CHAPTER I.

Produced by Al Haines

[Illustration: Cover art]

[Frontispiece: "Boys, I allus carries my Guide-Book." (_Page 30._)]

THE WARDEN OF THE PLAINS

AND OTHER STORIES OF LIFE IN THE

CANADIAN NORTH-WEST

BY

JOHN MACLEAN, M.A., PH.D.,

_Author of "Canadian Savage Folk," etc._

ILLUSTRATED BY J. E. LAUGHLIN

TORONTO

WILLIAM BRIGGS

WESLEY BUILDINGS

MONTREAL: C. W. COATES ------ HALIFAX: S. F. HUESTIS

1896

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one

thousand eight hundred and ninety-six, by WILLIAM BRIGGS, at the

Department of Agriculture.

CONTENTS.

THE WARDEN OF THE PLAINS

ASOKOA, THE CHIEF'S DAUGHTER

THE SKY PILOT

THE LONE PINE

THE WRITING STONE

AKSPINE

OLD GLAD

THE SPIRIT GUIDE

ALAHCASLA

THE HIDDEN TREASURE

THE WHITE MAN'S BRIDE

THE COMING OF APAUAKAS

THE WARDEN OF THE PLAINS.

In the wide western plains at the base of the Rocky Mountains, where

countless buffalo once found luxuriant feeding-grounds, the white man's

cattle were roaming in tens of thousands. It was the time of the

"round up." The cowboys had been scouring the plain for hundreds of

miles gathering in the cattle and horses, banding them and driving them

into the corral, there to be counted and the young branded.

The "round up" party had camped for the night. Many of them were weary

from the hard day's riding, and were sitting or lounging about in the

tents or on the open prairie, waiting for the supper which others were

preparing.

"Hello, Jake!" shouted one of these, as a man who seemed to have sprung

from the prairie, so suddenly had he appeared, rode into the camp.

"All right, Bill," was the reply of the new-comer, uttered in a short

but friendly tone.

"The boys 'll be right glad t' see ye, Jake, fur we haven't had a

sermon fur a long time. Ye're the only preacher we fellows have got,

and ye're welcome."

"Wall, Bill, ef ye wud follow the trail and no be straying frae the

herd, ye wouldna get lost sae often, nur make it sae hard fur

yerselves, and fur the Gospel cowboys t' find ye."

Jake, or as he called himself, the "Gospel Cowboy," was a queer

character but a true man, who felt himself called upon to go from ranch

to ranch to tell in his own strange way the story of the Saviour's love.

Before his conversion he was known as "Broncho Jake," but since then

the pioneers on the prairie had called him "The Warden of the Plains."

He was a daring fellow, fearless of danger in crossing the rapid

rivers, a good rider and a splendid roper. Few of the cowboys could

handle a lariat like Broncho Jake. He was always foremost in trials of

skill and horsemanship. A few years before he had entered upon his new

life of itinerating among the ranches, there was a contest between the

cowboys to decide who among them was the most skilful rider. Jake was

one of the competitors.

A large circle was formed upon the prairie where the contest was to be

held. The various riders were surrounded by friends who had come to

witness the exhibition of skill. Many feats of daring were performed,

until the contest lay finally between Bill Jones and Broncho Jake.

Bill sprang lightly upon his horse, and riding rapidly around the

circle, flung his hat to the ground; then increasing the animal's speed

until it became a mad rush through space, he leaned downward on the

right side, and holding on only by his left foot, picked up the hat,

and, putting it on his head, threw himself back into the saddle. The

crowd cheered him lustily as he sat his horse with easy grace and rode

once more around the circle. The horse seemed to understand and feel

that his master's reputation was at stake, and his nostrils quivered as

he stretched his neck forward in the race. Still riding at full speed,

Bill loosed his necktie and threw it on the ground. Surely he does not

mean to attempt to pick it up! If he tries he will certainly break his

neck. Bill rode once more round the ring; then throwing the reins on

the neck of the sure-footed animal, while every eye was strained to

catch his slightest movement, he bent forward, and with a sudden dash

as he rode past where it lay, he grasped the necktie in his fingers and

lifted it from the ground, waving it in the air as he rode onward to

the starting-place. The cowboys were delighted. Many of them ran to

him, seized his hands and expressed their hearty admiration of his

skill.

It was then Jake's turn to show what he could do, and although everyone

was interested, they felt that the contest was ended, and many of them

said so.

"Bet yer life Jake can't beat that!"

Jake took no notice of this expression of public opinion, but threw

himself on his horse as indifferently as if such contests were of

everyday occurrence. Riding easily around the ring two or three times

as if to get himself into trim for his work, he threw his hat on the

ground, and as he rode past picked it up. Taking off his necktie, he

cast that on the prairie and picked it up as deftly as Bill had done.

The crowd were surprised. They had not thought Jake capable of such a

daring feat. But he had not exhausted his ability to astonish them.

Riding around as before, Jake flung down both hat and tie, and as he

passed them on his next round leaned forward and picked up first one

and then the other with his teeth; then turning to the crowd, who were

cheering him loudly, he waved his hand in acknowledgment of their

praise, and rode quietly homeward. Broncho Jake was henceforward

honored by the boys. When he joined the ranks of the "Gospel grinders"

there were wry faces made and queer remarks uttered, for some of the

boys thought he would be sentimental and sanctimonious; but there were

others who knew him better and said, "Jake's a square fellow, and you

bet he'll be a good un; none o' yer long faces nur yer long prayers

when a fellow is in need of anything."

Jake justified his friends' faith, and no one exerted a wider influence

for good over the cowboys, or was given a heartier welcome when he came

among them, than "The Warden of the Plains."

On this evening as soon as supper was over, the boys gathered round

Jake and were soon singing the hymns he had set to the rollicking airs

all cowboys love.

Jake had a grand supply of stories, and when the lads were in good

spirits they would listen eagerly, unconsciously learning the lesson

the story never failed to convey. Jake was too wise to draw the moral

of his tales himself, thus treating his audience as children. He told

his stories in a fascinating and suggestive manner, and left each

listener to adapt their teaching to his own need or consciousness.

Much, however, as they liked his stories, the great event of Jake's

visit was his sermon. The boys loved to hear him preach. He talked to

them in language and in a way that they could understand, and his

genuine goodness of heart and interest in their welfare had taught them

to love him. It was a rough kind of affection, and the boys would not

have called it by that name, perhaps, but it was none the less a

genuine love for the man.

Taking a little book out of his pocket, Jake looked around on the men

who sat about him, and smiling as he held it up, said:

"Ye see, boys, I allus bring my brand Book wi' me to see to the strays

and return them to the masters. I've got nearly all the brands by

heart. The biggest cattle-bosses I've known--an' a good many I've met

in my day--are the Lord Jesus Christ and the devil. I'm a wee bit

afeard the devil's got the biggest herd, for his range is cropped off

bare, and the cattle are pretty thin. He's no a bit partic'ler how he

gets them, mavrocks, strays and sich like, he puts his brand on them

all. Sich a lot of scrubs you never saw afore. Puir things, wi' a

hummocky, stony range they get hardly anythin' to eat.

"I've ridden over the range, an' I reckon I know what it's like. His

herd is just like Slim Jim's, where the cattle feed on furze and

rushes, thinkin' they're fine grass and vetches, but ye can tell when

ye see their ribs they're no well herded. I reckon the cowboys are

asleep, an' the puir things maun rustle fur themselves. Ah, ma lads,

ye're among the strays the devil has stolen, an' he's put his brand on

ye. Ye canna see his mark, fur he's put it pretty well on yer flanks.

He's a cunnin' cattle-boss. He's afeard the owner might claim ye, for

would ye believe it, ye belong to the herd of Christ, an' ye've

strayed, and some of ye were mavrocks. It's easy to get lost on the

prairie when ye take the wrong trail, an' some of ye hae jist shut yer

eyes an' followed the ithers ahead o' ye. I reckon the Christ cowboys

and the devil's cowboys hae pretty hard times when they meet on the

prairie. It's none o' yer wee fights, but a strong tussle. They're

just like the big cattle-bosses I wus a readin' about that got into

trouble about their ranges. There wus Old Abe and Parson Lot. Wall,

they had big herds, an' they got cropped bare, an' one day Abe, the

cattle-boss, looked out o' his ranch and he sees Parson Lot, the other

big cattle-boss, a comin' wi' his cowboys an' cattle, an' they was a

singin'

'We're comin', Father Abraham,

Wi' three hundred thousand more.'

"Old Abe wasna pleased at Lot's puttin' on airs like that, and he says,

'Come in!' They sat down in the cattle-boss's shanty, and he says,

'See here, this is not going to do. If the cowboys get a fightin' the

Injuns an' half-breeds will come an' drive us out, so ye see it wull

pay us to be friends.' Lot turns to him and says, 'That's what's the

matter.'

"Wall, the two bosses rode over the country prospectin', an' Abe says,

'It's a big country; make your choice, Lot, fur I respec' ye, ye're an

honest chap.'

"Wall, Lot went to the prairies o' the Jordan, an' Abram went to the

range o' Canaan. That ended their wee bit spat. An' that's the way to

settle squabbles on the ranches. Jist separate them, an' that will

save powder, an' none o' the cowboys will get scalped. If ye're no

contented to herd for Lot, I guess Abram would give ye a job, an' he

pays well, an' the grub is good.

"I tell ye, the devil's a good roper, an' his boys are up to all kinds

o' pranks. Get on his range an' he'll hae ye coralled an' his mark on

ye afore ye know it. Christ is a fine boss, an' don't you forget it.

His cattle are all slick an' fat, an' his cowboys allus engage again

after their time's out. Stick to him, my lads. He disna say much, but

ye get the best o' everything!"

Jake fell upon his knees and prayed briefly:

"Blessed Maister, we love you, an' we're not ashamed to tell everybody.

We oughter be ashamed if we didna tell. Some of us are not on the

right trail. We've lost it, and we canna find it. The snow must o'

covered it, or else our eyesight is gettin' bad an' we canna see.

Corral us, O Lord, afore we get lost in the storm. Brand us wi' yer

ain mark, that ye'll ken yer ain. Keep us on yer ain range, an' if

ever we stampede, throw yer rope an' lead us to yer ranch. Save us

frae wand'rin' in the mountains or strayin' in the coulees when there's

fine feed on the prairie. Help us to feed on grace an' truth, an' may

we be prepared to walk in the trails o' heaven; no runnin' an' tossin'

up the horns, but walkin' an' lyin' down, sae peaceful like. When

we're faint in the winter, an' there's no room fur us in the herd, or

in the stables at the ranch, take us quietly some night, when there's

nobody lookin', an' when we get hame we'll thank ye oursels fur all yer

kindness an' love. Amen!"

Before sunrise the camp was astir, and Jake, bidding his friends

good-bye, continued his journey after partaking of a hasty meal.

Few were the houses on the prairie, and frequently did this "sky

pilot," as he was sometimes called, travel from forty to fifty miles to

visit some aged miner or sick cowboy.

"An' yer lyin' there yet, Jim," said Jake, as he entered the shack of

an old-timer who had been sick for a few weeks.

"Ay, Jake, it's hard lines, but I might be worse."

"That's true. Ye never looked on it that way afore, an' I'm glad to

hear ye talk in that way."

Jake threw off his coat and stepped outside without saying a word, and

in a few moments the vigorous play of an axe was heard. It was Jake

putting in a preface to his sermon. Oftentimes he would say, "Ye maun

heed the Book, fur it tells ye afore ye eat ye maun work, an' a clean

religion is to creep down quietly afore anyone sees ye to the widow's

house, an' split wood an' carry water. Ye min' that publican? I

reckon he must hae been a cowboy when he was young. Afore he prayed he

struck his breast pretty hard, an' then he prayed; but that Pharisee

was too lazy an' proud, fur he prayed first. Now, ye maun work afore

ye preach or pray or eat. Ye see it means if ye dinna work ye'll get

so fat ye'll no be healthy, an' if ye don't take exercise prayin' a

bit, readin' the Book awhile, choppin' wood fur the widows an' sheerin'

sheep fur the orphans, ye'll be lazy an' unco clumsy. An' if ye get

fat the devil will soon get ye, fur he's allus on the lookout fur fat

cattle.

"The Maister didna think much o' them publicans, but I reckon He had a

kind o hankerin' after that un that cried, 'God be merciful!'

"Publicans! I should think yer Master wouldn't travel on the same

trail with them, fur they're the fellows as sells ye bad whiskey fur a

big price, an' when yer dimes are gone, turn ye out on the prairie,"

said Jim.

"Ye're on the wrong trail, Jim; them publicans were Nor'-West lawyers,

who charge ye thirty per cent. fur lendin' money, an' when ye borrow a

hunner dollars gie ye sixty-four. I know them, fur I've been there.

Some o' them fellers will hae to strike their breasts pretty hard afore

the Maister 'll hear the crack."

Jake had a roaring fire on, and was soon busy making pancakes, buns and

tea, and frying some bacon.

Jim was badly crippled with rheumatism, and seldom saw anyone except a

cowboy or an Indian. He did not, however, feel lonely, as he had been

accustomed to this mode of living for many years. The present year had

been one of the hardest for him, he had suffered so much with

rheumatism. Jim had been well brought up, his connections being

numbered amongst some of the first families of Philadelphia. When

quite a young man he had drifted westward, attracted by the report of

the fortunes made at the mines. His life had been one of expectancy,

always hoping for the fortune which seemed to others a long way off.

He was not daunted in his pursuit of wealth. Several times he had made

large sums and then squandered them freely, hoping to replace them by

greater; but that happy day never came to him, and now he was almost a

helpless cripple, crawling around his shanty, and glad to see the face

of a stranger. There was none more welcome than Broncho Jake. Jim had

known him before he became a "sky pilot," and so fully did he believe

him, that no one dared to say a word against him in his hearing.

"The slap-jacks are no the best, Jim, but I reckon they'll keep life in

for a while."

"They're fine, Jake, they're fine."

"The Maister," said Jake, "must ha been a good one, for He wus worse

off than our rabbits; He didna hae a hole to creep into out o' the

sight o' His enemies; an' min', He had a lot o' them, fur He was the

friend on the side o' the men who had their failings and had none to

sympathize with them. When a cowboy went off on the wrong trail an'

got lost,--wi' drink, I mean,--He wud come after him an' make signs

like the Indians, an' shout, 'Come back, ye're on the wrong trail!'

