35CHAPTER III.WHERE CAN HE BE?–A HEART REVELATION.
“Where can he be?” sighed Mrs. Jones, as she looked anxiously out of the little cabin window. Many times a day had she done the same, save that shethoughtthe question, but did not utter it, as now. Her husband had been away for more than a week, and no tidings from him. What could it mean? When would he return? Had any evil befallen him? These and similar inquiries were continually arising in her mind, filling her with disquiet. She was one of those singularly-constituted persons who are given to presentiments, and who, when they are under the spell of a deep, controlling conviction that something unusual is to transpire,–a persuasion that comes to them, not through reason or evidence, or the probabilities of things, but, as some express it, “as if a voice had spoken to them” when no human being was near, or by a secret whispering to the soul by some unseen and seemingly superhuman authority,–when she had such a presentiment it never deceived her.36For some time she had foreboded trouble. The foreboding grew upon her till its dark shadow cast a gloom upon all her feelings; it thrilled her at times with fear. She would start at the veriest trifles, as if affrighted. Particularly at night did she cower under the feeling, and of late it had been hard for her to sleep; and when she slept, it was wakefully: often would she start up, and look around to see that all was right, then fall asleep again. And yet she did not apprehend danger to herself particularly. Sometimes she feared for her husband; but the growing feeling was, that trouble for the settlers was at hand, and a terrible fear of the Indians rested upon her.
It was far into the night now, and the lone watcher felt too uneasy to retire. The moon shone with great brilliancy, and she sat without a light, busying herself with some coarse sewing. The children were peacefully sleeping, and not a sound was to be heard save their breathing, and the whisper of the wind outside. The silence was painful to her, and she arose and peered out of the window again. Everything looked weird and ghastly. What a solitude! For miles over the smooth prairie not a human habitation was to be seen. In the other direction stood the mysterious forest. How black and dismal seemed the trunks of the trees in the shimmering37moonbeams! She gazed timidly at their indistinct outlines, with strained eye.
“How foolish I am!” she murmured; but, as she turned from the window, her attention was fixed once more upon the forest; for it seemed to her that a dark object moved along its outskirts. “It’s only the trees!” she said, striving to reassure herself.
But in a moment more an ox appeared; then a dark figure followed, and another, and another, walking in single file. As the strange procession emerged more fully into view, she saw that the forms behind the ox were those of Indians; they were driving off the settlers’ cattle. As their route lay near the cabin, fear that they would pay her a visit, for a moment quite paralyzed her. It was but for a moment, however; the instinct of the mother was roused. Her children might be murdered. She glanced again at the advancing savages, and then, softly opening the door,–which, fortunately, was on the other side of the cabin,–she returned with the axe, the only weapon of defence at hand, and, with flashing eyes, and a deadly resolution depicted on her face, which seemed turned to marble, silently awaited the onslaught. But the savages, in their soft moccasins, glided noiselessly by, like so many snakes. They did not appear to notice the cabin, and were soon out of sight. When38they were gone, Mrs. Jones sat down, feeling as weak as before she had felt strong. The reaction was too great, and, a faintness coming on, her head sank upon the side of the bed where Tom lay. This aroused him, and he called, repeatedly,–
“Mother! mother!”
“Hush,” she whispered, at last; “they’ll hear you!”
“Who?” whispered Tom, alarmed.
The mother kept perfectly still, listening intently, until satisfied that the danger was really past; then she related to her son what she had seen, and what her fears had been.
“But, mother,” said Tom, confidently, “there are no signs of trouble from them. They wouldn’t dare to attack the settlers; for they have always been beaten by the white man. Besides, there are not many near us. You see that these have not harmed us; they only stole an ox. Why, mother, don’t you know that there has been no Indian war for a good many years, and that the Indians have been growing weaker and weaker all the time, and going farther and farther off?”
This was plausible; and Tom only expressed the views of the settlers. Mrs. Jones knew that there was no reason for her anxiety, except her fears, and she had not ventured to express them39to any one before; for she was aware, such was the prevalent feeling on this subject, that it would expose her to ridicule. But now she only shook her head, and said,–
“I wish your father was safe at home.”
“Why, mother, you don’t worry about him–do you?” exclaimed Tom, in amazement. “The Indians always liked him, and he can go anywhere over the prairies and through the woods without guide or compass, and not get lost. And he’s a great marksman, you know: it wouldn’t do for an Indian to get in the way of his rifle.”
“But, Tom,” said the mother, taking his hand, and suddenly changing the subject, “why is it that you don’t get better faster? Your skin is real hot, and you look feverish. The doctor said you ought to have been out before this.” Tom looked down, but did not reply. “Tom,” continued she, tenderly, “something is troubling your mind. I have known it for some time. Don’t you love your mother well enough to make her your confidant? What is the matter, my son?”
Still the lad did not reply; but his heart was deeply moved by this unexpected and loving attack upon the citadel that held his secret secure, as he had supposed. Soon the tears began to stream from his eyes, and he sobbed aloud.
Mrs. Jones’s eyes closed, and her lips moved40as if she were in prayer; upon which Tom, after she had ceased, asked, softly,–
“Mother, are you a Christian?”
“That is a serious question, my son,” said she. “I sometimes hope that I am one; but it is a great thing to be a true follower of the Lord Jesus Christ. But why do you ask?”
“O,” replied he, embarrassed, “I don’t just know why. I know you’regoodenough to be a Christian; but you never spoke to us children about it, and–I didn’t know what to think.”
