when old thompson needed anything, and ransacked the house until he concluded that it had been burned up, his sister jane could put her hand on the article immediately; and perhaps jane benton's genius, in which she had so much confidence, was a genius for attempting only what she could do well; for whatever her intentions were, she had certainly accomplished nothing, except to distinguish her brother's house as the neatest and cleanest in davy's bend. notwithstanding her lofty ambitions, and her marvellous capacity in higher walks, she was jealous of what she had really accomplished; and the servant girl who promised to be industrious and generally satisfactory around old thompson's house was soon presented with her walking papers, for jane benton believed that she was the only woman alive who knew the secret of handling dishes without breaking them, or of sweeping a carpet without ruining it; therefore a servant who threatened to become a rival was soon sent away, and a less thrifty one procured, who afforded the mistress opportunity of regretting that the girls of recent years knew nothing, and stubbornly refused to learn. old thompson had been heard to say once, after his sister had ordered the cook to leave in an hour, that he would finally be called upon to send his daughter annie away, for no other reason than that she was useful, and careful, and industrious, and sensible; but the ancient maiden had good sense, in spite of her eccentricities, and dearly loved her pretty niece; and it is probable that old thompson only made the remark in fun. thompson benton was too sensible a man to go hungry in anticipation of improbable feasts in the future; therefore his sister jane and his daughter annie were well provided for; and were seated in a rather elegant room in a rather elegant house, on a certain wet afternoon in the spring of the year, busy with their work. the girl had been quiet and thoughtful all day, but finally she startled her aunt by inquiring,-"aunt jane, were you ever in love?" the ancient maiden dropped her work, and looked at the girl in indignation and astonishment. "annie," she sharply said, "what do you mean by asking me such a question as that?" the ancient maiden was particularly severe on the men who attempted to write books, but the sex in general was her abomination. every man who paid court to a young woman, in jane benton's opinion, was a married man, with a large family of children; and though it sometimes turned out that those she accused of this offence were only twenty years old, or such a matter, she said that made no difference; they had married young, probably, and investigation would reveal that they had ten or twelve ragged children and a pale wife somewhere in poverty. therefore the presumption of the girl in asking such a question caused her to repeat again, and with more indignation than before:-"what do you mean by asking me such a question as that?" annie benton was like her father in another particular; she was not afraid of jane, for they both loved her; therefore she was not frightened at her indignation, but laughingly insisted on the question. "but _were_ you ever in love?" "annie," her aunt replied, this time with an air of insulted dignity, "i shall speak to your father about this when he comes home to-night. the idea of a chit of a girl like you asking me if i have ever been in love! you have known me all your life; have i ever _acted_ as though i were in love?" "the question is easy to answer," the girl persisted. "yes or no." seeing that the girl was not to be put off, jane benton pulled a needle out of her knitting--for thompson benton wore knit socks to keep peace in the family, since his sister believed that should he go down town wearing a pair of the flimsy kind he kept for sale, he would return in the evening only to fall dead in her arms--and picked her teeth with it while she reflected. and while about it, her manner softened so much that, when she went out of the room soon after, annie believed there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes. she remained away such a length of time that the girl feared she had really offended the worthy woman, and was preparing to go out and look for her, when she came back wiping her eyes with her apron, and carrying a great packet of letters, which she threw down on the table in front of annie. "there!" she said pettishly. "since you are so curious, read them." the girl was very much amused at the turn affairs had taken, and, after breaking the string which held the letters together, looked over several of them. they were dated in the year annie was born, and one seemed to have been written on her birthday. they all referred to her aunt in the most loving and extravagant terms possible; and while thinking how funny it was that her wrinkled aunt should be referred to as dear little angel, the ancient maiden said,-"in love! i was crazy! and i can't laugh about it yet, though it seems to be so amusing to you." "it only amuses me because i know now that you are like other women," the girl replied quietly. "i think more of you than ever, now that i know you have been in love." "well, you ought to think a good deal of me, then," the ancient maiden said, "for i was so crazy after the writer of those letters that i couldn't sleep. love him! i thought he was different from any other man who ever lived, and i worshipped him; i made a god of him, and would have followed him to the end of the earth." there was more animation in aunt jane's voice than annie had ever noticed before, and she waved the knitting needle at her niece as though she were to blame for getting her into a love mess. "he knew every string leading to my heart," the excited maid continued, "and he had more control over me than i ever had over myself. it was a fortunate