"He didn't trample ye down when ye fell, but waited till ye got yer

breath, an' then takin' yer arm, He wud say, 'My friend, get up; ye'll

soon be well. I'll gie ye a hand to put ye on yer horse, an' I'll help

ye to find the trail.' He was a bonnie man, an' don't you forget it;

none o' yer gentry, but a real man, wha, if He were here among us, win

I dress in 'chapps' an' sombrero, an' ride a fine horse. I reckon He

wud beat us a' at the ropin' an' ridin' an' sich like. I wud allus let

Him beat me if I thought I could do better than Him."

Jim was silent. He had finished his meal and drawn near to the stove.

He had seldom thought of such things until Jake began to visit him, and

then his mind was directed towards religion, but in the quaint way

which was characteristic of these men of the western plains. Jim sat

gazing intently into the fire, while Jake continued his talk as he

cleared the dishes from the small table and began to wash them. As he

scrubbed and cleaned he talked about the Master in such a familiar

strain that Jim felt as if he were some relation, that he also had some

claim upon His sympathies, and would work gladly for him. The dishes

were cleaned and the room swept, and then Jake joined him beside the

stove.

"Ay, Jim, many a time I hae crossed these prairies thinking I was

pretty smart, but I tell ye I found my match. I could ride faster and

better'n any of the boys, 'n, thinks I, there's none can beat me, I'm

boss o' the ranches. Wall, I wus a ridin' to the ranch one day, an' as

I wus a crossin' the Belly River I thought I heard a voice out o' the

bush calling my name. It wasna the same as the boys call me, but the

voice cried, 'Johnnie!' Wall, it wasna the name that struck me so much

as the voice. I says to mysel', 'I ken that voice.' When I got across

the river I went into the bush, and agen I heard my name called out, 'n

I says, 'Hullo!' but I heard nothin', till the third time I was a

listening an' then fainter so I could hardly catch it, it said,

'Johnnie!' I turned my horse's head to go to the mountains, but, wud

ye believe it, the beast wudna go. I got a kind o' skeered, 'n says I,

'There must be some ghosts here.' I dinna believe in such things, so I

drove the spurs into my horse, but he wudna go; so, jest to see the end

o' the thing, I let him take his own way, an' I gie him the lines an'

let him go. He turned right to the river an' crossed back an' off as

fast as he could go. 'The spirits hae got him sure,' says I. But as

he went on, I began to think, an', puttin' the voice an' the horse's

gait together, I says, 'I'll see the end o' this.'

My horse took me right to the Missouri River, an' without thinkin' what

I was doin', I put him in a herd an' stepped on a boat, an' off I went

down the Big Muddy. I couldna tell ye all my queer journey, for I

wasna mysel'. Wall, I landed at last in a wee bit of a town, an' as I

wus goin' up the street, I thinks to myself, I hae seen some o' these

things afore. I stopped at a door to pick up a wee thing that was

cryin', an' when I was talkin' to it, an old man comes to me, an'

holdin' out his hand, he says, 'I'm glad ye're come. She's been a

lookin' fur ye, an' she'll be right glad to see ye, fur she canna last

long.' I looked at him an' shook my head. 'Come in, John Fraser,'

says he, and I looked. I didna ken what to say. That was the first

time fur many long years that I'd heard my name. I had almost

forgotten it mysel'. I went into the house. It was none o' yer

shanties, but a fine big house; an', as I went in, the old man took me

to the bed, an' he says, 'He's come! Didna I tell ye that yer dreams

an' prayers would all come true?'

"'Johnnie! Johnnie!'"

Broncho Jake stopped. The tears were coursing down his cheeks, and his

lips were quivering with intense emotion.

"It was my mither, Jim. I hadna ben back since I ran away when I wus a

wee fellow, an' I had forgotten all about them, an' I didna ken which

way to find them, an' here I was at last! That voice at the river

brought me to her bedside. She took my hands in hers an' says,

"'Johnnie, He'll be a true friend to ye.'

"'He's too old, mither, to be any use to me. He wouldna make a cowboy;

he's too old.'

"'Oh, Johnnie,' says she, 'dinna talk in that way. I hae trusted in

Him since I wus a wee lassie, and He'll no leave me noo when I'm

crossin' the Jordan.'

"'Mither, I'll tak ye across the Jordan if it's no too deep. Mony a

time I hae crossed the Kootenay an' the Saskatchewan, an' if the

Jordan's no wider an' deeper an' them I can tak ye across. He's too

old to tak ye o'er the water.'

"'Johnnie, Johnnie! my laddie! hae ye forgotten all I taught ye at my

knee?' says my mither to me.

"Wall, Jim, she talked to me till I couldna see, fur my eyes were fu'

of tears. The dear old body took me by the hand as she prayed for me

wi' her dying breath, and afore she went away she says, 'Ye'll serve

him, Johnnie?' an' I put my hand in hers, and I couldna say anything,

but jest kissed her old cheek afore she died. 'Meet me yonder,

Johnnie,' she said, and then she closed her eyes.

"I got a fine stone an' put it at her grave, an' I got the fellow who

made it to cut out on it a saddle and a pair o' spurs, and above them

the words, 'Meet Me Yonder.'

"Late one night I went to her grave an' got down beside it, an' wud ye

believe it, I prayed and I says, 'Maister, Maister, I'll serve ye! I'm

no happy here, an' I'll gang back to the ranch and serve ye.'

"I went again next morning to take a last look at the grave, and then I

said: 'I'm off to the mountains to serve Him."

Jim was deeply interested. Jake had never opened his mind so freely to

anyone. When he had finished there were tears in Jim's eyes.

"Jake, I had a mother, and she wus a good un. Her prayers were short,

but I tell ye they were to the point. She was what some o' the folks

called a Gospel liver, not a Gospel talker. When I wus a boy there wus

two kinds of religion--the livers and the talkers. The talkers had

bigger churches an' bigger crowds, an' the folks said they wus fine on

Sunday; but ye had to look out when you wus dealin' with them on

Monday. The livers were fine folks all the week, an' ye could trust

them."

"Just like our bronchos," said Jake. "Christians are like bronchos,

Jim. If they're well broken in when they're young they'll be steady,

an' if ye break them to ride or drive it's all the same to them, if ye

train them right. Now, there are some Christians that have never been

broken in right. Sometimes they'll balk, an' it's no their fault, they

were trained wrong. An' there are some kickers. Wall, the fellows

that broke them in are to blame, not the kickin' Christians; they were

na broken in right. There are some Christians that shy at a prayer

because some fellow didna pray like them, or they shy at some Christian

in their churches just like a horse at a piece of paper or an engine on

a railroad. Then there are some Christians like our bucking horses,

they won't work. Ye can't put a saddle or harness on 'em, an' they're

fat, sleek an' strong. They all want to be bosses an' feed on the best

without doing any work. Wall, they're not to blame. It's the fellows

wha breaks 'em in that causes all the trouble. Gie me a steady

Christian, a good stepper, sure-footed, well-built for saddle or to

draw, not a genteel, high-spirited nervous thing, but one full of life,

well broken in, willin' to work and wha kens his boss. I don't like

yer dreachy Christian, allus going into his neighbor's field or corral,

an' I don't want them that won't stay in their own band, but are allus

runnin' on their neighbors.

"I hae, like you, Jim, met some queer folks in my day, jest like the

horses I hae handled. Once I wus boss of a ranch, an' I had some fine

bands of horses, but there wus one band that beat me. I wus kept in

the saddle most o' the time lookin' after them. I had a fine black

horse called Scottie; he stood sixteen an' a half hands high, an' was

as sober as a judge, but would ye believe me, I couldna keep him at

hame. He would stray away every chance he got, an' I allus found him

in a band called the Methodist band. They got the name frae the way in

which they worked thegither. You never saw the like; wheniver they

were hitched up thegither they would pull for all they wus worth. They

would keep step and pull well. When they came to a hill they bent down

their heads, and afore ye could get yer breath they had the load on the

top o' the hill. Whenever they were put out on the range they wud run

and toss up their heads, an' kick an' whinny. They were all so full of

mischief, an' man, they seemed to like each ither that well you couldna

part them. Once in a while they would stampede, and then for several

days they wouldna look into each ither's faces, they seemed sae

ashamed. There wus nothing in it; it wus purely good spirits. They

wur sae full o' life they didna ken what to do. Wall, Scottie wud

stray into the Methodist band, an' I wusna pleased, fur I saw that the

boss o' the ranch wud like to get him, and whenever Scottie wus with

the band the cowboys drove the whole band onto the finest pasture on

the range. Fur a long time I couldna mak out what attractions wus

there, fur I wus sure Scottie wus a sensible animal. I found out the

secret from one o' the cowboys. This fellow wus a particular friend of

mine, so he told me. There wus a fine mare in the band that Scottie

had taken up wi', an' the two got to like each ither that much ye could

hardly separate them.

"'Buy her,' says my friend, 'she's a fine animal, then ye can keep

Scottie at hame.'

"Wall, it was hard work, as the Methodist boss didna like to part wi'

the mare, but I paid him a big price, an' so I wus able after that to

keep Scottie in his ain band."

Jim was deeply interested in Jake's style of preaching. He seemed to

understand him easily and it suited him well.

"Yer mother was a good un," said Jim. "If we wus only as good as our

mothers we'd be the pick o' the prairie."

The two men sat talking together over matters pertaining to their

welfare, temporal and eternal, and after Jake had attended to his horse

he knelt in prayer, pouring out his heart for Jim and himself. It was

a simple prayer, short and pointed:

"O Lord, ye ken Jim and me. We're no strays, fur we belong to yer

band, but we don't keep in the trails every day, an' we sometimes steal

pretty close to the devil's range. It's no because there's good feed,

but we get lazy, and afore we open our eyes to look up, we're right

close on his boundary. Lord, keep us frae wanderin' in that way. It's

no to our credit, fur ye're a kind Maister. O Lord, corral the cowboys

an' make them yer ain. Some belong to the devil, fur I've seen his

brand on them, an' some are mavrocks. They're kind, good-hearted lads,

an' if ye'll be on the look-out ye can catch them, an' when they ken

that ye're a good Maister, they'll stay on the range. Shelter the poor

cattle on the prairie th' night. Poor things, they'll be tired an'

hungry wi' the round-up. Be kind to them, an' no let any rain spoil

their rest, or wolves touch their calves, an' incline the hearts o' the

cowboys to be kind to them. Fur ye ken I love the cattle, an' I hope

some day to meet them in heaven. I want to do what's right, but, O

Lord, it would be a poor heaven to me if there wur no cattle there, an'

no cowboys, fur I hae loved them all my life. Watch over Jim an' me.

May we keep our spurs bright, our saddles in good shape, an' our horses

well fed, an' when we're done servin' ye on the prairies, take Jim an'

me to yer heavenly range. Amen."

The two men then lay down side by side. Their couch was of the rudest

and most primitive description and somewhat the worse from age and

wear, but its occupants were soon fast asleep.

Jake remained several days with his friend. Jim was ill and sadly

needed all his friend's willing care. He intended staying until Jim

was quite recovered and able to do for himself, but his plans were

upset by the arrival of a messenger from Sam Burgoyne's shanty

demanding his help there. Sam's babe was lying very nigh to death, and

having learned that Broncho Jake was at Jim's shack, Sam sent a young

Indian lad to fetch him.

Questioning the lad, Jake gathered that the child was very ill. He

saddled his horse and set out at once. He had only a few miles to

ride, but when he reached the shanty and looked at the child, he saw

that his knowledge was not sufficient to save it. It was beyond human

aid. Jake sat down, and by kind, sympathetic words and prayer did his

best to comfort the parents.

The mother was a Blood Indian woman and the father a white man. She

understood the English language, although she did not speak it well or

frequently. Her husband understanding the Indian tongue, she talked to

him in it while he conversed with her in English. In this way they

understood each other perfectly, though practising little in the use of

the tongue spoken by the other.

As Jake sat beside the bed of the dying child and offered his simple

prayers, asking that the blessing of the Father of men might rest on

the wee lamb, he thought what a pretty babe it was, and realized

something of the pride the mother felt in her darling, and his heart

went out in sorrow for them as they watched the ebb tide in the life of

the child they loved.

As her eyes closed, Jake fell upon his knees. He could say nothing to

the poor father and mother, his heart was too full; there were tears in

his eyes as, taking their hands in his, he offered up the following

short but touching prayer: "Lord, take the wee lamb to yer ain fold,

where she'll be safe frae the wolves an' the winter's snow. Come

yersel' an' comfort the hearts o' my comrades here who hae lost their

lambie. Feed them wi' yer ain hand. Corral them in dangerous times.

We are puir folk, but ye're our friend an' ye ken what we say. Dinna

furget us an' pass us by, but brand us well an' then ye'll know yer

ain. Amen."

As Jake rose from his knees he said gently, "The lambie's gone!" and

then with true refinement of feeling he turned aside that the bereaved

parents might give way to their grief unwatched.

The Indian mother wept bitterly when she saw that life had fled, but

after the first paroxysm of grief had spent itself, she set to work to

prepare her darling for its last resting-place.

Jake beckoned to the father and led the way out of the room. After a

few moments' consultation they went out on the prairie together to

choose a spot not far from the shanty for the grave.

Like the women of many of the Indian tribes, this poor mother had been

accustomed to see her dead placed upon a platform supported by poles

and raised upon the prairie some eight or ten feet from the ground: and

knowing how hard it is to give up old customs, Jake was anxious to make

the new mode of burial as attractive as possible to the feelings of the

mother. He chose a beautiful spot, and, being a strong man, soon had a

neat grave dug. He then returned to the shanty and found the woman had

wrapped her babe in a fine blanket, and with it for a covering was

going to have the child buried. Jake bade her wait a little while. In

a few hours he had made a handsome coffin and placed the babe in it.

The little funeral procession went to the grave, and after laying the

coffin in it, Jake said a few words of love and faith--words that were

listened to and understood by his hearers, who could live only up to

the light they had been given. They put a fence around the grave, and

Jake set up a board at the head of it, on which he wrote the name and

age of the child. The little one had not lived long, but she had not

lived in vain. As a beautiful flower of the prairie, she had come in

the spring-time and bloomed through the glad summer, filling the home

with sunshine and happiness until summer came again. Then the

playthings were laid aside and the stricken child lay down to rest.

Jake often visited the desolate home, and was able to lead the bereaved

parents to thoughts of the higher life, from the perishable things of

this earthly dwelling place to the eternal blessedness of the immortal

land.

