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"I might have striven, and striven in vaiu Hiich visions to. recall, Well known and yet forgotten: now I see, I hear them all. The present pales before the past, Who comes with angels' wings, As in a dream I stand, amidst Strange yet familiar things."— P/v/c'^f/r. THE rancher's HOME. WO men are journeyino: over the prairie in a light waggon from the Osage Mission in Neosho County, Kansas, to a Rancher's home. A Rancher's home, on the broad prairie. One fresh from the scenes of European capitals, the other well seasoned to the strange silence of that prairie life. Have you seen the prairie ? watched the sheeny sun- light flood witli strange beauty that long stretch of view, over which the eyes wander wonderingly ? felt European trammels shaken from your soul by that still, primitive life ? lost youreelf in wonderment as the immensity of country grew upon you ? Have you travelled over those GLEANINGS FROM ^ vast tracts of prairie land, whose very vastness causes one to recognise the pigmyisra, the littleness of self, aye, causes even the smallness of Europe to enter with a distinct forcibility into the soul ? Have you gazed over the prairies during the Indian summer, joyed in that one field of vast verdure, en- amelled with bright odoriferous wild flowers, whose brilliant beauty has few other witnesses than the azure firmament ? Have you scanned one by one its undulations, been borne as it were from wave to wave, from valley to hill- top, as you found yourself in that limitless plain ? The prairie, and the Indian summer, with its clear sunlight, its myriad wild flowers growing everywhere around that prairie home, could only have tempted one of those travellers to make trial of a Rancher's home, and stay those months in the " Far West " whither his friend had invited him. It is a strange feeling to labor under at first, the knowledge that there is only the distance of thirty miles between yourself and the scalping knife ; yet it is on the frontier formed by that band of whites who have no fears of Indians (thanks to the missioners), that the events you are about reading happened. Judge youraelves if that strange life is worth the living. Willie Woodhouse was lost in reverie, and his friend the Rancher was watching him from his seat in the light waggon. The smoke curled lazily from the Rancher's pipe, and the tired horses stooped their heads to drink ^ WESTERN PRAIRIES, causes self, with [ndian •e, en- whose I azure J, been to hill- ? • bs clear jrywhere (ted one s home, Lther his [rst, the iy miles lit is on rho have that the rourselves us friend Ithe light Lancher's to drink at the prairie creek. Charles Kirwan the Raiiclier tnnu'd and touched his compauion with tlie rein to awaken him from his reverie. He started ; had he been day-dreaming only a few minutes ? "Well, old fellow, what do yon think of this country, eh?" It was a middle-aged man, perhaps thirty-five, who spoke, a pleasant ring his voice had then, and the sun- \vA\t shimmered over his dark beard and his well-cuit features, lightening the dark hair showing under the Rancher's cap. The Rancher's guest was in no dreamland — all was reality — but such a pleasant reality that afternoon in the hazy Indian summer. They had skirted along one side of the prairie, and were about to cross the creek ("crick," the settlers called it). These creeks are small streams of water running through the prairies, and on the banks of such streams a belt of trees is always to be found. They had pene- trated into one of these belts of trees, and were by the side of the stream, about to cross over. Woodhouse, sitting on the side of the waggon, with his eyes turned to the prairies, had not perceived this until his friend spoke, and it is at this entrance to the prairie life I present to my readers Charles Kirwan, a self-made man. I don't know if you would call him handsome. He had a winning smile on his lips, and his expression GLEANINGS FROM changed with the thoughts that passed through his brain. All beauty he claimed rested in his expression, which lit up those otherwise too regular features with a strange fire, and then his soul shone forth indeed. Yes, he had a great soul, and gloried in his prairie isolation and his prairie home. But of his dark moments — and we all have dark mo- ments in our lives — then his features were a very fear. Of middle height, lithe as a leopard, and full of mirth, one would have had no fear of ennui in the visit to the Prairie Cattle Ranche. The touch of his rein upon his guest's hand had re- called him to the present. " Are you surprised at the extent of our prairie," he said, and a laugh broke forth from his lips as he pointed to the bank opposite. "You will be more surprised to cross that stream ?" The creek had been originally a run hollowed out by the tread of many thousand buffaloes, and sure enough the bank opposite was the steepest piece of track he had seen for a waggon to go up, even in the mountain roads of Europe. "We can never do it, Charley." How he laughed at his surprise. " Never do it ! my horses and I often go over there. I think sometimes they could crawl up the wall of a house ; they beat the Tivoli mules for that. Well, we will let them rest for a few minutes longer. We have five miles in the prairie to go before we get to Walnut Creek. I am waiting > WESTERN PRAIRIES. to see your surprise at my home on the prairies. No luxurious Laii<(ham Hotel iu Portland Place. A mud hut ? No ! well, not quite that. A tree shanty lined with mortar — a cooking stove, a fire-place, shelves for grocery, and a few plates. A loft for my two boys and the man, a lean-to — our bedroom that — a rough plank bedstead, a tin basin to wash in, four inches of looking glass. Can you stand it, oh, friend Englishman ?'