THE PROSPECTOR.CHAPTER I.BIRTHPLACE—SCHOOL DAYS—BOY LIFE ON THE FRONTIER—FAVORITE SPORTS.
THE PROSPECTOR.
BIRTHPLACE—SCHOOL DAYS—BOY LIFE ON THE FRONTIER—FAVORITE SPORTS.
FIFTY years and one ago, near Fort Wayne, Indiana, Nicholas C. Creede, the story of whose eventful life I shall attempt to tell you, first saw the light of day. When but four years old his parents removed to the Territory of Iowa, a country but thinly settled and still in the grasp of hostile tribes whose crimes, and the crimes of their enemies, have reddened every river from the Hudson to the Yosemite.
In those broad prairies, aboundingwith buffalo and wild game of every kind, began a career which, followed for a half century, written down in a modest way, will read like a romance.
When but a mere lad, young Creede became proficient in the use of the rifle and made for himself a lasting reputation as a successful hunter. He was known in the remote settlements as the crack shot of the Territory, and being of a daring, fearless nature, spent much of his time in the trackless forest and on the treeless plain.
As the years went by, a ceaseless tide of immigration flowed in upon the beautiful Territory until the locality where the Creedes had their home was thickly dotted with cabins and tents, and fields of golden grain supplanted the verdure of the virgin sod. As the population increased, game became scarce, and then, as the recognizedleader, young Creede, at the head of a band of boyish associates, penetrated the wilds far to the northward in pursuit of their favorite sport. On some of these hunting expeditions they pushed as far north as the British line, camping where game was abundant, until they had secured as much as their horses could carry back to the settlements.
This life in the western wilds awoke in the soul of the young hunter a love for adventure, and his whole career since that time has been characterized by a strong preference for the danger and excitement of frontier life.
The facilities for acquiring an education during young Creede’s boyhood were extremely limited. A small school-house was erected about three miles from his home, and there the boys and girls of the settlement flockedto study the simplest branches under a male teacher, who, the boys said, was “too handy with the gad.” The boy scout might have acquired more learning than he did, but he had heart trouble. A little prairie flower bloomed in life’s way, and the young knight of the plain paused to taste its perfume. He had no fear of man or beast, but when he looked into the liquid, love-lit eyes of this prairie princess he was always embarrassed. He had walked and tried to talk with her, but the words would stick in his throat and choke him. At last he learned to write and thought to woo her in an easier way. One day she entered the school-room, fresh and ruddy as the rosy morn; her cherried lips made redder by the biting breeze; and when the eyes of the lass and the lover met, all the pent-up passion and fettered affection flashed aflame from her heart to his, and he wrote upon her slate:
“The honey bee for honey tipsThe rose upon the lea;Then how would be your honeyed lipsIf I could be the bee?”
“The honey bee for honey tipsThe rose upon the lea;Then how would be your honeyed lipsIf I could be the bee?”
“The honey bee for honey tips
The rose upon the lea;
Then how would be your honeyed lips
If I could be the bee?”
N. C. CREEDEN. C. CREEDE.
N. C. CREEDE.
N. C. CREEDE.
The cold, calculating teacher saw the fire that flashed from her heart to her cheek, and he stepped to her desk. She saw him coming and she spat upon the slate and smote the sentiment at one swift sweep. Then the teacher stormed. He said the very fact that she rubbed it out was equal to a confession of guilt, and he “reckoned he’d haf to flog her.” A school-mate of Creede’s told this story to me, and he said all the big boys held their breath when the teacher went for his whip, and young Creede sat pale and impatient. “He’ll never dare to strike that pretty creature,” theythought; “she is so sweet, so gentle, and so good.”
The trembling maiden was not so sure about that as she stepped to the whipping corner, shaking like an aspen. “Swish” went the switch, the pretty shoulders shrugged, and the young gallant saw two tears in his sweetheart’s eyes, and in a flash he stood between her and the teacher and said: “Strike me, you Ingin, and I’ll strike you.” “So’ll I, so’ll I,” said a dozen voices, and the teacher laid down his hand.