* * * * *

"He's a rum one, and don't ye forget it."

"Wall, he's none o' yer dandy city preachers. A fellow can catch what

he says, an' ye bet he's no fool."

The speakers were in a group of cowboys and settlers, who had assembled

in one of the new towns of the country, attracted by the rumor of a

service to be held in the settlement. Many of them were strangers to

each other, while others were strangers to the place. The assembling

to attend a religious service where there were stores not only gave

them an opportunity to meet and know each other, but also of doing

business at the same time. Some of the men came to get their mail and

to buy provisions, and when they heard of the "Gospel cowboy" and his

eccentric ways, they were induced to remain.

Broncho Jake had not arrived, and while they waited remarks about him

and his deeds were bandied about from one to the other. They were

still speaking of him when a solitary cowboy rode quickly up to the

group and dismounted. He was a tall man and a good rider. Only a few

of the old-timers in the group recognized him or guessed that he was

the man they had waited to hear.

Jake, still sitting his horse, spoke a few words in the peculiar

phraseology of the West, and then prayed briefly. Drawing a small

Bible from the canteen on his saddle, he opened it and began his sermon:

"Boys, I allus carries my guide Book, an' it tells me the ranges an'

brands an' sich like. I'm goin' to read what Paul says about

backslidin' and backridin'. Paul wus a character. He had a mind o'

his ain, an' he wasna afeard to speak. Wall, he says in the first

Corinthens, in the tenth chapter and verse twelve, 'Let him that thinks

he stands take heed lest he fall.' An' that means, don't think because

ye're ridin' ye'll no get a tumble, fur the cowboy that rides wi' his

head too high will sometimes get thrown in a badger hole."

As he spoke, Jake turned upon his horse's back, his face toward the

tail of the animal, and spoke to him to start. Suddenly, when touched

by the spur, the horse bolted and Jake was thrown to the ground. As he

struck it, he jerked the lariat, which he still held in his hand, and

brought the horse to a stand. Turning to the audience, he said:

"If ye're guilty o' backridin' ye'll get left every time. Backridin'

is backslidin'. Seek the Lord, an' when ye're workin' on His range

never ride wi' yer back to yer horse's head. Fur let him that thinks

he's ridin' take heed or he'll fall."

Mounting his horse, with a farewell wave of the hand to his hearers,

Jake rode rapidly away over the prairie, leaving the listeners to his

brief but pointed sermon visibly impressed.

* * * * *

Winter had returned with its short days and long, cold nights. The

rivers were frozen, the buffalo were no longer seen, the antelope kept

well to the sheltering woods and mountains; the wolves alone roamed the

prairie in search of food, haunting the neighborhood of man. The snow

was deep, and many storms swept over the country, making the travelling

very difficult and often dangerous. The cowboys, devoted to their work

and the care of the herds, remained on the ranges. These sailors of

the prairies are daring fellows, and have large, true hearts. The

ranchers cheered each other by frequent visits--visits which extended

from a few days to two or three months.

At night they gathered around the large stove, which is always the

principal article of furniture in a rancher's shanty, and entertained

themselves and each other by telling tales of adventure and repeating

many an experience of their life on the prairie.

Young though some of them were, they had gone through many a scene of

temptation and trial, had been brought safely through many an hour of

difficulty and danger. These experiences had hardened their sinews and

muscles, developed the keen sense of sight and hearing, as well as the

readiness of resource and rapidity of action peculiar to the cowboy.

It was a life which made them true men, faithful to their work and

courageous of heart.

It was on a bitterly cold night--just how cold no one cared to say; the

experience of that winter was sufficient for any tenderfoot on the

prairie--that the cowboys at Oxley ranch were gathered around a roaring

fire recounting their individual exploits. The mail-wagon had been

detained somewhere by the deep snow; literature, always scanty, was

thus scantier than ever, and the boys had no other source of

entertainment.

"Five years ago I wus working on a ranch in the Bitter Root valley,

when I had a pretty close shave," said Tom Jones, an industrious,

strong-limbed, strong-minded young man, who was as true and daring as

he was strong. "Those wur the Indian times, and I wus green at the

business. I didn't know when to shoot an Indian and when to let him

alone. Wall, the boss was going away fur a month, an' he put me in

charge, an' I was getting good pay, so I says to myself, I'm going to

do my level best fur him, an' let him see that I can work better for

him behind his back than when he's here allus a watchin' us. I wus in

the saddle from mornin' to night, an' you bet I got pretty tired; but I

wus a bit afeard the Indians would play sharp on me when the boss wus

away. The cattle wur strayin' pretty hard, an' I got it into my head

that there wus some mischief goin' on, fur after I had got them all

bunched up an' on the range feedin' quiet an' contented, next day they

wud all be scattered, an' I had to go after them again.

"There wus five of us on the ranch, an' after talkin' the thing over we

made up our minds that we wud get all the cattle in again an' then we'd

keep a watch on them. We started out after layin' our plans, an' after

a lot o' hard work we got them on the range. We wur used up, but we

wur so angry at havin' to do so much that we determined to ketch the

fellow that gave us the trouble. One o' the boys took the first part

o' the night, an' at twelve o'clock it wus my turn to be on herd.

Wall, I wus tired an' not in the best trim fur doin' any fightin', if

there wus Indians about; but I wus in fur it, an' of course I couldn't

back out; besides, I wus takin' the place o' the boss, an' I had to see

that everythin' wus right. I had a good strong cup o' tea at the ranch

an' rode out to take my partner's place. When I got up to the spot

where we had agreed to watch, I saw him sittin' on horseback, never

movin'. I called out low so as no one else wud hear, but he didn't

answer. It was dark; I rode up near to him. My mare began to snort,

and then she gave a terrible spring an' bolted. I held on fur a minute

when, whiz! whiz! came two bullets after me. Had my partner turned

traitor, or did he think that I was an Indian? In another minute an

Indian came rushin' past me. He gave a wild warwhoop an' made a swoop

at me with his big knife, but in the darkness he missed me. I kept a

sharp lookout fur my partner, but I couldn't find him. I wus lookin'

round with my sharpshooter in my hand, when I saw a tall object comin'

toward me. I grasped my revolver firm an' kept my eye on the movin'

figure--"

Tom had reached this part of his story when the cowboys, who had been

listening intently, started and turned their heads. There was an

unusual noise outside. Still affected by the story and their minds

full of Indians and enemies, they drew their revolvers and made for the

door. After a momentary hesitation, the first one to reach it threw it

wide open. It was no enemy, although the noise made by the new-comers

was of so unusual a nature as to startle the cowboys almost as much as

if it had been the discharge of half a dozen revolvers. Upon an Indian

travaille, wrapped in a buffalo robe, lay a man apparently dead or

dying. The sound of the travaille, as it was dragged over the frozen

snow, and the loud voices and shouts of the two horsemen who

accompanied it, was very different from the merry laugh or song of the

cowboy and the swift rush of his horse's feet over the prairie to the

door of a ranch.

The three men had been out hunting cattle, and late that afternoon

while passing some Indian lodges at the edge of the wood, several ugly

curs rushed out and snapping at the heels of the horses had made them

rear and plunge. The horse which Sam Lynch had ridden was frightened

by the sudden onslaught of the dogs, had kicked and plunged, and,

rearing, had fallen over backwards with his rider under him.

Sam's companions thought at first that he was killed, and the Indians

had rushed out to see the victim of the calamity. They carried him

into one of the lodges and the medicine-men gave him some of their

remedies; but his comrades, fearing that he might have sustained some

internal injuries, thought it would be unwise to trust to the knowledge

of the Indian doctor. As soon as he recovered consciousness, they

secured the loan of a travaille and started, hoping to find better

medical aid and care for him at one of the ranches. They travelled

several weary miles and reached the Oxley ranch, as we have seen, after

dark.

The lads lifted the injured, apparently dying man, and carried him into

the shanty. They laid him on the best couch they possessed, thinking

only of making him as comfortable as their means and the accommodation

at their command would permit. Although the storm was still severe,

one of them set out in search of a doctor, riding fifty miles to reach

one and procure his services.

When Sam had been obliged to seek his straying cattle his wife was ill,

and his only child, a little girl five years of age, had succeeded in

finding an Indian woman to take care of them during his absence; but

the boys, knowing how dependent they were upon Sam, felt that every

effort must be made to restore him to the wife and child who needed his

care and protection. When the doctor had examined Sam's injuries he

shook his head, and told the men that though he would probably recover

he would be a cripple for life.

During the three or four weeks that Sam lay at the Oxley ranch he was

well cared for by the rough but kindly cowboys, and when he was able to

move they took him home. Sam was not able to ride, so a buckboard was

called into requisition for his conveyance. He was very grateful to

them for all their care, and when one of them put fifty dollars into

his hand, telling him they had made it up among themselves to help him

to keep hunger from his door until he was able to fight it himself, he

knew not how to express his thanks. Rough, kindly lads, they proffered

their gift in so unostentatious a manner that the value of it was

enhanced tenfold both in the heart of the recipient and in the sight of

the Giver of all good gifts.

Sam found his wife very low, but she seemed to be comfortable. When he

went round the house and into the out-buildings he was struck by the

neatness and evidence of care and comfort he found everywhere. There

were several cords of wood piled neatly in one place, and a quantity

split up and laid in the yard. The stables were clean, the small

storehouse had been repaired; there was an abundance of food provided,

and there were several hand-made articles of furniture in the house Sam

did not remember having seen before. Someone had certainly been taking

a deep and helpful interest in his affairs during his absence. Who it

was he could not tell. His wife was unable to answer any questions he

might ask; she seemed to be at the point of death, and he needed no

experienced eye to tell him that her hours were numbered. He was still

so weak from the effects of his accident that the little exertion

wearied him. Sitting down in a chair by the fire, unable to do

anything except to watch the dying woman, he let his thoughts dwell

upon his many troubles, while he wondered from whom the strange help

had come.

Presently his wife opened her eyes and beckoned him to her side.

"Sam," she said feebly, "you have been a good husband to me. When you

got hurt I thought I would die, and I was so anxious about you and

Minnie. My heart was hard against God and I could not weep. I could

not see why we should be compelled to suffer so much, but I can see it

all now, and as I lie here at night praying I can say, 'Thy will be

done!' I know it is hard to think what will become of you when I am

gone, Minnie so young and you so crippled, but God has been good to us.

You see how things have been provided for us while you were away, an'

I'm sure you will not suffer after I'm gone. Never look to yourself,

but trust in the wisdom of our Father in heaven," and she sank back on

the pillow exhausted with the long speech. Sam looked at her with

loving, sad eyes. He said nothing, but was thinking seriously of her

words, and wondering what the end would be.

The future was desolate to the poor man as he sat thinking, his face

buried in his hands, no sound in the room but the labored breathing of

the sick woman. The door opened and Sam raised his head. It was

Broncho Jake with his arms laden with parcels. He had been away to the

settlement, and was now returning with a supply of groceries for the

house. Putting them down on the table he held out his hand to Sam.

"Sam, my heart is sore fur ye," he said gently. "You an' me have been

friends fur many years, an' I hae come to help ye. When ye wus hurt I

wus a ridin' the range just doin' the work of a Gospel cowboy, an' one

o' the lads told me about yer wife. I wus readin' the Guide Book an' I

seed my brand, an' as I wus lookin' at it I could see the bulletin o'

the Cowboys' Association had on it the words, 'Pure religion an'

undefiled before God an' the Father is this, to visit the fatherless

and widows in their affliction, an' to keep himself unspotted from the

world.' Now that means when anybody is sick or poor there's no use

singin' an' prayin' if there's no wood in the house. It means that if

ye would serve the Maister ye're to chop wood fur the sick, mind the

house, make a chair, carry in water, and get them som'at to eat.

Singin' an' prayin' isna religion. The Maister healed the sick an'

helped the poor, an' did all His singin' an' prayin' after. If ye

havena anything to eat ye canna sing very well, an' if there's no wood

fur the stove an' it's a cold day, ye canna pray very hard. Afore I

start on a long trip I allus feed my horse well, an' that's how God

does. He fills ye wi' the good things so ye can sing an' pray."

The change in the surroundings on Sam's small ranch was thus due to

Jake's kindly, practical Christianity. He had obeyed the instructions

he had found in the bulletin of the Cowboys' Association, as he called

it, and came to the aid of the wife of his friend, her helpless

condition being sufficient reason to him for leaving the preaching for

the doing of God's Word. The journey was a long one, but Jake was

strong and happy. He sang as he rode over the prairie, his heart full

of gratitude to God for giving him the health and strength by which he

was able to come to the aid of the helpless. He was never so happy as

when chopping wood, preparing or earning food for those who were unable

to work for themselves. His place for the present time was in Sam's

shanty.

When work for the day or hour was done the two men sat by the stove and

talked, speaking in subdued tones that they might not disturb the sick

woman. She was very low, and they both felt the approach of the

death-angel could not long be delayed. Sam's little daughter clung to

her father's knee, her loving, questioning glances divided between his

sad face and the bed where her mother lay. The Indian woman passed to

and fro in her tender ministrations, proving herself a kind and capable

nurse. Jake prepared all the meals, and with kind words of

encouragement he persuaded Sam to eat, and by keeping up his slowly

returning strength be more hopeful for the future. He had brought

medicine and food for the invalid, too, and when she was awake and

could understand him, he talked to her of the better land where she

should ere long find rest and peace.

Two days passed in anxious watching before the end came. Late in the

evening while the Indian woman sat at the bedside, she noted a change

in the sick woman. She called the family together that they might say

the last words permitted them before her spirit departed on the long

journey to its eternal home. As they waited her lips moved, and Sam,

bending down, caught the words, "Meet me there"; then as he lifted the

child Minnie to kiss her mother, a smile of joy passed over her face,

and she closed her eyes as the spirit passed without a sigh to its rest.

Sam wept bitterly when all was over. She had been a good wife, and now

that she was dead he felt alone and desolate indeed.

Sunset on the Rocky Mountains is a grand sight. Its loveliness once

seen can never be forgotten. The lofty and varied mountains rear their

majestic heads high into heavens that seem aglow with fire; clouds

lined with silver and gold guard the topmost heights. The lines of

light and shade deepen the glory of the sky, until the beholder stands

entranced with the beauty of the scene. It was on such an evening,

when the radiance of the heavens seemed more beautiful than ever, that

the mourners laid their dead in her grave upon the prairie at the foot

of the mountains.