thing that he was an honorable man. now you know it all, and i feel ashamed of myself." miss jane applied herself to knitting again, though she missed a great many stitches because of her excitement. "but why didn't he marry you, since he loved you?" annie inquired. "well, since you _must_ know, he found a girl who suited him better," the ancient maiden replied. "but before that girl came in the way, he _thought_ he loved me, and i was so well satisfied with his mistaken notion that i worshipped him. and if his old fat wife should die now, i'd marry him were he to ask me to. after you have lived as long as i have, you'll find out that fickleness is not such a great fault, after all. why, sometimes it bothers me to have your father around, and a man can as easily tire of his wife or sweetheart as that!" she snapped her fingers in such a manner that it sounded like the report of a toy pistol, and the girl looked at her in surprise. "we're all fickle; you and i as well as the rest of them," she continued. "had the wives of this country pleasant homes to go back to; were their fathers all rich men, for example, who would be glad to receive them, half of them--more than that, two thirds of them--would leave their husbands, as they ought to do; but a wife usually has no other home than that her husband has made for her, and she gets along the best she can. the men are no worse than the women; we are all fickle, fickle, fickle. as sure as we are all selfish, we are all fickle. if i were married to a rich man who treated me well, i would be more apt to love him than one who was poor, and who treated me badly; sometimes we forget our own fickleness in our selfishness. look at the widowers; how gay they are! look at the widows; how gay _they_ are! i have known men and women so long that i feel like saying fiddlesticks when i think of it." "but father is a widower, aunt jane," the girl said, "and he is not gay." "well, he had to run away with his wife, to get her," the ancient maiden replied, after some hesitation. "there seems to be a good deal in love, after all, in cases where people make a sacrifice for it. these runaway matches, if the parties to it are sensible, somehow turn out well." "did father ever think any less of my mother because she ran away with him?" the girl asked. "no," her aunt replied. "he thought more of her for it, i suppose. anyway, i never knew another man to be as fond of his wife as he was." annie benton and the ancient maiden pursued their work in silence for a while, when the girl said,-"i want to make a confession to you, too, aunt jane. i am in love with allan dorris." "don't hope to surprise me by telling me that," her aunt returned quickly, and looking at the girl as if in vexation. "i have known it for six months. but it won't do you any good, for he is going away on the early train to-morrow morning. your father told me so this morning, and he seemed glad of it. you haven't kept your secret from him, either." to avoid showing her chagrin at this reply, the girl walked over to the window, and looked out. allan dorris was passing in the road, and she felt sure that he was walking that way hoping to catch a glimpse of her; perhaps he was only taking a farewell look at the house in which she lived. but she did not show herself, although he watched the house closely until he passed out of sight. "i supposed everyone knew it," the girl said, returning to her chair again. "i have always thought that any girl who is desperately in love cannot hide it; but i wanted to talk to you about it, and i am glad you told me what you did, for i can talk more freely after having heard it. i have no one else to make a confidant of, and i am very much concerned about it. the matter is so serious with me that i am scared." "don't be scared, for pity's sake," the ancient maiden replied, with a show of her old spirit. "they all feel that way, but they soon get over it. when i was in love i wondered that the sun came up in the morning, but everything went on just as usual. i thought the people were watching me in alarm, fearing i would do something desperate, but those who knew about it paid little attention, and i _had_ to get over it, whether i wanted to or not. you will feel differently after he has been gone a week." "the certainty that i will not is the reason i have spoken to you," annie continued gravely. "allan dorris loves me as the writer of the letters you have shown me loved you before the other girl came in his way; and i love him as you have loved the writer of the letters all these years. you have never forgotten your lover; then why should you say that i will forget mine within a week? what would you advise me to do?" "ask me anything but that," the aunt replied, folding up her work with an unsteady hand. "no matter how i should advise you, i should finally come to believe that i had advised you wrong, love is so uncertain. it is usually a matter of impulse, and some of the most unpromising lovers turn out the best. i cannot advise you, annie; i do not know." jane benton imagined that dorris was going away because annie would not marry him; but the reverse was really the case,--he was going away for fear she would become his wife. "my greatest fear is," the girl continued again, "that i do not feel as a woman should with reference to it. i would not dare to tell you how much concerned i am; i am almost afraid to admit it to myself. i am thoroughly convinced that his going away will blight my life, and that i shall always feel toward him as i do now; yet there are grave reasons why i should not become his wife. do you think the women are better than the men?" the ancient maiden leaned back in her chair to think about it, and picked her teeth with the knitting-needle again. "what is your honest opinion?" the girl