Mrs. Jones seemed pained by the answer, and said,–
“Tom, I know I have been negligent in this matter.” Then she added, hesitatingly, “But your father does not feel as I do about it; and I have scarcely felt like instructing the children contrary to his views. I have ever tried to please him in everything; perhaps I have carried this too far.”
“Mother, were you praying just now?”
“Yes,” said she, hesitatingly.
“And were you praying for me?”
“Yes, my son.”
Tom was silent for a while, and then said,–
“Mother, since I heard the preacher, I have many times wished I were a Christian; that is, if–if–the Bible is true. But there are some41things that I don’t understand, and they are right in my way.”
“What are they, Tom?” He colored, and said,–
“I don’t like to tell you, for I am afraid you will think me very bad. But I thought some time I would like to ask some one about it who knows more than I do. You believe that there is a God, mother?”
“With all my heart.”
“And that he is pleased with those who do good, and angry with those who do wrong?”
“Certainly, Tom.”
“Well, it seems hard, if this is true, that he should let me get hurt so the other morning, as I was trying to shoot the hens for you, and you needed them so much, when there’s Jo Priest, and ever so many more, swearing, ugly fellows, that go a gunning almost all the time, and kill things just for the fun of it, and they get plenty of game, and never get injured;” and the lad spoke bitterly.
“My child,” said the mother, “there are many things hard to be understood about God’s dealings with us, and I am afraid that a great part of them seem harder than they really are, because we are so ignorant. But you know how I am situated. I don’t hear any preaching, nor see those that do, very often; and it’s not to be42expected that I can clear up these things, as they can.”
“I wish,” interrupted Tom, petulantly, “that the preacher was here. I’d like to ask him; but perhaps he wouldn’t like to talk with a poor ignorant boy like me.”
“Well,” continued the mother, “I knowhere”–and she placed her hand upon her heart–“that all God does is just right, however dark it seems, and that satisfies me.”
Tom was impressed by his mother’s faith, but soon objected,–
“Mother, do you think we can always trust our feelings? You said a little while ago that youfeltthat there would be trouble with the Indians; but nobody expects that. And now you say that youfeelthat all God does is right. Now, if you are wrong about the Indians, and about father’s being in danger from them, how can you be sure that your feelings are right about God?”
“Tom,” replied she, “I have a great many impressions that come to nothing. But there aresomethatneverdo. And Iknowthat God does right; for Ifeelthat he does; and, Tom, we shall see about the Indians;” and she sighed heavily, and rose, and gazed long and earnestly off over the prairie, and towards the woods.43Then, seating herself on the bedside, she said, gently,–
“My son, you haven’t told me all your troubles yet. Hadn’t you better hold nothing back from me?”
The lad turned away at this, deeply touched again; “for,” thought he, “her feelings are right about me; perhaps they are about God;” and her persevering and delicate solicitude pierced his very soul.
“Mother,” said he, at length, struggling with emotion, “I don’t want to grow up ignorant and useless. And I don’t want the children and us all to be so poor and despised;” and the tears came again, and the mother’s mingled with his. “I can’t bear to have it so, and Iwon’t,” he added, rising in bed, and speaking with excited energy.
“Ah, my poor child,” said the mother, “I knew it was that that lay on your mind, and took away your appetite, and made you so unhappy. And I have been praying for a long while that you might feel so.”
“You didn’t want me to be miserable–did you, mother?” asked Tom, in surprise.
“God forbid, Tom. But I couldn’t wish you to grow up contented with such a life. I have felt that you might do a great deal of good in the world, and I wished you to see it.”44
“But, mother, how can I have things different?”
“Tom,” returned she, looking searchingly at him, “how have you thought to make them different?” The boy averted his face again, and made no reply for a moment, and then said, softly,–
“I had decided to go away and get learning, and earn my living, and try to be somebody.”
“And when did you think of starting?”
“The morning,” answered he, with an unsteady voice, “that I got hurt with the gun.”
“And were you going off without letting me know it, Tom?”
“Yes, mother; but I expected to write back, and tell you all about it.”
“Tom,” returned the mother, tenderly, “you asked me, a little while ago, why it was that God let you get hurt that morning when you were trying to kill the hens for the family, while those bad boys go uninjured. I believe God’s ways were right in this. Why, my dear child, you are better to me, and more necessary to me, at present, than many prairie hens; and you might have harmed yourself more by going from home than you were by the powder. You meant it well, Tom; but you reasoned about going away, just as you reasoned about God’s dealings with you,like a child. Tom, you are necessary now to my comfort, and perhaps my life. I am not45over strong, and any great trouble might be too much for me. I am afraid nights now, but I feel safer when you are here. And you help me a great deal about house, and in the care of the children. Your father is away so much I have to depend on you. And what if, when you are away, the cabin should take fire,–and you know our stove is none of the tightest,–or if we should have trouble with the savages? And who would get the wood up for us during the cold winter that is coming? God took too good care of us, Tom, to let you forsake us that morning. Besides, Tom, you wouldn’t have succeeded.”
“Why not?” asked Tom, faintly.
“You hadn’t decent clothes to go in, nor any recommendations. Your life had been very different from that you proposed to enter upon, and you hadn’t a cent of money to help you on your way. The chances were, that you would have suffered, and, instead of helping us, as you do now, you would have been a source of sorrow, anxiety, and expense to us. Is it not so?” Tom saw that his mother understood the case; but his heart sank as his air-castle fell, and he wept anew. “But do not misunderstand me, Tom, as you did God’s dealings with you. What I say brings to you a great disappointment. It seems almost cruel in me thus to cut off your hopes of being something better in the world.46Tom, it does not follow, because you were going too soon, and God permitted an accident to stop you, that the time may never come for you to realize your hopes so far as they are right. You say you wish to be useful. Youareuseful now, very useful. Be contented to help at home for the present, and God will, I doubt not, open something better for you in his own good time.” And, kissing him, she lay down upon her bed for a short nap before the day should break.