They placed the coffin on a travaille and drew it to the spot Jake and

Sam had chosen for the grave. Jake knelt upon the ground and offered

up one of his simple, manly prayers--a prayer for strength to be given

to the mourners and of trust in the Almighty. After they had covered

the grave they planted a few flowers in the upturned soil, and placed a

small upright board at the head of the grave, inscribing on it the name

and age of the deceased.

On the Saturday morning following Jake bade his friend good-bye. He

had to keep an engagement he had made to preach at Macleod, on Sunday.

Jake often claimed the prairie as his church, though he sometimes

called it his "range." His favorite pulpit was his horse, and he felt

more at home on the back of this faithful friend than he would have

done in a beautiful walnut pulpit such as the preachers have in the

city churches.

A large congregation had assembled in one of the billiard halls in

Macleod on that Sunday morning to hear the "Gospel cowboy" preach. The

majority of the men were drawn thither by the report of the strange

style of his preaching, but there were many who had been helped at

various times by Jake, and their gratitude and love constrained them to

meet and hear again the man who had done so much for them. They were

Jake's "boys," and he felt he had a claim upon them. The singing of

the congregation was hearty in spite of the fact that there were only

two or three women among them; but the old-timers and the cowboys could

sing, and at this meeting they sang out lustily and seemed to enjoy

themselves.

A simple prayer was uttered, and then after the singing of another hymn

Jake addressed his hearers. He would not call it a sermon, just a

talk; yet if a sermon means talking with effect upon religious themes,

Jake was an impressive preacher. He could describe in his western

phraseology religious life as it ought to be on the prairie. He did

not, however, always confine himself to the prairie, although he was so

enamored of it, and understood it so well, that he felt more at home,

and therefore talked more frequently on the subjects the cowboys could

handle, and that he could spiritualize for their benefit.

Christ was his "Maister" or "Boss," and to be a sinner was to be "lost

on the prairie in a blizzard." Sometimes he took a text, but he often

began with a story, and as the men listened more attentively he

spiritualized it and directed them through it to the Gospel of Christ.

Generally he had a definite aim in addressing the cowboys. He did not

preach merely to explain a text; he had always a target to hit, or, as

he expressed it, "I allus try to hit the mark when I point my talk at

the boys."

The men at Macleod listened attentively to Jake's discourse, seriously

impressed when he closed with the following earnest words:

"Boys, it's easy work to throw a steer, but ye canna tie him down

alone. Ye maun get the boys to help ye. That's what the heathen

parsons--missionaries, I think, they call them--are tryin' to do. They

canna throw down sin themselves, and they hae to call upon the

Christians to help them. They canna all run to their call, so they

jist send some dollars an' let other folks go in their place. That's

the way they throw down sin in Africa and China. I never wus there,

but I heard the parsons who wur there tell the stories, an' they ought

to know. Wall, boys, ye know Long Sam, wha got hurt in the winter.

Wall, his wife has just faded away like a snowdrift in a Chinook wind,

an' there's Sam an' the wee lass left. Sam's a cripple, an' now an'

again poverty comes in at the back door, an' Sam tries to throw him an'

tie him, but the rascal sits down in every room in the house, an' then

the poor fellow lies down exhausted, and he says, 'I'm beaten.' Wall,

boys, I want ye to lend us a hand in tethering the beast, an' if ye'll

throw yer lariat ye can capture the animal an' corral him, so that

he'll no' do any harm. So here's my hat, lads; pass it round an' drop

in yer dollars fur Sam an' his wee lass. Ye a' ken him, an' he's worth

more than ye a' kin gie him. The Maister will pay ye back wi' interest

when ye go to the bank on the day ye want to draw out yer savin's."

Jake's hat was passed around, and although no warning had been given,

and therefore no opportunity to prepare themselves for it, still they

carried about with them considerable sums of money, and when the hat

was emptied on the billiard table and counted, there were over one

hundred and twelve dollars.

Jake thanked the boys, offered a brief prayer, and retired to the house

of a friend to spend the evening. Early next morning he was seen

crossing the river, well laden with supplies, starting northward, and

singing a hymn as he rode.

Upon the evening of the second day Jake reached his destination with

the goods he had purchased as the result of his missionary sermon, and

there was peace and plenty in Sam's home for a long time.

That was an effective sermon, for Sam was never allowed to want after

that day. He was able to do a few chores, but not sufficient to make a

living. Minnie became the cowboys' favorite and Jake's _protégé_, and

she was well provided for with so many benefactors. The mavrocks were

given to her whenever any were found upon the round-up, and some of the

boys occasionally brought her a lamb, so that in a short time she had

quite a band of cattle and a goodly-sized flock of sheep.

* * * * *

One morning before sunrise, in the early autumn, a solitary traveller

was seen riding hurriedly toward the mountains, apparently on some

mission. He stopped to rest his horse and partake of some food, and

then he continued his journey. As he rode he sang occasionally a few

snatches of song. He was well laden, and seemed to be going a long

distance. He entered one of the mountain passes, and when he had

reached the top of a foot-hill from which he could command a wide view

of the country below, he alighted, and took a survey of the plains.

Having glanced around and feasted his soul upon the beauties of nature,

he took off his hat, knelt upon the ground and prayed. What a manly

countenance he wore, and how striking was the attitude of this noble

man! It was Jake, the Warden of the Plains.

At a gathering of cowboys where he had preached the day before, he bade

them good-bye, saying that he was going west, as many settlers were now

coming to the country, and they were getting parsons to take care of

them. He felt constrained to seek out the cowboys and old-timers

farther west, so he had decided to leave his old mission-field.

Several of his friends protested, but Jake was firm. Lest there might

be a demonstration in his favor he had left early in the morning.

The last we heard of Jake was that he was doing pioneer work among the

miners in the Kootenay country, and helping many toward a nobler life

and deeper devotion to the truth.

Upon the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains there are many hearts

that remember with joy the quaint sermons of the cowboy preacher, and

some are living better lives to-day in the shanties because they

cherish the teaching of the stalwart Warden of the Plains.

ASOKOA, THE CHIEF'S DAUGHTER.

Asokoa was the beautiful daughter of a chief of one of the tribes of

the Blackfoot Confederacy. She was admired not only for her personal

attractions, but quite as much for her gentle disposition and winning

ways.

The Fish Eater's band had gone south to hunt the buffalo, and were

encamped on the bank of the muddy Missouri. These warriors were famous

for their prowess, and though they were occasionally attacked by the

Crow Indians, and had some of their horses stolen, they were not afraid

of their enemies. They were well equipped with guns and cartridges,

and felt that they could easily defeat any foe of equal numbers who

molested them.

It was during this hunting expedition that in a beautifully painted

buffalo-skin lodge an Indian babe was born. The women flocked to the

old chief's lodge when the medicine-woman announced that it had a new

occupant, but when they were told the baby was a girl they grieved.

The sad conditions of their own lives made them feel keenly for the

child who, if her life were spared, must bear the same burdens and

endure the same weary, monotonous existence of toil and misery as they.

The beauty of the babe as it grew, however, pleased them so much that

they forgot the sorrow of the future in the joy of the present. She

was fairer than the other babes in the camp, and this sent a thrill to

the hearts of the women. They loved the maidens who were fair, or

hated them when they grew jealous of their charms. The babe thrived

and grew lovelier day by day, its jet-black hair and eyes enhancing the

beauty and fairness of the face.

It was evening when the chief returned from his hunting expedition.

The mother had prepared the choice pieces of buffalo meat for his meal,

and waited anxiously for the moment when he should ask for the child;

but he entered silently and without any greeting, as was the Indian

custom. He was esteemed a great chief and had to maintain his dignity,

therefore could not condescend to notice his wife and children even

after a long absence.

Taking his accustomed seat opposite the lodge door, the food was placed

before him on the ground, and, as he lay half reclining he partook of

it heartily, but without betraying hunger or haste. After supper the

old men of the camp dropped in one by one to learn the success of his

expedition, and to talk over matters that were interesting to them all.

The little swinging hammock made of an old blanket thrown over two

ropes that were fastened to the lodge poles--the ends of the blanket so

placed inside that the weight of its occupant might hold it

down--contained the tiny stranger.

The babe was hidden snugly within a moss-bag. This moss-bag was richly

ornamented, and embroidered with beads and colored porcupine quills.

It was closed at the bottom, tapering to a point, and laced up after

the babe was placed in the soft moss with which it was lined. The bag

fitted closely about the head and neck, leaving only the face exposed.

When the mother is tired carrying her child she rests the moss-bag

upright against the wall, or hangs it up from the side of the lodge

with the babe in it. When she goes to visit friends at a distance she

rides on horseback in the same fashion as a man, and straps the

moss-bag with its occupant to the horn of the saddle or slings it over

her back. When she walks the invariable custom is to carry the babe on

her back, well up on the shoulders. Some of these mossbags are very

handsomely ornamented, the Indian mothers being as proud of them as the

fair daughters of the civilized race are of the tasteful, dainty

clothing of their children.

This particular moss-bag was very often filled with dry, soft moss,

that the child might be comfortable and happy in its dainty nest. On

the night of the chief's return it had been more than usually well

arranged and laid in the hammock.

The large pipe was prepared, the tobacco and kinni-kinnick brought out,

and after the chief had finished his meal the pipe was filled, lighted

and passed around from left to right. Each member of the company took

a few strong whiffs, some of the old men swallowing the last one and

expelling the smoke through their nostrils. The evening was passed in

animated conversation, the chief leading and the others listening

patiently, adding to the general interest by uttering a few words of

approval. When the conversation ended the guests retired quietly, and

the old chief, after taking a peep at the sleeping babe, turned on his

side and sought repose; but as he lay on his hard couch a smile of

satisfaction played on his features--the stern countenance of the

warrior had relaxed under the influence of an awakened love for the

little child.

The old man's heart had been steeled against sympathy and love; he had

lived for so many years in the midst of war and crime, and had

witnessed such acts of cruelty committed against his kindred by war

parties from other tribes, or marauding bands of white men, that his

heart was hardened. He seldom smiled; the joyous spirit of his youth

had departed, and left him old and sad.

When quite a youth he had resolved to devote his life to the service of

the gods, and for a long time he enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing he

was doing right. Then came a time of famine and sickness in the tribe,

during which the people died in great numbers and food was very scarce.

The people prayed, but no answer came to their prayers; then they

plunged into all sorts of wickedness, heedless of the evil that was

sure to follow.

After he was elected a chief he had been subjected to many jealousies

by those who had professed to be his dearest friends. He felt that

hypocrisy was rampant and friendship hollow. The gods were angry with

him, and they had leagued his friends and enemies in common warfare

against him. Naturally slow of speech, he grew still more reserved and

taciturn. He was, however, energetic in the discharge of the duties of

his office as chief, and thus maintained his influence over the people.

The quiet smile which now lingered on his features as he retired to

rest after he had looked upon the face of the child, betrayed that

there were depths of affection in his nature still untouched despite

the many years of pain, warfare and jealousy.

Nothing eventful occurred during the night. The morning sun rose

bright and glorious; an hour later the camp was all astir, busy with

the duties and occupations of the day. Amid the bustle around him the

chief lay still, taking needed rest after the toil of the expedition.

When he awoke late, his meal of buffalo meat and tea was set before

him. After he had eaten heartily, the visitors of the night before

returned to talk on matters affecting the camps and to relate the

various events that had occurred during his absence.

Time wore on; day after day was passed in the same dull routine. Now

and then the monotony was enlivened by the report of strange Indians

being in the vicinity and by the return of the young men from hunting

or horse-stealing expeditions. The babe in the old chief's lodge grew

and increased in beauty every day. They named her Asokoa, and the

toddling prattler answered readily when they spoke her name.

Asokoa's dress was a beautiful garment of soft antelope skin, made

after the fashion of a cape reaching nearly to her feet, fringed at the

edges and studded with several rows of bear's teeth and claws, so

sacred in the eyes of the Indians. Her moccasins were soft and

pliable, beautifully embroidered with dyed porcupine quills. A pair of

heavy shells hung from her ears, around her neck a string of bear's

claws, upon her wrists a number of bracelets made of rings of brass,

and smaller rings of the same bright metal covered her fingers between

the first and second joints. Her cheeks and the parting of her hair

were painted with vermilion, and the long black tresses of the child

were neatly combed and hung down her back.

Twelve years passed quickly amid the merry laughter and free out-door

life and sports of the camp, and the love and peace which dwelt in the

lodge of the old chief. Asokoa was still the pet of the lodge and the

pride of the old man's heart, but because of her sex she occupied an

inferior position and had to submit to the customs of the people.

Woman had not always been degraded, for in the early years of the

history of the Indians she had held equal rights with the men, those of

each sex performing their own duties and being honored by the other for

the possession of sterling qualities essentially their own. But the

circumstances of the Indians had changed, and with the change came a

gradual revolution of the old customs.

One day there came to the lodge of Asokoa's father an old man named

Running Deer, who was held in great esteem by the people as a warrior.

He would sit for hours smoking and recounting his many adventures, his

hairbreadth escapes from war parties of the Crows, Sioux and Gros

Ventres, the numerous scalp-locks he had taken and the horses he had

stolen. Although he repeated his stories frequently, the same respect

was shown and the same applause accorded as had greeted the first

recital.

Asokoa listened with the same attention as the others, and while she

admired the old man's courage and enthusiasm, thought no more of him

than any child of fourteen would of a man of sixty years of age. The

chief and Running Deer had several private conversations, which

invariably ended in some close bargain relative to camp affairs.

Two or three weeks passed and one day a young man rode up to the lodge

door and called out the chief's name. The latter rose and went out,

and after carefully examining the four young horses the young man had

brought, and being quite satisfied of their soundness, he bade him

drive them into his band.

The chief then returned to the lodge and the meal Asokoa had prepared

for him. He was restless and evidently troubled in mind. Occasionally

he would cast furtive glances about him, and seemed to be listening for

the approach of someone. His wives and children noted this uneasiness,

and remembered he had acted in the same manner when he had feared the

approach of a large war party of Assiniboines. They feared another

attack was threatened, but dare not ask any questions.

Presently the sound of horses approaching the lodge was heard, and

again the chief was called upon by name. He went out, but returned

immediately and told Asokoa there was a beautiful horse and saddle

waiting for her at the door. It was the gift of Running Deer, and he

had come to take her to his lodge, for she was now his wife and must

dwell with him for the future.