insisted. "sometimes i think they are, and sometimes i think they are not," the aunt replied, bending over her work again. "when i hear a man's opinion of a woman, i laugh to myself, for they know nothing of them. the women all seem to be better than they really are, and the men all seem to be worse than they really are; i have often thought that. women have so many _little_ mean ways, in their conduct toward one another, and are so innocent about it; but when a man is mean, he is mean all over, and perfectly indifferent to what is thought about him. a lot of women get together, and gabble away for hours about nothing, but the men are either up to pronounced mischief or they are at work." "if you were in love with a man, would you have as much confidence in his honesty as you had in your own?" the girl asked. "certainly," her aunt replied promptly. "then won't you advise me? please do; for i have as much confidence in allan dorris as i have in myself." "if you will see that all the doors are fastened," jane benton replied excitedly, "i will. quick! before i change my mind." the girl did as she was directed, and hurried back to her aunt's side. "since there is no possibility of anyone hearing," jane benton continued, "i will tell you the best thing to do in my judgment; but whatever comes of it, do not hold me responsible. think over the matter carefully, and then do whatever you yourself think best. no one can advise you like yourself. you are a sensible girl, and a good girl, and i would trust your judgment fully, and so would your father, though he would hardly say so. there; that's enough on _that_ subject. but you can depend on one thing: there is a grand difference between a lover and a husband; and very few men are as fond of their wives as they were of their sweethearts. all the men do not improve on acquaintance like your father, and i have known girls who were pretty and engaging one year who were old women the next; matrimony has that effect on most of them, and you should know it. the women do the best they can, i suppose, but you can't very well blame a man sometimes. in 1883 he falls in love with a fresh and pretty girl, and marries her; in 1884 she has lost her beauty and her freshness, and although he feels very meanly over it, somehow his feelings have changed toward her. of course he loves her a little, but he is not the man he was before they were married--not a bit of it. a good many husbands and wives spend the first years of their marriage in thinking of the divorce courts, but after they find out that they should have known better than to expect complete happiness from matrimony, and that they are not different from other people, they get on better. since you have locked the door to hear the truth, i hope you are satisfied with it." "but is it _necessary_ for girls to become old so soon?" annie inquired. "well, i don't suppose that it is," her aunt replied, "but the men had better expect it; and the women had better expect that since there never was yet an angel in pants, there never will be one. the trouble is, not the men and women, but the false notions each entertain toward the other. now run and open the doors, or i'll faint." annie benton, after opening the doors and watching her aunt revive, did not seem at all impressed by what she had heard; indeed, she acted as though she did not believe it, so the ancient maiden gave her another dose. "i imagine i have been rather satisfactory to your father," she said, "but had i been his wife i doubt if we would have got along so well. a man who is rather a good fellow is often very mean to his wife; and it seems to be natural, too, for he does not admit it to himself, and thinks he has justification for his course. i don't know what the trouble is, but i know that the most bitter hatreds in the world are those between married people who do not get along. since you are so curious about matrimony, i'll try and give you enough of it. even a man who loves his wife will do unjust things toward her which he would not do to a sister he was fond of; and there is something about marriage which affects men and women as nothing else will. there are thousands of good husbands, but if you could see way down to the bottom of men's wicked hearts not one in ten would say he was glad he had married. that's a mean enough thing to say about the women, i hope, and if you do not understand what my real preferences in your case are, you must be blind." thompson benton came in soon after, and they spent a very quiet evening together. annie retired to her own room early, and when she came to bid her father good-night, tears started in her eyes. "what is the matter with the girl?" he asked his sister after annie had disappeared. jane benton did not reply for a long time, keeping her eyes on the pages of a book she held in her hand, but at last she said,-"i don't know." thompson benton must have noticed that his sister was nervous, and had he followed her up the stairs when she retired for the night, he must have marvelled that she went into annie's room, and kissed her over and over, and then went hurriedly away. chapter xv. a shot at the shadow. the regular patronage of the "apron and password," like the attendance at a theatre when reported by a friendly critic, was small, but exceedingly respectable. a gentleman of uncertain age who answered to the name of ponsonboy, and who professed to be a lawyer, usually occupied the head of the one long table which staggered on its feet in the dingy dining-room, and when his place was taken by a stranger, which happened innocently enough occasionally, ponsonboy frowned so desperately that his companions were oppressed with the fear that they would be called upon to testify against him in court for violence. the minister, who occupied the seat next to