* " I think so. I have come some hundreds of miles from New York to try." "Good. And for the bright side — d'ye see that box in the waggon ?" Woodhouse nodded. *• I have sheets there. Your European body couldn't rest in blankets as mine does." " I don't know that." "Well, well. You will have a horse to ride, the great prairie for your course. You will see such sunrises and sunsets as only Kansas prairies boast. Color I talk of color, I have seen the rich purples fade into crimson, and one great bank of crimson fade again to all shades of its own color, intermixed with gold, and then whilst I looked it was night and darkness, and god-like, quiet even from the insects* myriad voices near me." " Did you always love the prairies thus ?" " Yes ; partly for gain, partly for aasthetics. My ranche is dearer to me than all the luxury of European life. When I travelled and met you in Europe, I wanted to see what men call the great, and grand, and beautiful, 6 GLEANINGS FROM iu the cities of Italy, Germany, France, and Enf]jland ; but I came back to my piiiirie life, as the caged bird does to its freedom. I am happier here." " Shall I bo so r " I can't tell. We are rough — my men and table, and house rougher. If you are what I take you to be you will conquer your prejudices, and the time you pass here will be the happiest of your life." " If I am not what you take me to be ?" " Then you have always the train that stops at the Mission ; you can return to your boasted civilization. But we must be gomg ; night falls quickly during the Indian summer, and we might lose the track." It was all so pleasant by the side of the creek ; lithe rabbits sunning themselves, and frisking by their warren ; bright birds moving amongst the branches of the trees, and the woodpecker's bill tapping upon the tree trunks being the only audible sound, excepting the hum of insects, and their own (to them) interesting chat. "Will you take one of the horses and ride over the creek, and then I will fetch the waggon?" "No, Charley, let's go together.'* And so they went. The water was high up the horses* knees, over the axle of the waggon wheels, and then they were mounting the perilous bank. Twice they essayed, and then, after such a piece of steep path as a European would have imagined horses could never surmount, with one of Charley's ringing cheers they were on the prairie once more. WESTERS rHAI/i/ES. Woodhouse felt ho was very pale, and yet lie thought he had hardiesso in his diameter. Once more the sheeny 8un-li<^ht flooded the vast prairie, whilst here and there he saw low one-roomed cottages standing out on their claims, with the pjitch of cora- land close by, a would-be peach orchard now and again showing itself as an isolated sign of civilization. " Do you see," said Kirwan, " that brown speck in the distance yonder?" Woodhouse looked in the direction he pointed too with his whip, and there sure enough as the distance lessened he made out the Rancher^s home. His heart sank below zero. Had he travelled so many miles for this — to stay in this cottage ? Why, his father's groom in Old England would have scorned such a shanty as this Kansas ranche. He had no such cot- tage on his place. And yet Charley Kirwan, the rich rancher, lived here. On and on trotted the horses, nearer and nearer he drew to his fate. In a scope of hundreds of miles the only man he knew was Charley Kirwan. He looked ruefully at his trunk full of books and European luxuries. What good could they be in such a cottage as this ? And yet the memory of his books consoled him, and the sight of a great purple sunset glory flooding and making beautiful the outside of the ranche reconciled him to his fate, for he dearly loved aesthetics. There was a kind of romance, too, in the situation, and after all he would try it. r I I l\ s 8 GLEANIXGS FROM Charley Kirwan kii'^w wlnt was pas«^ing iu his mind, for he smiled one of his kn >win«j^ smiles. " Ciieer up, my ^riend ; Ivansas life will do you more ^(kA than all your European tr.ivel, and as for experi- ence, you will tjjain more heit) than elsewhere." Reader, judj^e for yourself in closing this volume, was he right ? The waggon stopped in the full glory of the sunset, as the gleamy light fell over the hut, beautifying even the external ugliness of the structure. " Cottage," had he called it ? that word slipped from his vocabulary for ever when he had seen it. " Tom, — Tom, — Tom," roared Charley Kirwan. The door opened, and Tom issued forth. Tom, iu rough knee boots, knee bi'eeches, and a cloth shirt. Tom leered at Woodhouse, leered at his clothes, leered at the large box, leered at the valise, and with supreme contempt assisted in carrying them to the lean-to. And the lean-to had no glass in the four-paned win- dow for days after their arrival. They hung some sacking over that, so that the place was sleepable iu after all. "Tom, this is the gentleman we were expecting." Tom scratched his head, eyed him from head to foot, walked round him, and held out his hand. Thft guest felt almost ashamed of his hand near that other large, horny, brown hand, one so much younger and stronger than the other. Tom regarded that hand with wonder, and then said : s«i WESTERx pnAn?ir:s. " ril try and teaoh yer to like it ; but yor not broke in vet, tliat's sure." From that time Tom and Woodhouse were fsist friends. AVhilst this seene w;us jj^oinu: <>'i Woodhouse had caujjjht a pflimpse of tlie inside of the ranche. As Charley said, there it was — the row^h floor, the stone heartii, on which a wood fire was blazinu: : an American cookins: stove standinjif out in the room, a table covered with oilcloth, the shelves for «i:rocery and plates, a lamp, and a few rou^jfli chaii*s. Tn one corner a ladder leading up to the loft. All this shut in 20 feet bv 15 feet. The bed-room, the lean-to. Woodhouse noticed the two-inch chinks where it joined on to the building proper. A rough bedstead indeed there ; the wood