Asokoa turned pale, and startled by the suddenness of the announcement,

buried her face in her hands and wept. Then trembling from head to

foot with grief and anger, she gathered her clothes and ornaments

together and tore herself away from the home of her childhood where so

many happy days had been spent. She had admired Running Deer when he

visited her father's lodge, listened with interest to his adventures,

but how could she love him? She was still a child, only fourteen, and

she had been given in marriage without her knowledge to a man of sixty.

For the consideration of four horses she had been sold into slavery,

doomed to live secluded, to wait on the capricious humors of an old

man, to be one of the favored in his Indian harem.

It was the custom, and so it would be useless for her to speak a word

of protest. Mounting the horse she rode away quietly in the company of

her husband. After a ride of about three miles they reached the camp

and the lodge which was to be her home. The women came out to meet

her, and a few of her friends gathered around, but in silence she

unsaddled the horse, put a pair of hobbles on his fore-feet, carried

the saddle into the lodge, and took the place assigned to her beside

its master.

The lodge was a handsome one, capacious, and strongly built of buffalo

hides. It was ornamented on the outside with pictures painted in many

colors. Several scalp-locks which Running Deer had taken from the

heads of the enemies he had slain in battle, hung down the side. Three

other wives dwelt in the lodge, and Asokoa would be obliged to submit

to the rule of the one who was the queen.

A sumptuous feast was placed before her, but she could eat little, her

heart was too full. The girl felt that she had been wronged, yet that

there was no way of escaping her fate; custom was too strong to be

altered for her.

The previous wives of Running Deer were jealous of Asokoa and looked

upon her as an intruder, but they said nothing, showing their dislike

only by the sullen glances they cast at her as she flung herself down

on the couch of furs, and took the place reserved for her.

For several months Asokoa's lot was not altogether an unhappy one,

presenting, as it did, a pleasant contrast to the lives of many of the

other women in the camp. This was chiefly due to her own liveliness of

disposition, which enabled her to retain her self-respect by attending

carefully to her dress and keeping herself clean and neat. The women

in the camps after marriage generally become careless and untidy, and

in some instances filthy: but Asokoa had too much self-esteem to so

forget herself, and this pride stood her in good stead, helping her to

retain her dignity as a chief's daughter and meet successfully all the

cavils of the jealous ones in the camp. Quarrels were frequent among

the women, but as Asokoa took no part in these family brawls, she was

saved much sorrow and daily annoyances.

Running Deer was held in high respect by the young men of the tribe,

many of whom paid long visits to the camp to listen to the wondrous

tales he had to tell, and learn from him the ways of successful

warfare. Among the visitors who always received a cordial welcome was

Saotan, the gifted son of Eagle Rib, one of the most famous chiefs of

the tribe.

Saotan only desired to follow in his father's footsteps, and was glad

to seize every opportunity to obtain a knowledge of the military and

political affairs of his people. He was amiable and unassuming, tall

and dignified, and had already won the esteem of the older men. As he

grew older his prospects of promotion brightened. He had kept himself

free from the escapades of the younger men about him, some of whom

hated him for his reticence and apparent haughtiness of manner. He

paid little attention, however, to their sarcastic remarks, but

followed unmoved the path he had marked out for himself. As he

listened to the animated narrations of Running Deer he imbibed his

spirit of enthusiasm, and felt inspired to do and dare noble things for

his race.

During the long winter months, as the camp was moved from place to

place, Saotan spent much of his time with the old man, and Running Deer

became strongly attached to him. Asokoa was always with her husband,

and his tales assumed a new interest to her in the presence of Saotan;

and though she could not in words invite the young man to the lodge,

she encouraged him to come by greeting him always with a pleasant

smile. His visits relieved the tedium of her life and distracted her

from the annoyance caused by the constant quarrelling between the other

women.

The first months of her married life had passed, and Running Deer's

affection for his young bride had cooled. The degradation of her life

made her heart heavy, and robbed her cheek of the bloom of health.

Asokoa seldom paid a visit to her father's lodge, as it was now some

distance from Running Deer's camp. Indian women are not allowed to

travel alone or unaccompanied by their husbands. All unconscious that

she was doing more than pleasing her husband she grew to look forward

to Saotan's visits with increasing interest, and as he saw his presence

was welcome he came more frequently. Life seemed to recover its

brightness again, the charm of youth returned, and Asokoa felt for the

first time the power of love.

Saotan was soon drawn within the same influence, and the distance

between his father's lodge and Running Deer's seemed short indeed.

Saotan was in love, but dare not reveal it. The woods and valleys

might be full of enchantment, his dreams be of happiness and joy, his

waking hours full of light and life, yet they were also haunted by

anxious fears for the future. He left his food untasted, ceased to

visit the lodges of his young friends, and tried to restrain his steps

from turning toward Running Deer's lodge, but all in vain.

Important business affecting the tribe called her husband to attend

frequent gatherings of the chiefs in council, and Asokoa was left at

the lodge. The horses had to be looked after in his absence, and he

entrusted the duty to Saotan. Thus Asokoa and Saotan met more

frequently; from looks to words the transition was slight, and the

story of their love was told. Cruel custom forbade their making any

confession to the old man or seeking freedom from polygamous

relationship, and they trembled for the result of the discovery of

their passion.

A more than usually long and important meeting of the council, at which

a discussion on the question of war with the Gros Ventres had been

prolonged to a late hour, had detained Running Deer so late that he

accepted an invitation to remain the night at a friend's lodge. Early

the next morning he returned to his home rejoicing in the consciousness

of power. His voice had been heard and his arguments had prevailed at

the council, winning him a signal victory over the chiefs who had

opposed him.

As he entered the lodge an expression of evil satisfaction beamed from

the faces of his older wives. At first he took no notice, then

suddenly his heart was filled with foreboding. He looked and saw that

the place usually occupied by Asokoa was vacant. Inquiring the reason

of her absence, he learned that on the previous evening she had gone to

visit a woman in one of the adjoining lodges and had not returned.

Running Deer turned and went out, quiet, dignified and sullen,

determined to punish the delinquent for her unfaithfulness. Mounting

his horse, which stood where he had left it a few moments before, he

rode swiftly to the coulee where his band of horses were feeding, and

found his wife's among them. Asokoa must be ill or something serious

must have befallen her; her horse was still among the band, and she

could not have left the camps. He went hurriedly from lodge to lodge

making anxious inquiries, but could find no tidings of his missing

wife. Then widening his circle of search, he went from camp to camp,

yet found no trace of her until he reached the lodges of Eagle Rib.

Two horses had been taken from the chief's band, and Saotan had not

been seen since the previous day. Burning with indignation, his former

love changed to bitter hatred, and vowing vengeance on the young man

who had supplanted him in the affections of Asokoa, he strode to the

chief and demanded his daughter, but Eagle Rib could give him no

information of the whereabouts of the fugitive couple.

Several months had passed, and Running Deer's anger had cooled. He had

given up all search for the lost ones; he hated the names they bore,

and would not permit them to be mentioned in his presence. He had

apparently forgotten them when a messenger arrived to announce their

discovery among the Piegan tribe, one of the same confederacy as the

Bloods and Blackfeet.

Weary of exile and anxious to dwell once more among their own people in

their old home, Saotan and Asokoa had returned, preferring to risk the

punishment which might be inflicted for their wrong-doing. They sought

refuge in the lodge of Eagle Rib, where they hoped to be protected by

the influence of the chief. But law and custom is stronger than the

individual, and the demands of justice are more powerful among the

savage tribes than in any other organization or race of men. The chief

might retard the operations of the Indian laws, but he could not

overcome them.

Night had fallen upon the camp and the dwellers in the lodges were

retired to rest, when three men entered and seized Asokoa. A band of

men waited on horseback outside. These were the Black Soldiers, the

policemen of the camp, enrolled to maintain order and execute justice.

They had entered the camp so quietly that no one had heard their

approach.

Asokoa uttered no complaint or cry as they dragged her out, although in

times of pain or trouble the Indian women are generally loud in their

lamentations. Deceived by her quiet acquiescence, the men mounted her

on one of the horses and allowed her to ride behind them on the way to

the place of judgment. The night was dark, and as they passed a clump

of bushes Asokoa slid off the horse, and, crouching down in the shadows

till her guards were at some distance, fled back again to her

father-in-law's lodge. The Black Soldiers rode on, unsuspecting any

misfortune, and had almost reached their destination before they

discovered that the Indian beauty had eluded them. They returned at

once to recapture her, but as they once more entered the lodge and

demanded her of the chief, she stooped down and made her escape by

crawling under the leather flap of the lodge, which Eagle Rib had taken

the precaution to leave unfastened. Then she sped away in the darkness

until she was joined by Saotan, who mounted her on his horse, and

together they crossed the river, and by hard riding reached the shelter

of the home of a white friend before the early dawn broke.

Negotiations were entered into between Eagle Rib and Running Deer for

an amicable settlement of the matter. The angry husband had felt so

embittered against the woman who had never loved him that he had

himself sharpened the knife, determined to inflict the usual punishment

for unfaithfulness, that of cutting off the nose. Many instances of

such mutilation are in existence in the Indian camps.

The two old men talked the matter over fully, and at last a settlement

was agreed upon. Running Deer accepted five horses and a gun as

compensation, and Saotan and Asokoa were free to return once more and

live in peace among their own people. The days which followed the

return of the lovers were very happy ones. Love dwelt in the lodge

that was made beautiful by Asokoa; she lived for Saotan and adorned his

home with every ornament and device that love could suggest. On his

part, Saotan loved her so supremely that he never brought another woman

to his lodge to share his love or supplant her in his loving attentions.

A dark-eyed babe came to gladden their hearts, a beautiful boy who

Asokoa said should grow up and be like his father. They rejoiced

together in the possession of this treasure, and when a few months

later the destroying angel came and snatched their darling from their

arms they mourned together over their darkened home.

Saotan and Asokoa had dwelt in perfect happiness for three years when a

war expedition was organized to go southward and retaliate upon their

enemies for the depredations the tribe had suffered at their hands.

Two of these young men had been killed, and the desire was to kill

their enemies, that the young men's spirits might rest in the happy

spirit land.

The war party had chosen Saotan as their leader, and he was obliged to

bid Asokoa a reluctant farewell. The affectionate wife gazed long and

sadly after his retreating form as he rode away over the plains. They

were not going to wage open warfare, but secretly to return with scalps

as compensation for the loss of some of their own young men, and

Asokoa's heart was heavy with foreboding of evil.

At the expiration of two weeks the Indians in the camps looked for the

return of Saotan and his party. Four weeks had gone and there were no

tidings. Two young men were sent out to trace them and learn the cause

of delay. Meanwhile the sole topic of conversation in the lodges was

the long absence of Saotan. Various rumors were circulated, but the

truth concerning their fate could not be learned. Small parties of

Piegans, Blackfeet and Sarcees called at the camps, but none brought

any tidings of the missing men.

After many days of anxious waiting, the search party returned. Long

before they reached the camp the people descried them on the distant

hills, riding slowly, and their horses appearing to be tired out. The

people ran to meet them, the women anxious to hear what news they

brought. They listened for the songs of exultation, but alas! heard

only that wail of sorrow which strikes terror to the Indian woman's

heart.

The chiefs gathered in one of the lodges to listen to the story of the

young men. They had ridden five nights on their journey, searching

carefully for any trace of Saotan and his men. Not an Indian was to be

seen anywhere; the country appeared to be deserted, and they thought it

would be wise to return. A short consultation was held, and as they

walked their horses slowly they came to the bank of a small stream

where they noticed a branch was broken from a tree overhanging the

water. Searching more closely, they found marks of horses' feet, and

following the tracks, they came upon a spot where it was evident a

battle had been fought, for near at hand lay the skeletons of Saotan

and his men. The Indians who had slain them had taken their

scalp-locks, their arms and ornaments, and the buzzard, coyote and wolf

had stripped the bones; but there were enough fragments of clothing

scattered about to enable the young men to recognize that the remains

were those of Saotan and the party who had gone out so full of hope and

confidence so short a time before.

As the young men related their sorrowful tale, the chiefs' countenances

betokened the direst anger, and while they muttered and plotted

revenge, the women slipped away to carry the story of widowhood, pain

and degradation to Asokoa. Overwhelmed with grief for her loss, the

poor woman thought only that Saotan could never return to her again,

and did not realize that the medicine-women were already on their way

to perform the ceremonies of mourning for the dead.

These women laid their hands upon her, and in a few moments the long

black hair that had been her glory fell in masses to the ground. Her

neatly embroidered garments were then removed and the oldest and most

worn substituted; then, laying the bereaved woman's hand on a block of

wood, one of the medicine-women took a knife, and using a deer's-horn

scraper as a hammer, severed one of the fingers at the first joint.

Her legs were next denuded of the handsome leggings, and the flesh

gashed with a knife from the knees to the feet. The blood clotted as

it trickled down and was allowed to remain.

Asokoa submitted willingly to all these inflictions of pain and

mutilation; it was the custom, and she felt that she was only doing as

she should to prove the reality of her grief for the loss of her

husband by enduring it all without a murmur. A few of the old women

sat with her in the lodge as companions in her grief; then as the sun

sank in the western sky, Asokoa wandered out over the prairie, weeping

bitterly and uttering the wailing cry of bereavement, "Saotan, come

back to me! Saotan, come back to me!" But no voice replied, as the

wailing cadences floated on the evening air.

When the darkness fell, the mourner returned, the people evading

contact with her as she passed by the lodges. An hour or two of

sleeplessness spent in the lodge and the early dawn found her repeating

the same sad wail for the dead. The people mourned with her, but said

little; young and old hung their heads as she passed them. Some of the

women shed tears of sympathy and the men spoke often of the death of

Saotan the brave, and murmured vengeance on the enemy who had slain him.

The days of Asokoa's mourning were long, and at first there seemed

nothing left for her but death; but time, that healer of many wounds,

was here in the Indian camp as elsewhere. Asokoa was too handsome and

young, of too good birth and pleasant a disposition, to remain long

without a suitor. Sekimi, a dignified warrior, took her to his lodge

to be his wife, and for a long time was contented and happy with her

alone. He could not have had a better wife. Asokoa was devoted to her

home, and kept the lodge well and comfortable for husband.

Some months had passed when she noticed that Sekimi seemed to lose

interest in his home, to be dull and restless. Asokoa did not despair,

but sang her sweetest songs, cooked the daintiest morsels, prepared the

choicest meals, and endeavored by every means within her reach to wean

him from his melancholy and make him happy. Some burden rested heavily

on his heart and blinded him to all the winning ways of his faithful

and beautiful wife.