47CHAPTER IV.A BRUSH WITH INDIANS.–A BLACK HEART.
“Hello! Let me in, I say. Are you all dead?” and a strong hand shook the door.
Mrs. Jones rubbed her eyes, for she had overslept herself; and as the children depended on her to awaken them in the morning, they were sleeping too. Hastening to the door, she undid the fastening, and her husband entered.
“Is that you, Joseph?” she asked.
“It isn’t anybody else, I reckon,” he gruffly answered; “but where shall I put this?” taking a quarter of venison from his shoulder, which his wife hung against the wall on a wooden peg.
“I’m glad you’ve got back, Joseph.”
“Well you might be, for you came near never seeing me again.”
“I hope you haven’t met with any mishap,” said the wife, anxiously.
“Nothing to speak of, only a scratch from the bullet of one of them rascally red-skins.”
“Why, you haven’t been fighting with the Indians–have you?”48
“Not exactly,” he answered; “I’ve always treated them well; but after this, if any of ’em get in my way, I shall pop at ’em before they do at me; that’s all.”
“But how did they happen to shoot at you?” asked Mrs. Jones.
“Well,” said her husband, “just give me something to put on my side, for it’s a grain sore after my long tramp, and cook us a venison steak, and I’ll tell you all about it;” and Mr. Jones, pulling open his hunting-shirt, showed an ugly-looking flesh wound in his side.
“Dear me, Joseph, youarehurt,” said the wife, as she carefully bandaged it, putting on a simple salve, which she always kept on hand for family use. “You look tired and pale–bringing home such a load, and bleeding all the way. Sit down, and I’ll get you something to eat directly.”
Scarcely had he seated himself, when there was a cry of pain from Tom, and Bub came tumbling head first upon the floor; for, having seen his father, he had scrambled, without ceremony, across Tom’s sore face, and receiving a push from the latter, landed upon his nose.
By this time the rest of the children were awake, and shouting, “Dad’s come home!” while Bub bellowed at the top of his lungs, “My nose beeds! my nose beeds!”
“O, no, it don’t,” replied his mother, soothingly.49
“Well, it feelswed, it does!” he answered, determined to be pitied.
This remark elicited peals of laughter from his brothers and sisters, which Bub taking as insults, he roared the louder.
“Children,” cried Mrs. Jones, “stop laughing at Bub.”
But he cut too comical a figure for them to stop at once, for, as he had used, the night before, one of Tom’s old shirts for a night dress, he now found it difficult to move towards his father, as each time he stepped the garment would trip his feet.
“Children,” interposed Mr. Jones, “why don’t you hush. Your marm’s spoken to you a number of times already.”
At which Bub added with dignity, as he tried to balance himself,–
“I des they’reblind, they’re so hard o’ hearin’!”
“Your father,” said the mother, impressively, “has been shot at by the Indians, and came very near being killed, and you ought to keep more quiet.”
“Did they kill you, daddy?” asked Bub, who now stood at his father’s knee, his blue eyes wide with wonder; “tause, if they did, I’ll stick my big stick into their backs.”
There was a suppressed tittering at this, for which the children felt half ashamed, considering the startling intelligence they had just heard.50
“Mother was afraid you’d have trouble with the Indians,” observed Tom, “and she was so much worried that she didn’t sleep last night.”
“Why, the Indians haven’t been doing any mischief about here–have they?” asked his father.
“No,” replied Tom, “and I told mother that there wasn’t any danger.”
But the venison was filling the cabin with its savory smell, and Mrs. Jones said,–
“Hurry, children, and get washed and dressed for breakfast.”
And going to the basin, which was in its place on the wash-bench outside the door, with much discussion as to who should have the first chance, hands and faces were treated to a hasty bath.
Mr. Jones was about forty-five years of age–a short, thick-set man, with dark hair and heavy beard. He was a man of much natural ability, and exhibited singular contrasts in character and speech. The free and easy carriage, and quaint language of the “Leather-stocking,” sat easily upon him; and yet, at times, he would express himself in words well chosen, and even elegant. He hated society, and was despised by the settlers for his lack of enterprise; and yet, when circumstances drew him out, they were wonder-struck at the variety and accuracy of his information. These inconsistencies made him a mystery;51and he was looked down upon, and looked up to, as his neighbors came in contact with one of the other side of his characteristics. In all, too, that pertained to the habits of the animals, and the appearance of the country, no one was so well posted as he. He was built for physical endurance, was cool and courageous in danger, but could not confine himself to regular employment, bodily or mental.
“Isn’t Tom coming to breakfast?” inquired Mr. Jones, as the rest of the children were greedily helping themselves from the plate of meat.
So the mother related how Tom had been hurt, and then said,–
“But you haven’t told us how you received your injury?”