com- ]H)sing it not even planed by the maker; the tin wash- basin, the four-inch looking-glass, all i)orfectly as Charley had caid. This Avaa to be his home for some months, and what events those months shut in ! as' dissolving views, the chapters of this volume will pass before you. Happy days, streaked with sunshine and quietude, over-ridden ofttimes by the gvim shadow of pain and death ; yet days he thanked Providence for, and whose memory he loved in after years. In the meanwhile Jack, another ranche boy, had prepared the evening meal, and they sat down to pork chops, prairie chicken, corn bread, stewed peaches and coflfee, as soon as they entered. fr 10 GLEANINGS FROM So soon after that sunset it was night. No long gloaming as in England. The lamp was lit, and the blinds drawn down, and with appetites only such as prairie air could create, they did full justice to the plenteous fare. Slice after slice of luscious hot corn bread dis- appeared, cup after cup of coffee. Charley Kirwan in his quiet way had drawn out the conversation with the boys who sat with them on their work on the farm, and about the cattle ; and Woodhouse, interested by the very strangeness of the scene, entered into it with his whole heart. He had no idea how time flew until they pulled out their watches, and Charley Kirwan laughed that still laugh of his as he asked his guest to pull round by the fire and smoke, as every one in the ranche would be moving early next morning. "Breakfast at 6.30 or 7. We are up soon after four, you know." Then they made the beds. Those precious sheets were pulled out of the box, to the amusement of the two boys, who vowed it was the funniest move possible. " And how are we to make the bed, Charley ?" they asked. (Here all distinction between master and servant was at an end.) " How do these things go ? " How they laughed ; and how quickly that dreaded first evening had flown ; so pleasantly too, that the stranger regretted it had come to an end. On that first evening he too thought his trunk out of place in the Rancher*s home, as he took from it those necessaries he tM jquired. WESTERN PJiAfJl/ES. 11 Could .t be he was about to sleep in a mche on the >nde pra,r,es of the " Far West ?" that he was in Kansas ? Was he dreamins ? No ; the loud suorin^ of the mnche boys from their loft told him plainly it ,vas reality I m H^ ■3 CHAPTER TI- EclioeB of »ome vague d^'^^; .^ ainKS, Dhu voices «h.»l.er h"'* '«' ^^" ^„„„er not."- And wben we i«use W listen, » ^ ^^ p,,„.Mn PRAUUE UFE.-BROWK KIBWAN. , ,00V flun.- Wide oi^u on the following rpnE ranche Jo" "-^^^^^ ^„„,y„e flooding the m- X movmng, and '"'^ ""»' „.,,. ^oodhonse busily tenor of the building ^^-- ^ J™^^ ^^ aust from the encaged in bmshing some of the dirt eoLnon sitting -^f^^J ^^^.ed np the breaMa^t Then he cleaned the wmdo , ^^^ things, and sat down ^-^^l^^ ,,a left him alone Charley Kir^van and his help hours ago. ^ g^ent of prairie flowers From door and —^VI sunshine throwing into crept into the rough bmldiu„, m bold relief the Bj^°;\.^,^,,a and curled around, and The tongues of fire mo ^^^ t,,„ through the -v^s^;;^ * ^^^ I,, .hite wood a«h. hearth, and made beautiiu GL'^ANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 13 *) ot ; Proctor. r^Q following ling the in- lliouse busily ust ii'OiT^ the the breakfast hiw. bit bim aloue prairie flowers throwing into L around, aud Ipiled upon thi' lite wood ashes j round ; as they lay piled up in the great recess, where the suu could not reach, did it try ever so hard. The susun'a of the prairie wind in amongst the Indian corn patch was real music. Willie Woodhouse did not move from his books ; they were on prairies and prairie life, and he would know something of this before he essayed exploring the country round, and he had also promised Charley Kirwan to wtiit in for his brother. Brown Kirwan. It was ten o'clock in the morning, but in the still prairie life that was late in the day to those who rose with the sunshine, and retired an hour or so after darkness had fallen. A strong shadow fell over his book, and a voice, with an unmistakeable Dutch accentuation close by, woke him from his studies. It was Herr Lieboldt, the head farmer of Charley Kirwan. " Ee-ee-ee. Sharley say him frind am cum, eee-eee-eee. What hands, ee-ee ! What ed, ee-ee-ee ! Wat buk am you read ? I Lieboldt. I ed man. Me frind ob Sharley also, ee-ee. What tink you ob Sharley's home ? " Short, red-haired, thick-set, Lieboldt, with his sharp blue eyes twinkling under rugged brows, was a character of whom Kirwan knew the full value. " You cum see me ? My ole voman, ee-ee, be glad to see you. You see my house, my mule, my boys, ee-ee." "Where am Sharley?" Receiving an answer, this in- truder departed, to be followed by a tall thin man, whose 14 GLEANINGS FROM lantern jaw£ and sad eyes spoke of misery. Levett his name, real nasal American his twang. " So you've come, eh ? Well, Where's Sharley ? I want to borrer a cup of coffee ; I can't go to the Mission to get none. I'll take the coffee. Good-bye, man." And he took the coffee and absconded, to the amazement of his auditor. Next came a Canadian-looking woman, short, thin, and age as difficult to tell as to guess the extent of prairie near. " Where's Sharley, eh, my man ?" she said. " I want to boiTow a cup of coffee kernels ; he'll let me have it if he's at home. Not to home ! well, I guess I'll take it ; tell him I'll bring it back to-mon'ow." (Her to-morrows were long far-off days that never came.) As she said the "to-morrow" a smile flik,ted over her face at the greenness of Kirwan's guest in letting her have what she wanted. " If yer want washing done, I'm yer woman to do it, I guess. Good bye ; don't forget to tell Sharley. I guess you will, though." " Are these my neighbours and friends ?" soliloquised Woodhouse. " What can I do for them in these months to come ?" " Wait and see. God will use you if He wants you." It was a kind, gentle voice that spoke, the owner of the voice sitting in a spider buggy, driven close over the soft turf up to the window, and he sat looking in. It was Brown Kirwan, whose approach had hurried off the Canadian woman, who not only contemplated sugar, but coffee also. He had caught some of the conversation, and was smiling at it, menially resolving to chaff Wood- ■4J WESTERN PRAIRIES. 