Sekimi rose early on one bright summer day, and after taking his

morning meal hastily went out. He turned his steps to where his band

of horses were feeding, and selecting three of the best, rode away.

Asokoa had a quiet day, no visitor coming to the lodge. When evening

closed in she heard the sound of horsemen riding toward the camp, and

as they drew near she heard the notes of a low, sweet song and readily

distinguished her husband's voice among the others. Sekimi was

returning happy; the burden laid upon his spirits was removed, and

Asokoa, fully content, hastened to prepare some special dainty for his

evening meal and be ready to welcome him.

In a short time the horses stopped at the lodge door, and the tones of

a woman chatting gaily made Asokoa's heart beat with apprehension.

Sekimi entered, and speaking haughtily, bade Asokoa set food before

them. Greater sorrow had never fallen upon Asokoa. Her love and pride

were hurt by the knowledge that she had been superseded by another;

love drew tears to her eyes, but pride forbade them to fall.

The days which followed the arrival of the new wife were a dull round

of drudgery and sorrow, but Asokoa went about her work in silence. She

was left much alone, and in time grew accustomed to her sad lot.

Always patient, she bore her trials with even greater patience and

submission than ever, but the handsome Indian woman was not so erect as

formerly and the glow of health had long fled from her cheeks. The old

women watched her sadly and tried to cheer her; the children clung to

her, and leaning against her knees as she sat beside the river,

listened to the tales she loved to tell them. As health failed, when

too weak to leave the lodge she would lie still for hours, suffering

but never complaining.

The long July and August days passed, and the cool air of autumn

brought some relief to the dying woman. The medicine-men beat their

drums and sang their songs for her with great energy, but Asokoa begged

them to cease; she wished only for quiet and peace.

The leaves were falling from the trees on the distant bluffs when the

end came. The old chief, the father who had looked with such love and

pride on the face of his child as it hung in the hammock, sat sorrowful

at the door of the lodge waiting for the approach of the death-angel.

As the sun sank behind the distant mountains, Asokoa raised her hand,

and pointing to some object which seemed to hold the fixed gaze of her

eyes, her lips moved. As if gathering her remaining strength for a

last effort, she cried, "Saotan!" and with the name of her best-loved

on her lips Asokoa's released spirit took its flight.

THE SKY PILOT.

Broadcloth and pemmican seldom met together in the far West during the

old buffalo days. Occasionally, though, a "sky pilot" dressed in

prairie garb found his way to the trading posts or the mining camps of

the old-timers, where he was hospitably entertained and sometimes

handsomely remunerated. There were few attractions for men of culture

and refinement in such a life; only that to be found in a free and easy

life on the western plains, strengthened by the desire to do good and

the assurance of success which always accompanies every earnest toiler

who obeys the behests of his Master.

Parson Morris was a Methodist preacher of the old school, with few

tastes, yet withal a man of culture and sterling worth. He had not

only seen the inside of a college, but he was a good classical scholar.

Few could handle the Greek Testament better than he, or were better

versed in the standards of Methodist theology. When a lad he had found

peace at the ancient "penitent bench," and the first prayer that fell

from his lips was the simple but very expressive sentence, "Lord, make

me a missionary!" This missionary zeal had been fed by reading the

life of John Hunt of Fiji and current missionary literature.

During his college course the keen eye of one of the church leaders

recognized the fitness of the young man for the mission field, and a

messenger was sent to request his consent to go into the work of

bringing the heathen to Christ. His heart had been set upon going to

Japan, but the voice of destiny sent him to the western plains of

Canada, where under the shadow of the majestic mountains he unfurled

the banner of the Prince of Peace.

Parson Morris must, like all wise men, take a partner with him to his

western home, one with whom to share his toil and his joy; for,

although there were many who sought to deter him from engaging in such

a fruitless task as striving to lead Indians or frontiersmen to the

feet of Christ, he anticipated success, and his heart was therefore

full of joy. It would have been needless for him to have gone forth

upon his mission if he had not been buoyant in spirit and deeply

impressed with the great work he had undertaken.

The friends of the young missionary and his wife felt their departure

keenly, and some kind-hearted souls deeply sympathized with them, and

spoke to them as if they had been banished by some edict of the

Almighty to dwell in lone banishment in some desert wilderness. The

young parson received a handsome gift from his ministerial friends, and

Nancy, the parson's bride, was made the recipient of several valuable

presents from her college friends.

While attending the session of Conference the Rev. John Boswell offered

his congratulations to the missionary, adding: "It does seem a pity

that a man possessed of such good talents as you should become a

missionary to the Indians. You would do well on the best fields of the

East."

The simple answer was, "I feel that I ought to go!"

Two days before starting upon the missionary journey an interesting

though scarcely encouraging missive was received offering good-will,

and containing a newspaper clipping detailing the hanging of a Cree

Indian for the inhuman act of murdering, cooking and eating his own

family!

Some of these kind friends who sent this letter were numbered amongst

the most generous contributors to the missionary cause, and prayed most

earnestly for its success.

The solemn moment of parting came, and many tears were shed, many words

of regret spoken. The parson felt depressed when thus surrounded by so

many gloomy countenances, but he naturally turned aside in search of

one or two kindred spirits, and as he stood upon the railroad station

platform there came a vision before his eyes, one which filled them

with tears. It was that of the heathen waiting in thousands with

outstretched arms calling for help, while not a soul appeared to hear

the cry which ascended to heaven and arrested the angels in their

mission of mercy and love. The great responsibility of helping men

toward a nobler life rested heavily upon the heart of Parson Morris,

and as he talked to his friends, hearing and answering their questions,

his heart was far away on those distant plains.

Their journey lay through the pleasant farms and shady woodlands in

northern Ontario, then up the lakes of the north, across stormy Lake

Superior, over the prairies of Minnesota and Dakota, until the Missouri

was reached, when a halt was made to await the steamer. One week was

spent in the city of Bismarck, at that time a small village

characterized by all the roughness of western civilization.

There were large ox-trains composed of three and four heavily laden

wagons, drawn by eighteen or twenty head of oxen, on their way to the

Black Hills, the land of mineral wealth and lawlessness.

On Sunday the cowboys ran their horses wildly up and down the principal

streets, firing their revolvers into the air. A theatre was in full

progress, and all the stores were doing a thriving business.

Parson Morris and his friends held a service in a public hall, and

while the heads of the worshippers were bowed in devotion their souls

were called to earth again by the sudden entrance of a man who shouted,

"Is this a fire meeting?"

Perceiving his mistake he retreated.

Up the muddy Missouri the pilgrims continued their journey, past the

extensive Cactus plains, winding in and out of the sand-bars and snags

which filled the river, crawling slowly through the rapids, passing

vast herds of buffalo and bands of Indians, until after ten days'

sailing in the famous river steamer, the _Key West_, they landed at

Benton, the head of navigation. Dirt, drink and depravity were the

chief features of the village in the buffalo days. Money was abundant,

and so were gamblers. The main street was lined with taverns and

gambling-hells, and every morning the street was almost paved with

playing cards. Here were men of quality and culture mingling with the

scum of society around the tables. Brawls were common occurrences, and

not infrequently were attended with the death of one or more of the

participants.

At Benton an outfit was purchased, and Parson Morris with his wife

Nancy embarked in a "prairie schooner" for their home across the

plains. Bidding farewell to the last evidences of civilization, they

began their march. Alkali lands were abundant and water was scarce;

indeed, water fit to drink was seldom found, and frequently the

travellers had to seek a stagnant pool, containing not more than a

pailful of slimy liquid. By filtering it through a handkerchief the

water was strained and freed from most of its obnoxious ingredients.

At times a tiny rain pool served to yield a small supply of water.

Strong coffee was made with it in order to destroy the discoloration of

the water and its nauseous properties. Mosquitoes and swollen rivers

served not too pleasantly to relieve the monotony of the trip. There

was excitement, too, as for instance when the wagon-box was lashed with

a hide and made to serve as a boat, the occupants trembling for their

safety as the rudely made craft was borne wildly down the turbulent

stream.

Arrived at their destination a very primitive log structure was

sufficient to afford the parson and Nancy a place of rest and shelter

from the inquisitiveness of the too neighborly Indians. It was a rude

building, but there was joy in it arising from the consciousness of

duty done for God and man.

The field of operation, embracing an extent of territory larger than

the whole of England, was extensive enough to engage all the young

man's powers.

The suit of broadcloth was discarded for one of buckskin, long top

boots and a sombrero (a hat with a brim of very wide dimensions).

Nancy was compelled sometimes to remain at home while her husband

visited the lone and distant settlements. These visits often involved

an absence of some weeks from his home, and brought trying times for

Nancy; many an anxious hour was passed as she lay at night thinking of

the parson asleep upon the prairie at a long distance from any

habitation and having no companion save his faithful horse, while the

savage dogs howled around her home and the Indians sang and shouted at

their heathen feasts. When Parson Morris started out on a journey, his

thoughtful wife made extra hard buns, put some tea in one small sack, a

supply of sugar in another, a little butter in a can, the whole neatly

arranged so that it could be equally divided and fastened on the back

of the saddle.

A small axe and an old kettle, a few books, a picket-pin and a rope

completed the outfit. Dressed in his buckskin suit, the parson gave

Nancy a kiss, breathed a prayer for their mutual protection, sprang

into the saddle, dashed through the river and sped across the prairie

at a rapid pace, for he must travel forty miles before night overtakes

him. Half of his day's journey completed, he unsaddled his faithful

animal, picketed her in a good spot where there was some choice buffalo

grass, built a fire of such material as he could gather, and then

hastily cooked his meal.

[Illustration: "He built a fire and then hastily cooked his meal."]

A rest of two hours was taken before his journey was continued. When

night approached he sought some low lying spot where water might be

obtained, and there, encouraged by a few shrubs or good feed for his

mare, he encamped for the night. He picketed the mare at a short

distance, so that if she became restless he could hear her, for she was

apt to become fractious through the presence of Indians or wolves. His

saddle was his pillow, the saddle-blanket a covering, and before lying

down for the night he surveyed the prairie on every side, took care the

fire he had kindled to cook his supper did not spread, and then

breathing out a prayer for Nancy, he rolled himself in his

saddle-blanket, laid his gun and revolver by his side, and was soon in

a sound sleep.

The parson was a brave man and always found ready access to the homes

of the old-timers, sharing their beds and meals. He sympathized with

them in their trials, and strove to present to them the noblest type of

a masculine Christianity. He was to these men a "sky pilot" and a

"gospel grinder," a man whom they loved because he could ride well,

swim the rivers, endure the cold, sleep on the prairie or in a miner's

shack, preach an honest sermon, was not afraid to tell them of their

vices, and showed himself a faithful dispenser of "soul-grub." He

could preach in a tent or Indian lodge, a wagon or an old shack. He

was not averse to sitting down to listen to the tales of prairie life

told by the rough settlers, and at such times their conversations were

bereft of any vulgarisms--not an oath ever falling from their lips or

an immoral allusion, although these might have originally formed part

of the tale. Willingly did he write their letters home, and carry them

a hundred miles or more as he journeyed eastward, that they might be

sent safely on their way. The tears sometimes came to the eyes of the

gamblers as they talked together of their childhood's early years and

of the old folks at home.

Two or three years of western life had passed when the parson, one

Sunday evening, announced from his primitive-looking pulpit in the

little log building which served as a school-house and church, that on

the following Sunday he would preach a temperance sermon. A buzzing

noise arose in the congregation, indicative of the tone of feeling on

the question of whiskey and liberty.

There was abundance of liquor among the white men, although the Indians

were not allowed to receive any, an exception rigidly enforced by the

vigilant efforts of the Mounted Police.

Sunday evening came, and the little church was filled to overflowing.

Indians and half-breeds stood around the door and looked in at the

windows, their forms darkening the place. Within the building were

Mounted Police officers and constables, whiskey traders, cowboys,

gamblers, half-breeds and Indians, men from different countries,

educated and ignorant, some who were graduates in arts from Oxford and

Cambridge, and others who were trained at the horse ranches of Montana,

Idaho and Mexico. There were two white ladies present, the only

females in the congregation. Assembled together with bowed heads were

men of various creeds and no creed, Protestants and Roman Catholics,

Anglicans and Dissenters, Unitarians, Baptists, Presbyterians,

Methodists, atheists, representatives of almost every known sect.

The parson gave out the hymn and led the singing, every member of this

strange congregation joining in the service by singing or assuming a

reverent attitude, and then silently every head was bowed while prayer

ascended to the throne of heaven. An able temperance sermon was

preached, and was listened to with deep attention and gravity. When it

was finished, and as the parson took up his hymn-book to announce the

closing hymn, an aged Indian chief named Manistokos arose and addressed

the congregation. As he stood up to speak, a half-breed who was

employed as Government interpreter, drew near to interpret the speech

of the Indian chief.

With head erect and in a clear, distinct tone of voice, Manistokos

spoke and the interpreter translated: "I am glad to hear the words of

the praying man. Many years ago we had fine clothes, good buffalo-skin

lodges, lots of food, and we were contented and happy. The white men

came and brought whiskey with them, and then our people began to die.

The buffalo went away. We had no food, our lodges became old and unfit

for use, our clothes dropped off our bodies, and there was nothing left

us but to go to our graves. We are now poor, depending upon the

Government for food, having poor clothing and sad hearts. We are now

so poor that we have no whiskey, for since the Mounted Police came they

have drank all the whiskey and there is none left for us."

The eyes of the Mounted Police flashed fire as the old chief sat down

amid the laughter and applause of the audience.

Parson Morris arose and said in dignified tones: "My friends, we are

always glad to hear what anyone has to say, but when any white men have

not the courage of their convictions, but must employ an Indian for

their mouthpiece, we will not listen to what they may wish to say. If

there are any here who think that upon choosing the side of

intemperance they have truth and justice on their side, I will give

them an opportunity to air their opinions. They can have the use of

this church every alternate night this week, and I will kindle the fire

and light the lamps myself, as I have to be sexton and preacher; but I

reserve for myself the right of replying upon the alternate evenings of

this week."

There was no reply and the service closed.

Upon investigation by the Mounted Police it was found that the

interpreter had been employed by some of the members of the whiskey

fraternity to interpret falsely, and the aged chief had been induced to

be present to give his views on the temperance question, which were all

in favor of the total suppression of the traffic.