“Well,” said Mr. Jones, as he pushed away his plate, having satisfied his appetite, “I had started for the lake, hearing that there was a good many wild geese and other sorts of game there, and the prospect was, that we should make a pretty big thing of it; but the afternoon after we reached the pond, and was looking about a little, Davis and I were crossing a prairie, and had come in sight of a grove, and says I to him, ‘You just go round on the other side of the thicket, and I’ll go in on this, and if there’s any deer in there, one of us’ll start them out.’ Well, I’d got within a few yards of the trees, when, the first I knew, I52heard the crack of a rifle, and a bullet came singing through my side. Says I to myself, ‘That’s a red-skin’s compliments!’ and making believe that I was a gorner, I pitched forward and lay still as a door nail, in the tall grass. I hadn’t lain there more ’n a minute, when, sure enough, a red-skin popped out from behind a tree close by, and made for me, to take my scalp. I had my revolver ready, and when he was within a few feet of me, I just let daylight through him; and as he fell, not knowing how many more of the scamps might be about, I dragged myself along to the side of the lake, where I found Davis waiting for me,–for he had seen the whole thing,–and creeping around to the other side under the banks, we made tracks for home. Why under the sun the feller didn’t put the bullet through my heart, I can’t make out, for I never knew one of ’em to miss, when he was so near as that, and had a fair aim.”
Mrs. Jones then knew why her heart was so burdened on his account at the very hour of his marvellous escape from death.
But their conversation was interrupted by a settler who called to ask if they had seen anything of a stray pair of cattle.
“Ah, neighbor Allen, is that you?” said Mr. Jones, going to speak to the caller, who sat upon his horse before the door.
“Ah, Jones, when did you git back? and what53luck?” rejoined the horseman in a hearty way.
“Got a taste of venison,” replied Mr. Jones, “and had a brush with the Injins.”
“Ah, ha! the red scamps want to smell powder again–do they? Well, I’m ready for them, for one, and I have seven boys not an inch shorter than I am, and as good with the rifle as the best, who would like a sight at the varmints. But if none of your folks have seen any stray cattle about the diggins, I must be going. Fact is, I reckon they’ve been driv off by some thievish villain.”
“What sort of cattle were yours?” inquired Mrs. Jones.
“One was red, and the other was a brindle.”
“Was the red one very large, with very wide-spreading horns?”
“That’s the ticket,” said the man.
“I saw such a one last night, going down that way, by our cabin.”
“You did? Was Brindle follerin’?”
“No,” replied she, “but some men were driving him.”
“They were Indians!” cried Tom, excitedly.
But Mrs. Jones fell to scraping the tin pan she held in one hand, with a case-knife, and drowned his words, so that they did not hear, while she motioned to him to be silent.54
The caller sat thinking a moment. His hair was silver-white, but his face was youthful and ruddy; and his massive, well-knit frame indicated remarkable physical strength. He was a bold and athletic man, skilful with the rifle, and a lineal descendant of the revolutionary hero whose name he bore, and whose fighting characteristics were reproduced in him.
“What time was the ox driv by?” he asked.
“About twelve, I should think,” said she.
“Were the men afoot?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they’ll have to travel fast to git away from me! And if I catch ’em–” But the remainder of the sentence was lost in the distance, for the old man had already touched the trail of the stolen ox, and, dismounting, examined carefully the ground, then fiercely shouting, “Indians!” drove on at full speed.
When he had gone, Mr. Jones turned to his wife, and asked,–
“Did youseethe men that driv the ox?”
“Yes.”
“Why on earth didn’t you say so, then?”
“Husband,” said Mrs. Jones, “the trouble will come soon enough; and I was hoping Mr. Allen would never find out who took his cattle. If he shoots one Indian, it will bring hundreds of them55upon the settlements, and we shall have dreadful times!”
“Fush!” returned the husband; “Allen is good for a dozen Indians, and there are plenty more of us to help him. But don’t you be scared; the red-skins know us too well to risk a fight. They’ll only prowl around and steal a little beef, and shoot at a fellar unaware, from under kiver–that’s all they’ll venter on–you can depend on that!” Then he took down his rifle, cleaned and loaded it, and saying, “I guess I’ll go along a piece; perhaps Allen’ll come across the varmints afore he’s aware,” with a quick step he was soon hidden from view.
The news of the accident that had happened to Tom, and that Mr. Jones had been shot at by the Indians, spread rapidly, with many exaggerations; for the inhabitants of a new country, being mutually dependent, feel a special personal interest in whatever befalls each other. Besides, there are not such distinctions as obtain in the old, settled portions of the country, and they become well acquainted with one another’s affairs. Moreover, the doctor, as he went his rounds, gave a flaming account of the injury that his patient at the cabin had sustained, and painted in glowing colors the magical effects of his professional services. If he did not assert in so many words that Tom’s head was actually blown from his body, and that56he replaced it so that it was on better than before, he gave the impression that something as extraordinary had been achieved by his medical and surgical skill. And through the day quite a number called to satisfy their curiosity, or show their sympathy. It proved, therefore, quite an occasion for the Jones children, and they feasted their eyes and ears to their hearts’ content. As for the mother, weary of the unwonted interruptions, and wishing to commune with her own heart, she willingly bade the last visitor “good by,” and, calling Robert, she directed him to bring in some wood and make a fire, that she might fry some cakes for tea. Robert proceeded with alacrity to do this, the other children helping him in the task, the prospect of the cakes being the quickening principle. Robert filled the grate with dry wood, and, proceeding to light it, the room was soon dense with smoke. This, however, was no new experience, as the blackened walls of the cabin testified. But soon the smoke had measurably cleared away, and the tea-kettle sent up volumes of steam, and Mrs. Jones, taking some meal from her frugal stock, poured boiling water upon it, and added some salt. Then putting on the griddle some deer fat, she put the dough in large iron spoonfuls into the sputtering grease.
“Your father will relish these,” said she to the children, who stood in solid ranks around the57stove, watching her with interest. And having taken off the last cake, she set the heaping plate in the open oven to keep warm till her husband came.