ponsonboy, and who was of uncertain age himself, could demonstrate to a certainty that the legal boarder was at least forty-five, but the legal boarder nevertheless had a great deal to say about the necessity which seemed to exist for the young men to take hold, and rescue davy's bend from the reign of "the fossils," a term which was applied to most of the citizens of the town after the other epithets had been exhausted, and as but few of them knew what a fossil was, they hoped it was very bad, and used it a great deal. ponsonboy was such a particular man that he could only be pleased in two ways--by accusing him of an intention to marry any stylish girl of twenty, or of an intention to remove to ben's city, which he was always threatening to do. "it would be useless for me to deny that i have had flattering offers," it was his custom to reply, when asked if there was anything new with reference to his contemplated change of residence. "but i am deuced timid. i came here a poor boy, with a law-book in one hand and an extra shirt in the other, and i don't want to make a change until i fully consider it." it was a matter of such grave importance that ponsonboy had already considered it fifteen years, and regularly once a year during that time he had arranged to go, making a formal announcement to that effect to the small but select circle around the table, the members of which either expressed their regrets, or agreed to be with him in a few months. but always at the last moment ponsonboy discovered that the gentleman who had been making the flattering offers wanted to put too much responsibility on him, or something of that kind, whereupon the good lady on his left, and the good gentleman on his right, were happy again. it was true that the legal boarder came to davy's bend a poor boy, if a stout man of thirty without money or friends may be so referred to; it was also true that he was poor still, though he was no longer a boy; but ponsonboy rid himself of this disagreeable truth, so far as his friends were concerned, by laying his misfortunes at the door of the town, as they all did. he was property poor, he said, and values had decreased so much of late years, that he was barely able to pay his taxes, although he really possessed nothing in the way of property except a tumble-down rookery on which there was a mortgage. but ponsonboy, whose first name was albert, appeared to be quite content with his genteel poverty, so long as he succeeded in creating an impression that he would be rich and distinguished but for the wrong done him by that miserable impostor, davy's bend. the good man on his right, the rev. walter wilton, and pastor of the old stone church where annie benton was organist, was a bachelor, like ponsonboy; but, like ponsonboy again, he did not regard himself as a bachelor, but as a young man who had not yet had time to pick out a lady worthy of his affections. close observers remarked that age was breaking out on good mr. wilton in spots, like the measles in its earlier stages; short gray hairs peeped out at the observer from his face, and seemed to be waving their arms to attract attention, but he kept them subdued by various arts so long that it was certain that some time he would become old in a night. he walked well enough, _now_, and looked well enough; but when he forgets his pretence of youth, then he will walk slowly down to breakfast some fine morning with a crook in his back and a palsy in his hand. when it was said of rev. walter wilton that he was pious, the subject was exhausted; there was nothing more to say, unless you chose to elaborate on piety in general. he knew something of books, and read in them a great deal, but old thompson benton was in the habit of saying that if he ever had an original idea in his head, it was before he came to the bend as a mild menace to those whose affairs did not permit of so much indolent deference to the proprieties. the reverend wilton did not gossip himself, but he induced others to, by being quietly shocked at what they said, and regularly three times a day ponsonboy and his assistant on the left laid a morsel before him, which he inquired into minutely--but with the air of a man who intended to speak to the erring parties; not as a gossip. reverend wilton never spoke a bad word against anyone, nor was he ever known to speak a good one, but he always gave those around him to understand by his critical indifference to whatever was in hand that, were he at liberty to desert his post, and allow the people to fall headlong into the abyss out of which he kept them with the greatest difficulty, he would certainly show them how the affairs of men should be properly conducted. too good for this world, but not good enough for the next, reverend wilton only existed, giving every sort of evidence that, were it not unclerical, he would swear at his salary (which was less than that of a good bricklayer), denounce his congregation for good and sufficient reasons, cheat his boarding-place, and hate his companions; but his trade being of an amiable nature, he was a polite nothing, with a great deal of time on his hands in which to criticise busy people, which he did without saying a word against them. mrs. whittle, the milliner, sat on ponsonboy's left; a tall and solidly built lady of forty-five, who was so very good as to be disagreeable. the people dreaded to see her come near them, for her mission was certain to be one of charity, and mrs. whittle's heart was always bleeding for somebody. summer and winter alike, she annoyed the people by telling them of "duties" which were not duties at all; and finally she was generally accepted as the town nuisance, although mrs. whittle herself believed that she was quite popular because of the good she intended to accomplish, but which seemed