The Government authorities dismissed the interpreter, and the cause of

temperance was strengthened by the brave words and manly attitude of

the parson and the Indian chief.

The little village of Mackleton, in which Parson Morris and Nancy took

up their residence, consisted of a few log buildings with mud floor and

mud roof, and with one street of various widths and very circuitous.

Sunday was the most important day of all the week. It was then that

the Mounted Police started on their long journeys, no doubt being

better able to reckon from that day than any other.

Sunday morning came, and the parson and Nancy paid their usual visits

to the Indian lodges and homes of the half-breeds. As they went from

house to house, they found it well-nigh impossible to cross the street,

an ox-train having come to the village on Saturday and encamped in the

middle of the thoroughfare. There stood the long trains of wagons, the

yokes of oxen, and the camping outfit of the teamsters, who were at

this time squatted on the ground eating their breakfast, which they had

cooked by means of a fire made in the street. The men had slept in

their wagons where they stood, and the oxen were grazing on the

prairie, herded by one of the men belonging to the train.

As soon as the meal was over, the train-boss proceeded to unload his

goods, and the men entered heartily into the work, which kept them

busily engaged for two days. The work of visitation was kept up all

forenoon, save an hour for school, when there assembled the half-breed

and Indian children belonging to the Sarcee, Blood, Piegan, and

Blackfoot tribes.

Amongst the number was an obstreperous boy of six years, whom the

parson had to seize and carry on his back to school, and when once he

had him there, was compelled to lock the door to keep him from

retreating.

During the afternoon the bowling-alley and billiard tables were well

patronized, the stores were well filled with buyers of all kinds, the

blacksmith busily plied his trade, and a more lively day was not to be

found during the week. The day wore on, bereft of its sacredness and

peace, no songs of Zion stealing upon the ears, and no worshippers in

their best attire wending their way to the house of God.

Four weeks had passed away and there had been no signs of the mail.

Many wistful eyes scanned the prairie to catch, if they might, a

glimpse of the long-expected wagon with its precious contents of joy

and sorrow from friends in the far distant cities of the East. The

old-timers became excited and climbed on the roofs of the houses with

glasses in their hands to scan the horizon, hoping they might see the

rig coming.

"The mail! The mail!" shouted Kanrin and his friends as they stood

upon the mud roof of the solitary hotel, and the shout was echoed from

one end of the village to the other, each man as he heard the cry

joining in the announcement till it had passed from mouth to mouth.

The gamblers left their cards and the billiard tables were vacated as

from every house and store the people rushed to gaze upon the wagon

which held the mail. Every heart was agitated, and it was impossible

to eat, drink, work, play or rest at such an important time.

It was the hour of holding service and Parson Morris and Nancy repaired

to the little church, but not a soul was there. They waited patiently

until a single straggler entered to join in the worship of God. The

preacher gave his best sermon to Nancy and her companion, who

pronounced it very good and appropriate to the occasion. The

congregation had deserted the church, the most frequent worshippers

being found upon their knees at the principal store, where, the mail

having been emptied on the floor, they were aiding in the assortment of

the letters, papers and books. It was a feast day to many in the

village as they read again and again the news from home; but there were

some sad hearts among them--those who came expecting a letter and whose

expectations were not fulfilled.

Here stood a rough gambler with tears in his eyes as he held in his

hand a sheet of paper written in a very trembling hand, and there upon

a bale of buffalo robes sat young Hanna, deep in thought, as Indians

chattered in their native tongue beside him. The letter he was

reading, one from his aged mother in the old English rectory in his

native Yorkshire, was evidently touching his heart, for the gay young

man, cultured, kind and courtly, was nevertheless the most inveterate

gambler in the town. His father was a clergyman of means who had

allowed his son to emigrate with the hope of becoming wealthy and

gaining a position there, which he could not hope for in England; and

the young man, with the spirit of adventure, had eagerly grasped at the

proposal and sought a home in the far West.

Money was abundant, and as it was much easier to gamble than to farm or

raise stock, he drifted with the tide and became an expert, winning

thousands of dollars in a few days and as quickly losing all he had.

He was a fair sample of many young men who in the early days sought

wealth upon the plains of the West.

Parson Morris became more intrepid in his work the longer he dwelt

among the rough settlers. These men had warm, generous hearts, despite

the usual roughness of their garb, manners and speech, and no one knew

this better than the parson. He had proved it oftentimes when their

comrades were sick, and had ever found them generous and kind. Seldom,

therefore, did he call upon them for help, not being desirous of riding

a willing horse to death, seeing that they gave so liberally to all his

schemes and it seemed to be a pleasure to them to assist him. There

were times, however, when in religious matters he felt it necessary to

resort to the method which they called "raising the wind." Sometimes

Nancy would visit the billiard rooms and settlers' shacks to ask their

aid. At such times she always met with politeness and generous

responses.

One Sunday morning the parson went to the little log church to find his

congregation again absent as before; the mail had arrived and every

worshipper had gone to find news from home. Nothing daunted, he

resolved in his mind that he was not going to be defeated. While

thinking seriously what had best be done, he suddenly recollected the

startling fact that there was a church account of fifty dollars which

must be paid. What better service could he render to those men, than

to entertain them by allowing them to preach a sermon on giving. No

sooner thought of than the parson started for the billiard-hall and

hotel of Kamusi.

A veteran of the prairie whose civilized appellation was shrouded by

his western cognomen, Kamusi was one of the parson's right-hand men.

He would get drunk and swear, and he lived with an Indian woman, but

nothing was thought of these things in those early days, when parsons

were few and life was held to be of little value. Brave and kind, no

hungry man was ever turned from his table because he had not the

wherewithal to pay for his meal, and many times there could be found in

one of his back rooms a sick stranger cared for and fed at the old

veteran's expense.

"I'm dead broke! I'll have to shut up shop. I've been losing money

every day. The people are robbing me!" he grumbled repeatedly as he

hobbled along about his work, coughing severely from an old asthmatic

trouble, while sitting by his doorstep were two cripples who were being

supplied with food and medicine by him, and for three months they had

lived there.

When the parson's small larder was nearly empty, which happened

occasionally, if Kamusi had the least suspicion that such a thing

existed, or if he had a rare dish or a choice dainty, part of it would

find its way to the parson's table. Kamusi was the "Sky Pilot's"

friend.

Quietly the parson entered Kamusi's billiard-hall, where dazzling

lights were burning in profusion. Men stood at the bar smoking and

talking, and the billiard-tables were surrounded by a gay company of

young and middle-aged men. As the parson stepped to the head of one of

the tables every eye was turned upon him, the hum of conversation

ceased, the cues dropped to the ground and every hat was removed.

"Friends," said the parson, "I have not come here to preach a sermon,

but I am on business, and, as you all know, I am not given to beating

about the bush. I am come here to get some money. There is no man

here can say that at any time I have ever asked him what denomination

he belonged to, but have always treated you as men and brothers, and

tried to help you in whatever way I could and whenever you needed it."

"That's so, parson," said Paul Vrooman, a noted gambler, who stood with

his cue in his hand.

"When your comrades have been sick I have gone long distances to visit

them, at any time of the day or night, and at any season of the year."

"That's so," said another.

"I have stood beside you in sickness and trouble. I have buried your

comrades on the prairie and have tried to help you to lead better

lives. Now, I have a church account to pay, and I am here to ask you

to assist in paying it. You have never refused to help, and I know

that you will help me now."

"We will, parson," said Vrooman again.

"There is Paul Vrooman, he will take the hat and go around, and receive

what you are willing to give."

Paul took his hat, and passing around the tables received a

contribution from each which he handed to the parson, who thanked the

men and departed.

As the parson was closing the door they shouted after him, "Come

again!" The words cheered his heart and made him long for the time

when they would follow his teachings more closely, and forsake the

haunts of sin.

The good man spent the Sunday evening in going among the billiard

saloons, and the next morning he went to the Mounted Police barracks,

where he found the men sitting down to breakfast. He addressed a few

words to the men, who heartily responded to the appeal, then returning

home, and counting over the gains, he found that he had enough to

settle his account. This he did with a very light heart. Such was one

of the parson's methods of "raising the wind." He never failed in

gaining the hearts of the men, as he spoke to them in a manly way,

without any signs of effeminacy or peculiar sanctity unsuited to

western life.

Our "Sky Pilot" still retains his buckskin suit, and when he wears it

again he feels the scent of the prairie air, and longs like the

war-horse for another engagement on the plains of the West, where,

unhampered by the petty forms of civilized life, he can talk to men who

rejoice in and illustrate in their lives a noble type of Christianity.

THE LONE PINE.

CHAPTER I.

Notable camping-place for Indians, half-breeds and white travellers was

the Lone Pine. It stood like a monarch raising its head over a wide,

unsurveyed territory--no other tree to keep it company or break the

flat monotony of the sea of grass surrounding it on every side.

Many strange stories were told of this tree. The gods had planted the

seed and tended it with great care. They had protected the tiny shoots

from the wintry blasts and severe frosts. They had caused the sun to

shine upon it, the clouds to empty refreshing showers over it to

encourage its growth; and as its tiny leaves unfolded under the genial

influence of their care, they had assembled to rejoice over it. It had

stood for many years a beacon to travellers, a sentinel on the plains,

a pillar towering to the sky, a guiding landmark that was discernible

for miles, known and recognized by all the tribes and traders to whom

the great prairie was hunting ground and highway.

A season of sickness fell upon the people, and the Lone Pine, too, in

pitying sympathy with the nations who honored it, sickened and died.

The people mourned as for a great chief, and as they bore their dead

past its decaying trunk, fear of the coming of greater sorrow entered

their hearts.

One night a wild wind swept over the plain, and the Pine, unable to

resist its force, fell to the ground. Then the spirits of the prairie

held a secret conference at the spot, and it was decreed that a daily

guard should be set over the tree, strict injunction being given that

at the first sign of returning life the guard should report at once.

The traveller who passed the broken stump of the old tree upon the

plain might notice it and perhaps regret its fall, but the stately

spirit keeping guard over it was invisible to his mortal eyes. Yet he

might have noticed that the birds flitted more freely and sang more

merrily than they had ever done before the death of the Lone Pine.

The stately reign of the monarch was ended, and there appeared no hope

of its being reinstated on its throne in the hearts of the people, no

hope of it ever again being a guiding landmark to the travellers on the

plains. But human foresight cannot pierce the shadows of the spirit

land, and that which seems impossible is, after all, only an illusion.

The man laughs at the impossibilities of his childhood, and the

inhabitants of the spirit world are untrammelled by the clogs and

chains that hinder and bind the denizens of the nether world.

Within the decaying trunk of the old pine the guardian spirit ere long

descried a tiny shoot, and with eager haste he sped away to the courts

of the spirits to proclaim his discovery. There was joy among the

assembled spirits. The Lone Pine was dead, yet lived.

The hooting of the owl was heard that night more distinctly, and the

wild birds sang in joyous concert until the prairie seemed alive with

sounds of nature's glad rejoicing over the resurrection of the dead.

It was a night long to be remembered, and was rightly given a place in

the traditions of the people.

The tiny shoot grew fast, and nourished by the richness of the past,

cared for with tender pride by the spirits of the air, it soon lifted

its branches in spreading beauty, and reared once more a stately head

above the swelling prairie. Could human speech have been given it, it

could not have spoken more forcibly of the joy of life than it did to

the understanding of the people by its beauty and grace.

What wonder, then, that the neighborhood of the Lone Pine was a sacred

spot and a notable camping ground among the Indians, half-breeds and

traders. What wonder that the horses did not stray far from it when

turned free to feed after a long day's journey; that the Indian

listened for the vesper-song of the spirits as they drew near the spot

at nightfall, and rested more peacefully under its hallowed

guardianship than at any other place upon the plains. The Indians fear

the power of the spirits of the departed, but they were attracted with

an irresistible force to the place where the spirits of the air kept

watch and ward over the Lone Pine.

The white traders saw or heard nothing and were wont to say that they

pitched their camp at the Lone Pine only because it was a suitable

spot--one possessing all the necessary facilities for a good camping

ground.

Throughout all that region the buffalo roamed in tens of thousands,

seeking and finding good grazing ground. While they congregated near

the Lone Pine they were unmolested by the Indian or half-breed hunter.

This was sacred ground, and the wild herds fed in peace about its

shade. But the hunters watched and waited. When the herds moved south

or westward toward the mountains, they followed eagerly, and few who

joined in the buffalo hunt from the vicinity of the Lone Pine returned

without a bountiful supply of meat for the winter.

Late in the autumn, many years ago, a large buffalo-skin lodge was

pitched on the sacred spot. The lodge was of superior make; the skins

were well tanned and neatly sewn together with sinews by the deft

fingers of the women. Several scalp-locks hung against the sides,

evidences of the prowess of the chief, proofs of the number of enemies

he had slain in battle, and ghastly reminders of the ruthless nature of

the warfare of the tribes.

One evening a solitary horseman drew near, and after speaking to a

group of children playing near the Red River carts standing in the

neighborhood of the entrance, stopped. Leaning over the horn of his

Mexican saddle, he called to the master of the lodge. A moment, and

the call was answered, and a tall half-breed, pushing aside the

door-flap, came out. A few words of welcome said and inquiry answered,

and the stranger dismounted, unsaddled his horse, put hobbles on his

feet, and turned him loose to graze.

Donald Mackton had not been long in the country, but he had used his

eyes and quick intelligence to some purpose; he had learned the ways

and manners as well as the language of the natives very quickly, and

was already well in touch with the ideas and many of the peculiarities

of the Indians.

A tall, broad-shouldered, manly-looking Scot, the buckskin suit, wide

sombrero hat and long boots of the typical cowboy showed his fine

figure to perfection. He was armed with a Winchester rifle, wore a

belt well filled with cartridges, and carried a revolver in one of the

many pockets of his jacket. A sheath fastened to his belt also held a

sharp knife. Long exposure to the sun and wind had bronzed his skin,

and his muscles were hardened by the constant open-air life. His keen,

blue eyes were true, and the entire self-unconsciousness of his manner

inspired all who came in contact with him with confidence. He was a

man whose word could be trusted, whose love had never been betrayed.