“I guess pa’s coming now,” said Sarah, who, anxious to get to eating, had looked out to see if he was in sight. “No; it isn’t he, either; I don’t know who it is. How nicely dressed he is!”
At the latter exclamation the family urchins rushed in a body through the door, upsetting Sarah in their eagerness to see the wonder.
A gentlemanly, middled-aged man in black, with gold spectacles and pleasant countenance, approached.
Accustomed to the plainly-attired specimens of humanity that do the hard work of the frontier, the children, overawed by his appearance, shrank behind cabin and pigsty, in spite of his kindly invitations to stay, where they peeped at him in open-mouthed astonishment.
“Mrs. Jones, I presume,” said he, bowing, as, abashed, she answered his polite rap on the door-frame.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, wondering how he knew her name.
Entering, without being asked,–for Mrs. Jones was too confused to think of it,–he said,–
“I heard that your son had met with an injury,58and as I was looking up children for the Sabbath school we are to organize next Sunday, I thought I would step in and see how he was, and how many of your little ones could attend.”
“It is the missionary,” whispered Tom, as his mother nervously smoothed the bed-clothes.
The good minister heard the remark, and not appearing to notice the mother’s embarrassment, stepped to Tom’s side, and in a way that made both mother and son feel at ease, said,–
“I hope you are not seriously hurt, my lad.”
“No, sir,” replied Tom, grateful for his thoughtful kindness. “My face was burnt pretty badly by the powder; but it’s nearly well now, and the black is coming off nicely.”
“How did you contrive to get hurt so, at this season of the year? Boys sometimes get burned with powder on Independence Day. I once met with such an accident myself.”
“How did it happen?” Tom ventured to inquire, for he loved dearly to hear a story.
“It was when I was about fourteen,” replied the minister. “I was a wide-awake little good-for-nothing, and had for some weeks saved up my pennies to celebrate the Fourth with. I bought me a half pound of powder, and a little iron cannon, on wheels, and, as you may believe, anticipated a jolly time. I had decided, the night before, to commence the day with a grand salute;59and that it might produce the greatest effect, I crept softly down in my stocking feet, by my parents’ bed-room into the front hall, before daylight, and having loaded my little gun to the muzzle the evening before, I touched it off. It made a great noise, I assure you–all the louder, of course, because it was in the house; then, slipping on my shoes, I went into the streets, leaving the old folks to go to sleep again if they could. My first use of the powder, you see, did no harm to me, unless it made me careless. When I got into the street, I found crowds of boys and men were there before me, making all the noise they could, firing off crackers, pistols, and guns, and making the foggy morning air resound with the music of tin horns and drums. Meeting a boy with a large horse-pistol, I bought it of him at a foolishly high price, and banged away with that till breakfast time. At the eastern extremity of the city, where I then lived, was a high hill, called Munjoy, on which the soldiers were to encamp that day; and after eating a hurried meal, I went there. Scores of white tents were pitched, occupied by men who sold all sorts of tempting eatables, while thousands of men, women, and children walked about. It was an exciting scene to me. The hill, indeed, was a glorious spot, for it overlooked the city on the one side, with its thousands of buildings and shaded streets, and60on the other the harbor, with its shipping and wharves, and lovely islands, while the ocean stretched away as far as the eye could reach.”
“I never saw the ocean,” interrupted Tom.
“Well, I will tell you what it resembles. You have looked for miles and miles over the prairie–I mean arollingprairie, that in gentle swells of land extends till the sky shuts down upon it?”
“O, yes,” answered Tom.
“Well, imagine that prairie turned to water, so deep that you could not touch bottom with the longest line you ever saw,–the ocean would look so; only remember that it is always in motion–ebbing, and flowing, and roaring, and dashing against the land and the rocks, its waves sometimes running very high, topped off with a white foam.”
“O,” said Tom, earnestly, “if I could only once see it!”
The minister studied Tom’s expressive face a moment, and then said,–
“Perhaps you may, some day. But I was going to tell you how I got hurt. I had exploded all the powder, and was about tired of the pistol,–for you know such things don’t satisfy a great while, after all,–when I came across some boys who were making volcanoes. Volcanoes, you know, are burning mountains. They took some powder, wet it, worked it with61their fingers into miniature hills, then put one end of a strip of match-paper in the top of each, and lighted the other end of the paper; this would burn slowly down into the top of the powder-hill; that would take fire and send up showers of sparks for quite a while, as it gradually consumed. This amusement fascinated me. So, buying a quarter of a pound of powder, I made a hill like those I had seen, and lighted the match-paper as I saw them light theirs; but when it had burnt all away, the hill did not burn. Thinking, therefore, I had put too much water in mine, I stooped down and poured on from the paper some dry powder. In an instant it ignited from a smouldering spark, exploding also the contents of the paper which I held in my hand. My face was dreadfully burned, and became as black as a negro’s.”
“So did mine,” said Tom; “but it is coming off nicely now.”
“So I see,” returned the minister, laughing; “and I dare say you worried almost as much about theblackas you did about theburn.”
“Tom feared it would never come off,” said the mother.
“Ah, that’s just the way I felt. But I have found out since that there’s something worse than a black face.”
“What’s that?” asked Tom.62
“A black heart!” replied the minister.
“A black heart!” repeated Tom, in doubt of his meaning.