16 house about his greenuess in allowing himself to be thus entreated by the ranchers near. " I'm Brown Kirvvan. You are Willie Woodhouse, Charley's friend, Will you be mine too ?" They shook hands heartily, and then Brown descended from his buggy, took a chair, and sat in the bright sunlight in the ranche door. " Let's have something to eat, and then you will come for a drive with me. I'm going to see a sick squatter's wife who is half Indian — about two miles away." Brown Kirwan was a doctor living at the Osage Mission. He was tall, pale, with dark black hair, features more irregular than those of his brother, yet he had a kindly nature, and a heart as true as ever beat in human breast. He had served as surgeon in some regiment during the war between North and South, made a respect- able little fortune, bought a claim out West, and started a sheep ranche. Perhaps he had been unsuccessful ; cer- tain it is, he had rented his claim to another, and taken again to his profession amongst the many squatters, and the small town forming round the Mission House of the Jesuits amongst the Osages. Such was Brown Kirwan ; a man full of knowledge, less picked up from books than knowledge practical, caught up in the hard run of daily life. His religion was founded and rooted in charity. He Reldom went to a church ; but, as he often said, his church was the boundless prairie, the roof the blue curtain of heaven. There prayer welled out of his heart 10 GLEANINGS FROM silently and uaturally, as the sururra passing over the prairie grass, or the water welling up from the almost hjddeu spring near the rauche he once inhabited. " But what has Charley to eat before we go, eh ? Corn bread, I see. Good. And a lot of stewed peaches," as he lifted the lid off a saucepau standing on a form. Good again. Also beans cooked in pork grease. Come on, friend, we shall be hungry before we return." So they feasted, with no set table, on the good things there, and then mounting together in the buggy after locking the ranche door, drove off. The drive wsis over the prairie grass to the side of a distant creek some miles off". The air was odorous with the Indian summer flowers, the atmosphere clearer even than in Italy (though unsung, and generally unknown to be so), and the enlivening conversation of Brown Kirwan made that first day on the prairies enjoyable to his companion. " You are English, Mr. Woodhouse." " Yes." " What age ? Well, never mind ; I can see, from nineteen to twenty-two. Ah, you have life before you. I am double your age now. Well, I shouldn't wish to live my life over again. Dear me, your English life must be different to this. Your pale skin will soon gain American olive." " My brother Charley is a Catholic. Dear me ; well, he knows best. He worships God his way, I mine. You're of his religion. Well, well ; more to interest you in this region. Ah, one day I will take you to the Mission House ; have orders from the superior. Well, WESTERLY PRAIRIES. 17 or over the the ahuost )ited. , eh ? Coru peaches," as on a form, i-ease. Come turu. i good things buggy after the side of a odorous with J clearer even y unknown to Brown Kirwan >yable to his JYes." "What m nineteen to I am double live my life .St be different [merican olive." •ear me ; well, way, I mine, to interest you ike you to the uperior. Well, now we are coming on to this stony ground ; ninor noticed tlic round cactus he fore ; ahvays grows here so. Greenliouse plant in some parts; not so here. Well, well." " Mr. Kirwan, look at that snake ! What kind is it ?" "Oh, that's a rattlesn.ike."* The reptile was l)asking in the sun surrounded by five or six little ones. As soon * Crotalux (Rattlesnake). In zoology, a goniin of tho olass om- phihia, order xerprntt's. There are five species of tliis j,'('iiiis. The one found in America is the C'rofabm fforridi/s, or Hanth'd Unttle- enake — abdominal plates, 107; dorsal, 23 — the most venomous of the Berpent tribe ; growth, greatest extent, (> feet, but those of this length are seldom seen now. This snake is eaten by swine with impunity. It preys on birds and smaller quadruiieds. The rattlesnake i»roduces its young in June or July, generally about twelve in numbj.T. liy September they grow from nine to twelve inches in length. There is little doubt that it receives its young into its mouth, and swallows r them in time of danger. This theory has been nuich laughed at by [people who have not had ocular demonstration of the fact. M. Beauvois, a naturalist born in the last ccntvry, asserted this fact, nnd [declares that "hai)pening to disturb a rattlesnake in a walk near Tine jog, he saw it immediately coil itself up and open its jaws, when iinstantly five small ones, that were lying by, rushed into its mouth. iHe retired, and in the course of a quai terof an hour saw her discharge |them. He approached it a second time, when the young retired into its mouth with greater celerity than before, and the snake imm y 1 companion, ly croHsed its js from any by her sick irsing 80 dear loved hand. le lay dressed ises fell around in its intense ^0 sad, she so Irishman, who that material merican stove ; lade*; no food the wife hope- ad?" he asked, e her sufierings, that husband's oved her dearly, ad cakes, tidied lat, bread was made | the room, and the half-cash^ thanked them by tlie clo- qiKMit tnu*8 rolliiii^' out of thuHo lustroua eyes, undiinmed l>y ilhicHs. She to<)k her int'diclne