to be impossible because of the selfishness of the people. thompson benton had given it out flat that if she ever came bothering around him, he would give her the real facts in the case, instead of putting his name on her subscription paper, but for some reason she kept away from him, and never heard the real facts, whatever they were. she regarded old thompson, however, as a mean man, and moaned about him a great deal, which he either never heard of or cared nothing about. old thompson was seldom seen at church on sunday evening, therefore mrs. whittle felt quite sure that he was prowling around with a view of safe-blowing, or something of that kind, and she never referred to him except to intimate that he was up to mischief of the most pronounced sort. a man who was not at church on sunday evening, in the opinion of mrs. whittle, must be drunk in a saloon, or robbing somebody, for where else could he be? mrs. whittle only recognized two classes of men; those who were in the churches, and those who were in the saloons; and in her head, which was entirely too small for the size of her body, there was no suspicion of a middle ground. those who craved the attention of mrs. whittle found it necessary to be conspicuous either as a saint or a sinner. theoretically mrs. whittle was a splendid woman, and certainly a bad woman in no particular except that she carried her virtues to such an extent that the people disliked her, and felt ashamed of themselves for it, not feeling quite certain that they had a right to find fault with one who neglected not only her affairs, but her person, to teach others neatness, and thrift, and the virtues generally. if she accomplished no good, as old thompson benton stoutly asserted, it was certain she did some harm, for the people finally came to neglect affairs in which they would otherwise have taken a moderate interest because of their dislike of mrs. whittle. a great many others who were inclined to attend to their own affairs (which are always sufficient to occupy one's time, heaven knows) were badgered to such an extent by mrs. whittle that they joined her in various enterprises that resulted in nothing but to make their good intentions ridiculous, and finally there was a general and a sincere hope that blunt thompson benton would find opportunity to come to the rescue of the people. three times a day this trio met, and three times each day it was satisfied with itself, and dissatisfied with davy's bend, as well as everything in it, including allan dorris. the new occupant of the locks was generally popular with the people, but the hotel trio made the absurd mistake of supposing that they were the people, therefore they talked of dorris as though he were generally hated and despised. they were indignant, to begin with, because he did not covet the acquaintance of the only circle in the town worth cultivating, and as time wore on, and he still made no effort to know them, they could come to only one conclusion; that he was deserving of their severest denunciation. could thompson benton have known of the pious conclusions to which they came concerning his child, and which she no more deserved than hundreds of other worthy women deserve the gossip to which they are always subjected, he would have walked in upon them, and given the two men broken heads, and the woman the real facts in her case which he had been promising; but there is a destiny which protects us from an evil which is as common as sunshine, and thompson benton was not an exception to the rule. it was the custom of the hotel trio to come late to supper and remain late, greatly to the disgust of the cook and the man-of-all-work, and, surrounding the table in easy positions, they gossipped to their heart's content, at last wandering away to their respective homes, very well satisfied with one another, if with nothing else. it was after nine o'clock when they got away on the evening with which we have to do, and by the time davy had eaten his own supper and put the room in order for the morning, it was ten. hurriedly putting up a package of whatever was at hand for tug, he was about starting out at the kitchen door when he met mr. whittle on the steps. he had somehow come into possession of a long and wicked-looking musket, which he brought in with him, and put down near the door connecting the kitchen with the dining-room. seeing davy's look of surprise, he seated himself in ponsonboy's place, and explained. "poison has its advantages, for it does not bark when it bites, but it lacks range, and henceforth i carry a gun. how was uncle albert to-night?" silas placed a plate of cold meat before his friend, and replied that mr. ponsonboy would be in a fine rage if he should hear himself referred to as uncle albert. "oh, would he?" tug inquired, sighting at his companion precisely as he might have sighted along the barrel of his musket. "that man is fifty years old if he is a day, and don't let him attempt any of his giddy tricks with me. i wouldn't stand it; i know too much about him. i have known uncle albert ever since he was old enough to marry, and i know enough to hang him, the old kicker. i've known him to abuse the postmaster for not giving him a letter with money in it, although he didn't expect one, and accuse him of stealing it, and whenever he spells a word wrong, and gets caught at it, he goes around telling that he has found a typographical error in the dictionary. what did he say about me to-night?" "he said--i hope you won't believe that i think so,"--davy apologized in advance--"that you robbed the only client you ever had of a thousand dollars." "_did_ he, though?" tug impudently inquired. "well, i'll give him half if he'll prove it, for i need the money. uncle albert hears what is said about me, and i hear what is said about hi