“Yes, my lad. What I mean is a heart blackened by sin. Ah, if folks worried more aboutthat, and less about their looks, how much more sensible it would be!” Then, after a pause, he said,–
“But there is one thing for which we should be very grateful; and that is, that as there are remedies for us when we injure the body, and disfigure it,–as we did our faces, my son,–that can heal the injury, and bring the skin out all fresh and fair, so there is a great Physician, who can heal the hurt which sin has done our souls, and cause them to be pure and white forever. Isn’t that a glorious thought?”
“Yes,” whispered Tom, weeping.
“Yes,” ejaculated the mother, with deep emotion.
“But,” said the minister, “how many of these little folks”–for most of the children had ventured in, and stood listening spell-bound to his recital–“will come to Sunday school next Sunday?” And getting a promise that as many of them would be there as possible, he took leave, saying he hoped to call again soon.
The children’s hearts were taken captive by their clerical visitor. And well it might be so,63for he was their true friend. And it mattered little to him that their dwelling was rude and comfortless, their clothing old and worn, and their manners uncultured. He loved them for his Master’s sake, and for their souls’ sake: for this he had left the elegances of his eastern home, and come out into the wilderness. He was a true man, and a true minister of Jesus Christ–seeking not a name, wealth, luxury, the favor of the rich and great, but to bring the straying lambs and sheep into the fold.
“I think we won’t wait any longer for your father,” said Mrs. Jones, after the children had got somewhat over the excitement caused by the missionary’s call; and putting her hand into the oven to take from thence the plate of cakes, she looked in to see why she did not find them, exclaiming,–
“Why, where are the cakes? I certainly set them in here. Who has taken them away?”
The children gazed at each other in consternation.
“I’ll bet it’s some of Bub’s doings,” said Eliza; and noticing for the first time that he was not in the room, they hastened out to find him.
“Bub, Bub!” called the mother.
“Bub, Bub!” echoed the children, as they searched the field over, and looked into every nook and corner that they could think of. But64there was no answer, and not a trace of him was to be found, until, at last, Charley called out,–
“Here’s his stick!”
“He cannot be far off, then,” said his mother, although she began to grow uneasy about him.
“No,” said Robert, “for he rides that stick most all the time:” then he suddenly added, “Ah, you little rascal! I see you!” Then turning to the rest, he whispered, “Just look here, but don’t make any noise!”
And Mrs. Jones and the children, gathering softly around the pen, peeping in, saw Bub, comfortably seated by the fawn, the cakes in his lap, eating them and feeding the gentle creature. Bub had teased the fawn the most, and Bub was the first to tame it.
Bub and the Fawn.Page 64.
Bub and the Fawn.Page 64.
65CHAPTER V.BROTHER SMITH AND QUARTER STAKES.
“Good morning, Mr. Jones. I suppose we may call this Indian summer–may we not?” and the missionary–for it was he–shook hands with the hunter.
“Scarcely time for it yet,” replied the latter. “But this is fine weather, though.”
“Shall you be busy to-day? I wish to find a good quarter section of land on which to put up a house. I have been thinking that as I have never pre-empted, and have therefore a right to do so, I may as well do it.”
The hunter laughed scornfully, and said,–
“Good many folks about here pre-empt more than once.”
“But that is illegal,” replied the minister.
“They don’t stand about that.”
“But they are obliged to take oath at the Land Office that they have never availed themselves of the privilege.”
“And they take it.”
“But they perjure themselves in doing so.”66
“Yes.”
“Well,” said the clergyman, with a sigh, “I can’t understand how a person can break the laws and take a false oath for the sake of a little land.”
“Nor can I,” replied the hunter, almost fiercely; “and I makes no pretensions topiety, either. I pre-empted once, and afterwards sold out; and I hev moved about considerable sence; but I have never cheated government out of a cent yet–nor anybody, as to that. I don’t own nothing here; this is government land that my cabin sets on, and if it was put up for sale to-day, by the proper authorities, I couldn’t say a word if it was sold, improvements and all. I have to take my risk, and I’m contented to, rather than own the biggest farm out doors, and get it by lying under oath. No; they calls Joseph Jones a worthless dog, andIdon’t say he isn’t; but let me tell you, neighbor, that I haven’t it on my conscience that I went into the Land Office and lifted up my right hand, solumly promising to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and then, when I knows that I have pre-empted once, or maybe a number of times, swear that I never hev–as some of your praying, psalm-singing folks has!”
“Do I understand you to say, Mr. Jones, that professing Christians living about here have done this?”67
“That’sjustwhat I say,” replied the hunter; “and I have as much respect for sich whining hypercrites as I have for a hissing adder: that’s why I never took much to meetin’s, I suppose. What I gits, I gits honest–don’t I, pet?” and he caressed his rifle as if it were a living thing, and understood what he said. “I brings home what the good Lord sends inter the woods an’ over the prairies fur me. ‘The cattle upon a thousand hills are his’–that’s Scripter, I believe; and it means, I take it, that the deer, and the elk, and the bear, and the geese and the hens, belong tohim: nobody ken say, ‘Iowns them all,’ and keep them for his own use; and when Billy, here,”–patting his gun,–“brings down a fat buck, we feelhonestabout it–don’t we, Bill? ’Tisn’t like standing behind the counter with a smerk on yer face, as yer cheat in weight an’ measure, or sell sanded sugar for the genuine. Many an’ many’s the time I’ve known this done, by them that lives in fine houses, and wears fine clothes, an’ goes reg’lar to church; an’ if they passed Joseph Jones, wouldn’t deign to speak to the old hunter. Not that I care about that; I don’t deign to speak to them; and if heaven is forthem, I had just as lieves stay a while outside, for they an’ I could never git along together here, and we couldn’t be expected to there. But did you want anything perticular of me?”68
“I was told,” said the missionary, “that none of the settlers understood so well about the land, and where to find the section and quarter section stakes as you; and I thought, if it wouldn’t be taking too much of your time, that perhaps you would show me around a little.”