passively ; resi^nied in lyhaps to doatli. She, {.ikcn into the (MiriHtian Church, i" ich isy ire lad m, a- ble Mrs. Button had gathered out of her stores, which seemed illimitable. And such coffee she poured out ! thinking more of her guests' comfort than of the common garb she wore ; and the girls were like her — " good nice girls," as Charley said — whose ages ranged from twenty-one to seventeen. Ted Button large-framed and handsome, about twenty-two. Tom dark-skinned, handsomer than his brother, about eighteen, with a nature bubbling over with fun. The conversation turned upon all prairie subjects, and laughter rippled in waves around the merry board ; until Charley, looking at Button, said — "My friend wants to know who lives h\ the Ranche near the Creek, with the straight lines of trees about it." Then silence fell on them all, and a palpable shiver went the round of the table, until Button Senior spoke out—" Did you tell him ?" " I did not tell him all. I spoke in the present. I said a man lived there who stored up gold. If I told him, I might frighten him away from us." " Best to tell him," said bluff Button, " he will only hear from some less authentic source." Mrs. Button, too, leant over and said — '* Yes, tell him what came of it, what came of the stored-up gold !" " Well, Mrs. Button, what came of it ?" She leant forward and whispered in his ear : " Murder on Murder !" He smiled an incredulous smile back at her. " All r? 4H (;l/':ax/X(;s fuom wksticilw prairies. right, Mra. Button, you dou't frighten us Europeaus thus." She laughed at his incredulity, whilst the party en- joyed it. Charley looked over at him from his side of the table and said — '* Don't ask another word until I speak of it to-morrow." "You tvill tell me?" In clearly firm-cut words he answered, " / ivill.^'' And on the morrow he did. ii: I ^^— ^^^^ CHAPTER Vf. " Placidaque ibi demutn morte quievit."— T7r(7. There calm at length he breathed hia soul away. WHAT CHARLEY KIRWAN TOLD HIM. HE breakfast table in Kirwaa's ranche deserted. Kinvan is smoking his pipe, sitting close to the wood fire ; snowy, flakey wood ashes lie at his feet on the hearth stone, which never knew the luxury of a fender ; quiet crimson tongues of flame crept in and out of the crevices left by logs piled there in careless profusion. Woodhouse sat by the window reading the ^neid of Virgil, with English notes, critical and explanatory, by Anthon, edited by TroUope. This was one of the quiet hours in which they seldom spoke to each other. Kirwan took his pipe from his mouth, surveyed it carefully, watched the rings of smoke creeping up to the ceiling, and then said : " Willie ! " :Ji ill ■ fit GLEANINGS FROM i I' Vm if HI: Hi 5i,;5; The eyes of his guest turned to him with astonishment written in them — that Kirwan should thus break through that still hour by talking. . "You're suiprised, but you wished to hear of Acton's Ranche." " Acton's ranche ?" "Yes, the one we passed yesterday." " Oh, ah, yes, do tell me," said he, hastily laying down hi& book, " that one Mrs. Button was so mysterious yesterday evening about ; quite novelesque, eh ! man with a lot of money. 'Murder on Murder,' &c., &c." "Well, old fellow, she was quite right. Only a few weeks ago, there actually was a murder committed there." " By the Indians ?" "No." " How then ; did Acton make away with himself, or what ?" "He did neither. He was made away with, or rather his life was." Kirwan noticed the slight shudder that crept through the body of his guest, and wondered whether he had done wisely to speak of this without a greater prepara- tion. He had left his seat by the window, and was sitting on a low stool facing him. " Will you tell me all about it, Charley ?" " Yes ; I will. Acton came into this district some few years ago, one of the first settlers ; he built his house more on the European cottage model, with every comfort he could then place in it. You kiiow the rough- WESTERN PRAIRIES. -61 h U le lis [y 11- ness of our prairie life by this time. Well, he planted a garden about his house, the one you so admired, and then he set to work on his claim. Everythin<( he did seemed to prosper, aud he made considerably of ji^old by fruit and the cultivation of his land. The neighbours were all partial to Acton ; he was ready to give others a helping hand, or place the secrets of his success at their disposition. A fellow he was, good all the way round : just such a man who should thrive in a prairie home. Most settlei-8 near grew to know him, and to like him. Still, he had no faith in anything in the Mission in the way of banks to store his money, and foolishly he kept it in his Ranche. That wis all well and good, so long as he was sure of tiie laborer, or help he had about him. I suppose his help nuist liave left, as others do when they have gained somewhat of money, and gone in search of a claim of his own farther up country. At all events, a time came when Acton was left without help. He did as well as he could for awhile, assisted by the neighbours ; but shortly their own work called them away, and for love or money he could get no one. "One evening entering his Ranche tired out, and chopping wood upon his door-step, by the dying light, to coax up a fire, with which to cook his supper by, he was accosted by a neighbour who had heard of a young fellow in want of work, a stranger to them all, going down West. Did he care to engage him ? if so, the neighbour would see that he called in in the morning. r,2 GLEANINGS FROM * Why in the morning, friend,' Raid Acton, * brinj( bin. round to-night, and then in the morning he can, if he suits me, set about his work.' " Well, as you like. We know nothing of him — he is a stranger to us — simply travelling down West — comes and asks a meal of victuals, and my old woman immediately says, ' Maybe he'd do for neighbour Acton.' He's strong, burly, an;l a stranger : that's all we know. It may be dangerous taking in a stranger, where he has all to gain and nothing to lose. Beggars though, can't be choosers, and my work is standing still for want of hands, and my fruit and vegetables rotting. Well, neigh- bour Acton, think of it to-night, and to-morrow I'll see that he comes round." ' "Acton did think of it, over his solitary tea in his ranche, and decided to give the stranger a trial, going to bed looking eagerly forward to the morrow. " Early the next morning the stranger came : a man strong and burly, all that Acton wanted, but was he honest ? This thought flashed through his mind as he hired him straight oflP. That could only be proved by acquaintance with him. "And so they set to work. Week after week passed by, and the stranger studied the life of Acton, until none of its secrets were hidden from him. His master grew to trust him, and he found out even where the money was kept. 'The love of money is the root of all evil.' How, when, or where the idea first entered the stranger's head of obtaining possession of that money, wmmimmmm WESTFMN PliAIRIES. 63 no OIK! ever knew. Certiiin it is, he must liave brooded over it loni^. "One (lay Acton, occupied in cho})pin^ wood with his liired iniin, was attacked from behind, and niju^ix killed with the blow of an axe ; indeed, so maui^led that death (iusued some short time after, and the man dis- api)eared, takiui^ the money with him. A nei<^hbour pa«sin«^ some time afterwards goes to the Ranche door, and discovers the mutilated man, then in his death- agony — administei-s what comfort ho could, and hears the dying man speak of that hope sure and fiist, laid up in the great home of God, the Father's Ranche, where neither moth nor rust corrupteth more, and where thieves are powerless to break in, murder or steal ; and then all calmly he breathed forth his soul to God. " The murderer had escaped, but justice must be done ; and so, mounting a horse, the man who had discovered the murder galloped from Ranche to Ranche, and s))read the uewri far and wide. The Rancher left his ploughing, and every settler able to do so his occupation. To iiorse ! To horse ! They must hunt down him who so wickedly in cold lood had done that grievous murder ! Lumbering Dutch rir^s, revolvers, guns of all ages and makes, were quickly loaded, and the self -organized army of justice swiftly grew and grew, until they reached at a fixed hour the Ranche where they should agree upon some settled way of scouring the country and arresting the murderer. Day and night should that search continue until he wtvs lynched." n I 54 GLEANIMfS FROM "I shot he, Sharley." It was Lieboldt, who had entered unperceived, aud had heard somewhat of the conversation : for both the teller of the history and he who listened were far too much interested to have heard Lieboldt's entry. "I shot he, Sharley, wid my old rifle. I were in the hunt, I were." And Lieboldt continued the story: " We searched all the crick, the corn patches and build- ings, whilst some galloped about in the prairie to see if he were in the long grass there lying hid. All that day we searched, but we didn't find he. "We had watchers about all night, and in the early morning began agin. There in a woody bend of the crick we found he, and hunted he to a corn-stack. Shot after shot was fired — he and us stormed agin and agin. I felt the Dutch blood burn in my veins. ' We must have he if only we wait long enough.' And so we did. Young Garth fired and wounded he — then I fire, wounded he agin ; and so after desperate fight we take he. Not dead. Then we hold council whether we lynch he. ' Lynch he ! No,' cry some one, ' let's take him to the Ranche of Acton, and tie him in bed with the dead man, and let him die so. A warning to nmrderers that !' Aud so we did, aud set a patrol before the Ranche and round it to see that no one aid he. And so he died, Sharley." Here Lieboldt took what he wanted from the house, and retired mnrmuviug something to himself. "Is all this true, Charley?" WESTERN PRAIRIES. 66 " W^v ves, man ! But Lieboldt didu't shoot liiin, I think. The wounds were revolver wounds, and the bore of the old man's musket is different to that. He is somewhat chaffed about, ' I shot he !' ever since the little bullet was discovered so different to his Dutch bore. But the hallucination rests." " What a terrible story !" " True, but we are obliged to administer the sternest justice here, or crime would be too common amongst us. Such a lesson was given by that man's death and his tragic end which lynching could never have given. The strangeness of it will be remembered, and stop crime close around us for a generation or two, and by that time law will be administered as in other parts of the States." And so ended the oonveraation on Acton's Ranche, and the quick rush of coming events precluded all the further allusions to that subject which Kirwau's guest wished to make. CHAPTER VII. "From the contagion of the world's slow stain We are secure, and then can never mourn A heart grown cold, — a head grown grey in vain." DINNER AT THE MISSION HOUSE. ROWN Kirwan had not forgotten his brother's guest ; indeed he was a frequent visitor at the Ranche during the long days of the Indian summer, and a great friendship had sprung up between himself and Willie Woodhouse. A week or so after the long ride and chat upon the prairies, he drove up to the Ranche, and invited Woodhouse to inspect the Mission House with him, as the Superior had specially invited him to dinner that day. " An invitation from an unknown person, eh. Brown ? Well, I must go. I will run down to the crick to see Charley ; tell him I am going, and will be back shortly, and ready to go in ten minutes." They drove in the early hazy morning back to the Mission. Much amused was the stranger with the Mission village. The phink footpaths, leading here, there, and GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. 