“Nothin’ would suit my feelings better,” said the hunter. “Was there any perticular direction you wish to go to?”
“Brother Smith tells me that here is a fine quarter section still unclaimed;” and the clergyman took from his note-book a roughly-sketched map of the vicinity, purporting to show what was taken up and what was not.
“Did he give youthat?” asked the hunter, as he ran his eye over the paper.
“Yes; as looking up land is new to me, I was thankful to get some sort of a guide,” replied the missionary.
“I don’t see much to be thankful for on that drawin’.”
“Why, isn’t that quarter section free?” inquired the minister, perplexed.
“Yes; an’ we’ll go an’ see it. But are yer goin’ afoot?”
The missionary replied affirmatively.
“You’ll never stand it in the world, to hunt up land in that way–too much ground to go over. Wife,” he added, putting his head in at the door,69“you jist entertain the minister, while I see if I ken scare up a team fur him.”
Mr. Jones strode off as if he had a congenial errand to do, and striking a “bee line” across the prairie, over a river, through a grove, halted before a cosy cottage that would remind one of New England. The acres and acres of tilled land stretched away from the dwelling, enclosed in the most substantial manner, and sleek cattle, that fed in the rich pasture, bespoke competency and enterprise. He stopped not to knock at the door, but entering, asked of a lady who sat sewing’–
“Is yer husband about, Mrs. Lincoln?”
“Yes; he’s in the other room. I’ll speak to him.”
And in a moment the robust form of the owner of the farm appeared.
“How are you, Jones?” he said, in an offhand way.
“O, I’m nicely. I called on an errand fur yer minister, that you’ve invited to settle among us. He wants a spot for a cabin,–like the rest of us, I suppose,–and Smith has told him to look at the quarter section way over there, a mile and a half beyond Clark’s; you know the place. I jist want to git your team and take him over in a good, Christian way, and not let him travel his70legs off, so that he can’t preach to us sinners next Sunday.”
Mr. Lincoln had been foremost in urging the missionary to cast in his lot with them, and no one had made more promises of material aid than he. He was sincere in this, and was really a generous man, but exceedingly careless. He had been told that the minister was going to look up a claim; but it had never occurred to him, until now, that the preacher had no other conveyance than his feet, and that to walk over the prairies would be a toilsome and time-consuming task. Slapping his caller on the shoulder, he said,–
“Glad to see you interested, Jones; and to encourage you, I’ll harness right up, and you may take the span.”
The nimble-footed steeds were soon in the buggy; and the hunter, having taken the preacher aboard, was, in good time, pointing out to him the boundaries of the claim. It was a lovely spot,–like many such in Prairiedom,–and the hunter took care that it should be seen to advantage. On a gentle swell of ground was a small gem of a grove, commanding a view of the rest of the section. The fall flowers, many-hued and bright-eyed, nodded gayly in the tall grass; a natural spring, bursting from the hillock, wound its way along till lost in the distance; the sun was pouring down its rays from a sky fleecy-clouded71and soft. How could the preacher, with his pure tastes and cultivated love of the beautiful, help being delighted with the scene?
“This is delightful!” he exclaimed. “I’ll build my cottage right here by the side of this spring, and my tilled land will always be in view.”
The hunter had anticipated his decision, and dryly observed,–
“It wouldn’t be no sich place as yer ought to hev.”
“Why not?” asked the minister, smiling.
“Do you reckon on keeping a horse?” asked the other.
“No; I couldn’t afford that.”
“How, then, are you goin’ to git to yer appintments, an’ to visit the sick an’ the dyin’, from this pint? And you’ll never farm it much; the land looks nice and slick as a gentleman’s lawn: this is one of the Lord’s lawns, neighbor; but ’twasn’t made for you to live on. Don’t you expect to hev no evenin’ meetin’s? You can’t hev them out here where there’s no live critter but the prairie hins, and maybe in the winter a stray wolf or two. You’re aperfessionalman, and it’s necessary for you to be right among folks, and not livin’ off one side, like as if you wanted to keep out the way of company.”
This rugged, common-sense way of putting72things was quite effective, and the missionary said,–
“You are right. But what can I do? By this chart I find that there is little vacant land about here, and I am unable to purchase an improved farm at the prices at which they are held.”
“You don’t mean to settle down onthis–do ye?”
“That is out of the question.”
“Well, Joseph Jones isn’t of much account, but if he don’t show you a bit of land that’s been left for jist sich as you, then I lie like that lying chart,” he said, angrily. And motioning the preacher to resume his seat in the buggy, the hunter drove back for some distance in the direction from which they had come, then, striking a well-worn cart-path to the right, suddenly emerged from a piece of woods near a river, on the farther bank of which was a saw-mill, and in the stream were men at work strengthening a dam.
“There,” said the hunter, “is the centre of things, so fur as this vicinity is concerned. That’s the store,”–as he pointed across the river to a small building,–“and a hotel is going up just opposite; and the land sharks and speculators that’s going to settle here will want jist sich as you right among ’em, to stir up their consciences, and jog their pure minds by way of remembrance,–as the Book says,–an’ not way off73there!” pointing contemptuously over his shoulder.
“But brother Smith informs me that all the land near to the town is taken up,” said the missionary.