57 everywiicre ; the wooden houses of the settlers, the grim stone convent of the Lorettines standing facing the Square near which the foundations of the new church were already to be seen. And as they drove into the Mission yard, there sunning himself in the beautiful sunlight stood the aged Superior of the Mission. As Woodhouse stepped from the Buggy the aged man clasped both his hands in his. It seemed like Winter and Spring meeting, and out of reverence to him who had so long borne the burden and heat of the day the younger sank upon his knees, and the elder lifted his hands to heaven, placed them upon the bowed head, and blessed him. In that moment the souls of both of them seemed to have touched and known they were akin. An unnatural piece of acting this might have been in others, but not so here. All this had happened in less time than it takes to write, and hearty was the welcome given to the guests. "You know nothing of our prairie life yet, Mr. Woodhouse ?" " Hardly, Father ; yet enough to make me wish to know more." "That's well. Has Charley taken you to the school at Walnut Creek ?" "No. That I reserve for some winter evening." "Ah, if the snow permits." " But is the snow so very awful V Brown and the Superior laughed. il 58 GLEANJNGS FROM " What think you of thai, telegraph wire buried ?" asked the old man, pointing to the telegraph wires near them. "Never!" " Yes, indeed ; and it dritts on the prairies to an enormous depth. We lose our prairie congregation then. Texan ponies are useless to bring them to us, or take us to them." " I must take to my books." " Or, as you are near the crick, to crick fishing." " What, with the ice covering the creek ?" " Yes. The creeks swarm with fish, and it is thus. The ice is, as a rule, clear as crystal ; and you see the fish ice-bound floating just beneath the ice, as they find no air-holes. With the broad back of an axe you strike the ice violently over where the fish's head is. This stuns him. You then cut away the ice in a square round the fish, large enough to insert a small sieve under its body, This, by practice, one learns to do so skilfully, that in an hour you may take as much fish as you can carry home with you." A broad incredulous smile was on the face of Woodhouse. Brown Kirwan saw it, and assured him of the truth of this assertion and the enormous quantities of fish taken in this way by the Indians. " Has he been to an husking party. Brown .?" " No, not yet, Superior." " Well, well, take him. The first one I saw many years ago amused me." WESTERN PRAIRIES. m The sound of the bell called them now to the Refec- tory, where the Community joined them, coming in silently and falling into their allotted places. The same long low room, white-washed, that Brown Kirwan knew before ; only the sun-light streaming through the narrow windows, over the rough but appe- tizing fare, lent to the room warmth and cheerfulness. The Blessing given, Quinlin the Priest read from Holy Scripture until he came to the verse, " Ye stand this day all of you before the Lord your God" (Paralip xxix., 10.) Then the wonted signal for stopping the reading was given, and conversation began. Brown started it by saying, " How quickly you are obeyed, Superior. I notice as your signal is given the sound of the voice ceases — the word seems almost broken in two." " Yes, that is the law of obedience : if we are writing and the bell rings for any duty, we leave off with the letter half formed." Both the visitors looked surprised. Quinlin said : " That is our rule ; we make it our duty to cheerfully accept obedience." The Superior added : " The principle of the forest lies in the acorn, and the germ of every duty springs direct from the thought of God." Pinsotti turned to Woodhouse, remarking : " From our early years God delegates some of His authority to our fellow men. Primo to parents, and so on. Respect for authority is a sacred duty, as we^.l as a Divine command." GO a L E. 1 NISGS FROM " Thermopylae speaks of the obedience of the Spurtaiis," said Woodhouse. ^ " Yes, the epitaph does : " "do tell the Sitartans, tlion tliat passest by, That here obedient to their laws we lie," "I have read," said Pinsotti, "the other day of true obedience. The armed skeleton of a poor Roman soldier was found in a recess near tlie j^ates of PomiKiii. When the sulphurous storm broke over that jifuilty little city, how easy for him to have run away. But he wouldn't, because to escape would be to abandon his post without leave ; and so that unknown hero just dropped the vizor of his helmet, and stood tl' re to die rather than disobey." " England is not behind-hand," said the doctor. " Don't I remember in our war, our men speakin<( of Balachiva," and glancing at his English friend he quoted : "Forward the Light Brigade, Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die — Into the valley of death Rode the Six Hundred." "That proves obedience," said the Superior, 'is not limited to the Church. We have these noble examples in the Army, of men preferring death to disobedience." " And in the Navy also." " Yes," said one brother, who had been, awhile a sailor, " the wreck of the Birkenhead. A good ship crushed at sunset against a sunken rock ; the boats few, and the WES TJ■JI{^ riL 1 HUES. Gl water rushiuj,' in ; sharks thriiHtin<5 liorrid black fins tlirou«,^h white breakers, the women and chihh'eii sliriek- in^% but the voice of the captain was heard callinLr the men to their nuiks, — an order moanini^ death instantly obeyed. The boats left the vessel in order, taking' the women and children to shore." " I remember," observed Quinlin, " inch by inch the ship sank lower, the men stood calm, till one f^reat wave rolled over her, and * obedient unto death,' brave men, loyal indeed, sank to a noble burial." " And if men in the world are obedient thus, what obedience should be observed by those in Holy Orders, and under the rule of a Society sanctioned by the Church?" "Aye, obedience, indeed," murnmred the Irishman, and a sigh told his thoughts w^ere about the subject of obedience, and what it cost him. " Father Pinsotti, is it true about that discovery near Independence, in a Ranche there ? The IVIission is ring- ing with the news this morning." " Yes, too true, Mr. Kirwan. I myself have been in the Ranche ; in fact I tried to convert the people, and, indeed, it was I who gave them the prayer book found there, of which there has been much talk." "What occupation were they?" " Well, nominally, they kept a grocer's store." " And if any one came with money they let them down into that abominable trap ?" " Yes, and in some way killed them therc." GLEANINGS FROM *' And ?" asked a Brother, breatliless. " Buried thera in their garden." *' How were they found out ?" " Some one, after a heavy rain, saw marks as of graves settling down in their garden, and communicated with the police or military at Fort Scott, or some other place." "And the military?" " Found it was only too true." "I had the news through a European paper," said Woodhouse. " And the law has dealt heavily with them ?" " So heavily that such an enormity will never be perpetrated here again, we hope." "Ah, my friends, five or seven graves, so many mur- ders ; and I have been often to the house, but could make nothing of the people. The grace of God had never touched their hearts." " And are you not afraid, Father Pinsotti ?" " No, I have no fear. I can only die once ; and, en- deavouring to honestly work in my Master's service, I know He will protect me." In the meantime the dinner had duly progressed — the Irish stew, the roast meat, the stewed peaches, and cheese, were done full justice to, and now the signal given for silence, and the Martyrology read, they retired to the Church hard by, a long, low building, with its Sanctuary panelled in dark walnut wood, and there in silence all kneel before the Blessed Sacrament. Five WESTERN PRAIRIES. 63 minutes of sileut prayer, and the Recreation began. Tliis was the rule of the Osage Community. A long and interesting conversation follows in the Superior's room, until the doctor suggests he must drive his friend home. " Come again when you like," said the Superior, open- ing the door of the room next his own, a small cup- board-looking place containing a bed, a tub turned bot- tom upwards supporting a tin bowl and small ewer in tin. " This will be your room. Come and use it often ; we shall be pleased to see you. There is a stove in it too. You will be warm there, even in winter, Mr. Woodhouse." "He will leave the Mission far behind him before then," exclaimed Quinlin. "Hardly," said the Superior. "God has sent him to these parts for a purpose, and only when it is fulfilled will he leave." m\ CHAPTER VIII. "Tho double night of ages, and of her— Night's daughter — If/fioranrr, iiatli wrapt, and wrap All round us." — Chlldc HarnUVH Pilgrimage. * ♦ ♦ * * " He wlio ascends to mountain-tops shall find The loftiest ])eak.s most wrapt in clouds and snow ; He who surpasses or subdues mankind. Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high aboi'c the sun of glory glow, And far hnwuth the earth and ocean spread, Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending temi)ests on his naked head, And thus reward the toils which to those summits led." * * * * — Byron. "In ///> great Name I stand between thee and the shrine which hath Had His acceptance. — " Cain.''' — liyron. SUNDAY AND THE OSAGES. Ill SUNDAY Moraiug at the Mission. Charley Kirwau and his guest are riding Texan cobs, and travelliiig at a smart pace to the Mission, to be in time for the service. As they near the vicinity of the Church they see people from the district going on the same errand. And what a laughable con- gregation of vehicles stand tenantless outside the Church ! Such a group photographed would make a photographer's fortune in Europe. GLEANINGS FROM WESTERN PRAIRIES. G5 ey ! Can feeble word-paint iuj? convey such ^roupinj^ to the mind of a reader ? Hardly. There stands the ox waf]^ when they are removed a second and third time. With each successive euiigra- tion they find their grounds restricted, and their fishin*'- I ' ! 72 GLEANINGS FROM li ' and hunting? places less abundant. The agents promise them protection and privileges never realized, and con- sc4uently the savages call the whites 'forked-tongues/ or liars." " Yes, it is hard lines on them indeed ; but I imagine as civilisation advances they will recede farther and farther until they touch upon the shores of the Pacific." " Exactly so, according to the present system, but we shall never live to see things go so far as that. It seems to me, having studied them greatly in my character, as Superior of the Mission, that there is a feeble ray of hope for the preservation of a great number of them ; if the law proposed by Senator Johnson in 1854 is adopted in sincerity, both on the side of the Government and the Indians." "">Vhat law was pixijiosed?" "An establishn\ent of three territorial governments in the Indian territory inhabited by the Choctaws, Creeks, Cherokees, the Chickasaws, and other tribes, with the provision of being admitted later on as distinct members of the confederated United Stat-^js." " What is the epidemic you spoke of, Mr, Quinlin ? " " Pleuro-pneumonia and spiuo meningitis. It is not in the country yet, but surely it will come." "Don't frighten xm before it does come." " No, no, no,*' said the Superior, and he touched the little bell near him to signify that "Talking" had finished. After the short visit to the Church, they started for the Neosho to see the Indian encampment. WES TERN PJL 1 flUES. 73 How pleasant it was \valkin«( throu