“BrotherSmith–who’s he? I knowCharlesSmith; and if you kin fellowship him, I can’t. An’ when you come to sift folks down,–as I foresee sich as you will,–you won’t brother him much, unless he repints–an’ I don’t say he won’t. Now let me introduce you to your future home, ef you settles in these parts. There,thisis the town, where we now are;” and he placed the tip of his little finger on the place as represented on the map. “Now coming down square on to the town-site is this eighty-acre lot; lays beautiful to the town, the main street running right up to it. And through that street,” continued he, impressively, “must go all the travel to the important places beyond. And by and by, when the immigration gets strong enough, the owner of that piece of land will hev corner lots and sich to sell. Let me show jist how it lays;” and crossing the bridge, and passing up the projected street, he stopped the horses on a gentle rise of ground, forming the nearest point in the eighty acres. “There,” he continued, referring to the map again, “you see the eighty-acre lot runs lengthwise from the town. Across it runs a tributary of the river–just down there where74you see the plum and bass-wood trees; and beyond that are ten acres of the richest and easiest-worked river bottom that the sun ever shone on–all fenced; then follers thirty acres of young and valuable timber land. Here’s your building spot right here where we stand, in sight of everybody, and all the travel, handy to the store, and saw-mill, and post-office, and sich, and handy to meetin’; and the ten acres of alluvial, rich as the richest, and finely pulverized as powder,–you ken plough it or hoe it jist as easy as you ken turn your hand over,–will give you all the sarce you want, and something to sell. And there’s wood enough down over the place to keep yer fires a going; and when you want to pre-empt, jist sell some of yer standing timber there, to help pay for the whole, at government price.”
“But,” replied the missionary, as the squatter finished his graphic description, “I see by this chart that this is taken up;” for he had meanwhile been examining it.
“Well,” said the hunter, “whose name’s writ down as the owner of this land?”
“Henry Simonds,” said the minister, reading from the paper.
“And do you know who ‘Henry Simonds’ may be?” asked the hunter. “It’s a young chap jist turned nineteen, and of course not old ’nough to pre-empt, according to law, and who hasn’t lived75on this claim a day in his life. There isn’t a sign of a shanty on the place, and the law requires that every man must showsomethingof a house to prove that he is an actual settler. That name’s a blind. This land jines Smith’s, and he’s been carrying on the ten-acre lot over the river, rent free; and it comes very handy for him to come in on this piece and get his saw-logs. It’s government property; and all you have to do is, to put you up a cabin, and go ahead, and if Smith kicks up a fuss, jist send him to me.”
This revelation of duplicity on the part of Mr. Smith took the minister by surprise. It was evident that the location would be as advantageous for him as his plain-spoken guide had represented. It was defrauding the government for Smith to hold it as he did; and should he, in a legal way, take possession, no one could accuse him of wrong. But he had not come out on the frontier to promote his worldly interests; and he said to the hunter,–
“What you say is all right, I have no doubt, Mr. Jones; but it is not land that I want so much as to do good among this people; and I should not wish to do anything that would cause ill feeling.”
“Just as I expected,” said the squatter, with a disappointed air; “and I rather think you belong to the kingdom that is not of this world.76But you are stopping at Edmunds’s–aren’t you? Well, it’s only a short piece to his cabin, and I must take the team back; but”–after thinking a moment–“if you’ll take the dam on your way, you’ll find Palmer there. He’s a Christian, if there is one in these parts; and you can depend on him; and if you choose to talk with him a bit about this eighty-acre lot, there won’t be any harm done.”
The minister thanked the squatter for his services, the latter saying, as he drove off,–
“Call on me agin, if you want anything in my line.”
As the missionary passed towards the dam, he saw the surveyors at work, dividing the town site into lots; and he paused to notice again the location. The underbrush had been carefully removed, and the cleared space–bounded on one hand by the river, and on the other by the forest, while farther away from each side stretched the smooth prairie–looked as if nature had intended it as a business centre.
“How do you like our town plot?” said a voice at his side.
“It is charming!” exclaimed the preacher; and, turning, he saw Mr. Palmer.
He was a medium-sized man, in shirt sleeves and blue overalls, with an old black silk hat on, which, from its bent appearance, gave one77the idea that it had on occasions been used for a seat as well as a covering. The keen blue eyes under it, and the general contour of the face, ending in a smoothly-shaven chin, revealed a hard-working, frugal, money-saving character, yet honest, sincere, and unselfish. He was, indeed,–what he struck the observer as being,–a prudent counsellor, a true friend, a wisely-generous helper in every good word and work. No man in the settlement was more respected than he–a respect not based on his personal appearance, it was clear; for he had a perfect contempt for the ostentations of dress and equipage, but due to his straightforward and consistent deportment. He was about forty, and unmarried, and, on account of his amiable, thrifty, and Christianly qualities, was said to be the victim of incessant “cap-setting” by managing mammas and marriageable daughters, and of no little raillery on the part of the men, which he bore with great good nature, safely escaping from each matrimonial snare, and returning joke for joke.
“Been looking up land?” asked the bachelor.
The missionary related the day’s doings, and what the squatter had said about Mr. Smith and the eighty acres.
“Jones has stated the facts in the case,” said Mr. Palmer, “and advised well; but it won’t do for you to have any falling out with Smith. If78you will leave the matter with me, I guess I can manage it so that you shall have the eighty acres, and there be no bad feelings. We had better pay Smith something than to have a quarrel.”
“But is Smith a member of a church?” asked the missionary.
“We don’t know who is who, yet,” answered the other; “but should we ever form a church here, of course he’ll have to show a certificate of membership in order to join; and I rather think he’ll never be able to do that. Do him all the good you can, but don’t trust him overmuch.”