Jim Howsford, the half-breed master of the lodge, was as fine a

specimen of his class and race, as honest as the best of them and a

true man. His father was the son of an educated Englishman who had

been in the employment of the Honorable Hudson's Bay Company, his

mother a beauty among the dusky maidens of the Cree tribe. Jim had

learned the language of both father and mother, and knew something of

the customs of both nations and races. He was therefore almost as much

at home among the white men as with the Indians. He, however, liked

the latter better. His mother's nature was the stronger in him, and he

spoke the Cree language more frequently and fluently than the English

of the white men. He wore his hair cut straight and hanging half way

to the shoulders, loose flannel shirt open at the throat, beautifully

ornamented leggings fastened outside his trousers from the knee

downwards, and moccasins on his feet. The belt round his waist carried

the usual knife and cartridges, without which the dress of neither

half-breed nor cowboy was complete.

As the two men stood talking the children came nearer, shy but curious

to know more of the stranger. They were seldom interrupted in their

play by the arrival of a white visitor at the camp; indeed, so much

were they kept to themselves on the prairie that they knew more of the

ways and habits of the gopher, badger and beaver than they did of the

ways of men. They had witnessed deadly conflicts between the Indians

and half-breeds, and had crouched in fear as the bullets whistled about

the lodge or the cries of the wounded fell upon their young ears.

There was something about this stranger, however, that attracted them,

and sheltered under the circle of carts that surrounded the lodge, they

stared wide-eyed, curious to learn the object of his visit.

Jim was too hospitable to keep his visitor long outside the lodge.

They entered, and Donald was introduced to the queen of the lodge, a

half-breed woman of fair complexion, pretty, and having the shy manner

which belongs to women trained to believe that the master of the lodge

is a superior being. She wore the ordinary dress of women of the

settlements, but her way of wearing it lacked neatness and taste; the

colors were bright, but without the harmony so noticeable in the work

of the pure Indian women.

The life of the half-breed women is a dull, monotonous one. Constantly

on the move, freighting goods and furs from one Hudson's Bay post to

another, or carrying for the small traders on the prairie, they have no

incentive to make the lodge attractive or their personal appearance

dainty. It is not, however, a hard life; neither men nor women seem

ever in a hurry to reach their destination with the goods committed to

their care. They travel along leisurely and in a gay mood from morning

till evening, shooting any game that comes within their reach, or

taking advantage of a broken axle to call a halt and hunt in a wider

circle from their resting-place. The women as they go, gather the

berries growing wild on the prairie slopes or bluffs, and the children

play, happy and merry as the day is long. These people are at home on

the prairie, free as the foxes--Canadian gypsies, full of the joy of

to-day, heedless of the morrow, not even questioning the possibility of

supper, but trusting to their guns and good luck to provide them with a

deer, a beaver, a goose, or a few prairie chickens; or if these fail--a

thing which seldom happens--a few gophers or a skunk can be made to

provide a meal.

When the day's journey is ended and the evening meal disposed of, the

men sit and smoke in one of the lodges, or if the evening be fine,

assemble near the carts and spend the time playing cards, gambling for

almost every thing they possess. Horse-racing and foot-races are also

favorite amusements, and a means of gambling, too. The boys sit in a

circle round a peg driven into the ground, and throwing their knives in

the air vie with each other in the skill to impale it with the falling

blade.

When Jim Howsford and Donald Mackton came into the lodge the woman who

greeted them set about preparing the evening meal. The fire was

already kindled in the centre, where it was kept in its place by a

circle of stones; a small opening above, where the lodge poles

intersected, being left for the egress of the smoke. Below this

opening and over the heads of the occupants of the lodge were stretched

pieces of shagginappi--half-tanned hides cut in strips--upon which were

hung slices of buffalo to be dried and smoked.

Reaching to these rows of dried meat Betty Howsford took several of the

slices and cooked them. She was glad to serve the stranger generously

while the food lasted, and to trust to the larder being replenished

when necessary by a windfall of mercy bringing meat, flour, tea and

tobacco. The supper consisted of slap-jacks, strong black tea and the

buffalo meat. The slap-jacks were made quickly. Flour, salt and water

were beaten rapidly together, and poured into hot grease, and the pan

held over the fire until one side was well browned; then, with a quick

turn of the wrist the cake was flung into the air. Turning over as it

fell, the congealed mass came down flat into the pan. After being

browned on both sides, the slap-jacks were set away on a dish until a

sufficient number were cooked for all the members of the party. After

their elders had eaten the children were handed their portion, then the

dogs were fed and the dishes washed and put away until they were again

required.

Jim and Donald lighted their pipes and sat talking over life on the

prairie and the events of their earlier days. Betty slipped away, and

silence settled down upon the lodge. Soon the woman's low voice had

called the lads together, and presently on the still night air their

clear voices fell as the notes of the "Ave Maria" floated sweet and

true, the boys' stronger tones joining with the thinner treble of the

woman.

In the far north, on one of the old missions, Betty had been taught by

an aged member of the Oblat Fathers, a missionary who had come many

years before from the old land to teach the red men the way of peace.

He lived with them, travelled with them, shared their hardships and

their hunting expeditions, and when they stayed in one place for a

time, taught the women and children who gathered around him to listen.

In his youth he had been ambitious to gain a high position in the

Church, but as he read Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ" his heart

was touched, and he determined to give up his ambitious desires for

self and follow Christ. He joined the Order, and was sent to the

distant West, to where, to those who knew little of mission work, his

culture and refinement would seem to be of little service to him. But

these gifts enabled him to exert great power over the natives, and drew

them to the wise man with a loving heart.

Betty had been thrown into many untoward circumstances since she had

learned of him, but the sound of the old man's voice seemed ever in her

ears; she never forgot the lessons she had learned from his lips and

through his life. With her children gathered about her she knelt by

the wheel of one of the carts, the prairie sod for a resting-place, the

sky over head, and together they repeated the "Pater Noster," the "Our

Father" of the Saviour of all men and of all creeds.

What a scene! One for the contemplation of angels who looked from

heaven on the half-breed woman and her children as they besought God

for protection, guidance and grace.

The men in the lodge had paused in their talk and smoked their pipes in

silence while the petitions were ascending outside.

The prayer finished, the children returned to the lodge, and removing

their outer garments, curled themselves up on the skins spread on the

ground in the lodge, and were soon fast asleep.

Jim and Donald sat long narrating the various strange experiences of

their lives, the half-breed exulting in his success as a hunter, and

the white man rejoicing no less in the valor displayed among civilized

people in times of danger, as well as in his superior knowledge of men

and of the world.

"Them wur fine times," said the half-breed, his eyes glistening as he

recalled the past. "We had lots of game, and we never wanted for grub.

I could kill more buffalo with my old flint-lock in a day than we get

now with a Winchester rifle."

"Had you ever any trouble with the Indians in those days?" asked Donald.

"Ye bet yer life we did. Many's the time we had to fight for our

lives. They'd get behind our carts before we'd know they wur there:

but ye see, we knew how to fight, and though some of our folks got

killed, we allus had the best of it."

"You must have had some narrow escapes."

"Yes, siree! I've had many a close shave in my younger days. I've

fought with buffalo, bears and Indians, and I carry some wounds to show

what a hard tussle I had many a time. There's no fun nowadays like we

had in the old times. Now we never have a fight worth speaking of, and

the white men are beginning to tell us that it'll be better to take the

scalp-locks off our lodges; but I won mine in honest fights, and I dare

any man to say that I didn't kill my enemy every time. Let me see,"

and Jim took a long draw of his pipe. "I think it was the year of the

big snow, that'd be twelve years ago. I wus camped on the Big

Saskatchewan with Bill Whitman and Sam Livingwood. We had gone out on

a search party to see how the game wus, and intended to be away about

ten days. We had gone east from our camp, and had seen lots o'

buffalo. I tell you, stranger, it'd have made the heart of any man

glad to see them. They wur fat and sleek, and there wur thousands of

'em.

"Well, we were on our way back to our camp, and had settled down for

the night on the banks of the Saskatchewan. We didn't start any fire

that night fur fear o' Indians, but we just took what grub we had and

eat it in quietness. As we three sat smoking I started to my feet

suddenly and grabbed my gun. I don't know what made me do it, but I

think it wus the old medicine-man, fur he charmed me the year before,

and cured me when I was very sick. I listened, but could hear nothing,

so I sat down again. I was sittin' a few minutes when again I jumped

to my feet, but could see nothing. My companions looked at me and

listened for the sound o' cracking branches, but they could see

nothing, so we contented ourselves and smoked our pipes. Once again

this happened, and I made up my mind that if it came again I wouldn't

stay in that spot; but as it didn't return I lay down to rest, fur I

was awful tired. I couldn't sleep, so I lay half skeered with my gun

loaded and my hand on it. Bill and Sam lay beside me, and I wus in a

sweat, fur Bill was a terrible snorer. It didn't matter what danger he

wus in, he would snore, and it seemed as if he would try to snore

loudest when there wur Indians about.

"'Now, Bill,' said I, before he went off to sleep, 'don't ye snore

to-night, fur I'm afeard we're in an uncanny place.' He was mad, and

said he didn't snore only when he wus at home. I told him he did, but

he only got madder, so I kept quiet and asked him to be still, fur I

was afeard there wur some Indians near.

"He said he would, then turned over and went to sleep, and soon was

snoring as loud as ever. I am never afeard, but I tell ye, stranger,

when I heard Bill snore that night I wus as weak as a woman, and I

could have cleared out from the place only I couldn't leave my mates.

As I lay on the ground I kept both ears and one eye open, fur I

couldn't forget those three times that I jumped up and seized my gun.

It wus gittin' on towards morning, the moon wus shining a little, but I

could not see far. We wur in a snug spot among some trees, and I was

beginning to feel safe, and thought I might take a short nap. We had a

long ride before us, and we had to start at sunrise. I had dropped my

head on the grass, and must have dozed off when the snapping of a

rotten branch woke me; but I didn't stir, only waited fur another

sound. I had not long to wait. In a few minutes a crawling sound

seemed to come along the ground slow and very quiet like. I raised my

head but saw nothing. I dropped my head again, but as I did so I

raised my gun with my finger on the trigger and lay quiet until the

sound returned.

"Soon I saw a dark objec' lyin' on the grass like a log. It was only a

few yards off, and it didn't move. I'd become sure there was danger,

so I raised my gun and fired. The objec' giv a moan an' rolled over.

My mates sprung to their feet at the sound of the gun, but I called to

them sharp to lie down. Again we waited to see what'd follow. Nothing

more happened for a while, and I was just risin' to go to the objec'

when I saw two others lyin' near the first. They seemed to fall deep

in the grass when I raised myself. Drawing my gun toward me I fired

twice, quick. Each shot told, for the objec' gave a howl and rolled

over.

"There was no more sleep after that. We lay with our hands on our guns

and close behind the cover of the trees until the light of the early

morning helped us to see the animals on the grass, and we soon saw

there wur no others there. Bill, Sam and me went with our guns raised

toward them things on the grass, expectin' to find a bear or buffalo,

but as we got near we saw they wur covered with Indian blankets. We

turned 'em over with our feet, and as the blankets fell off found three

naked Indians, each graspin' a knife, but they wur dead. My bullets

had found a good place, so I took my scalpin' knife and soon had their

scalps hangin' at my belt, and now, stranger, you can see them scalps

hangin' outside my lodge."

Jim raked the dying embers of the fire together as he finished his

story, and Donald, seeing that Betty was already asleep, bade the

genial half-breed "Good-night" and left them. He looked first to see

that his horse was all right, then taking a couple of buffalo-skins

from one of the carts he spread them on the ground underneath, lay down

on them, and was soon fast asleep. The air was cold, but in the West

it is quite common for travellers to sleep upon the prairie with a very

small quantity of covering; and though the thermometer may register

twenty below zero, they seldom take cold, but rise in the morning

invigorated by the cool air and the refreshing sleep which can be had

only by lying on the sod of the open prairie.

Donald was up early, but he found Betty and Jim astir when he returned

from looking after his horse, and in a short time breakfast was ready.

A hasty repast, and then the lodge was taken down and packed with the

bedding and cooking utensils on one of the carts. The horses were

gathered in and harnessed one to each, and the long caravan was ready

to set out. Each Indian pony drew a load of from five to eight hundred

pounds. There were twenty carts well laden, and each pony was fastened

to the back of the preceding cart. In the first sat Betty and the two

younger children; the two older boys and their father rode ponies, and

travelled up and down along the line urging the ponies onward.

Before commencing their journey Donald had an exciting experience.

They were about ready to set off when Jim called him over to look at a

horse he had to sell. The beast was a heavily-built sorrel, and stood

with head drooping and a watery eye.

"He's a fine buffalo runner," said the half-breed. "You see that

watery eye. One day I was huntin' buffalo, and a mate of mine rode

this horse, and he was so excited he shot the horse through the eye."

"How much do you want for him?"

"One hundred and fifty dollars. He's a fine buffalo runner. He'll

take you over the ground in good shape. Get up and try him."

Donald removed the saddle from his own horse and put it on the buffalo

runner. The animal stood quietly until the stranger sprang into the

saddle, when, as if shot from a gun, he made a sudden bound and darted

off.

Out and away over the prairie he flew at a terrific rate, rider and

horse apparently bent on some errand of life and death.

Onward, past bluff and coulee, they ran, the horse snorting and

galloping as if in hot chase after buffalo. His rider tried to stop

him, clinging to the saddle lest he should buck him off, pulling at the

bridle, but all in vain. The more he pulled the faster went the horse.

There was fire in his eye; the water no longer coursed down his face.

He held his head erect, and the old dreamy-looking animal was

transformed into a wild, daring creature, bold and free as wolves on

the prairie, and exultant in his strength and speed.

The perspiration streamed down Donald's face, and it was not until many

miles had been covered that the buffalo-runner slackened his speed or

appeared to think he had done his duty.

At last he gradually eased his pace, and no doubt in his mind's eye his

rider had killed some buffalo, and a good day's work had been done into

the bargain. Fortunately Donald did not turn the horse's head

homeward, or he might have had a repetition of the same wild ride, from

which he might not have escaped so well. Some hours afterwards Jim

overtook him, and was glad to find both horse and rider safe.

"Well, you had a hard ride."

"Yes, I would not care for another like it to-day," replied Donald.

"That's always like him. Every time I've tried to sell him he's cut up

a trick like that. I don't know what gets into his head. Ye see, he

seems to think he's always chasing buffalo, and away he goes."

The two men sat down to wait until the train overtook them, and by the

time it arrived they were quite ready for something to eat.

As they were unharnessing the horses a flock of geese alighted on the

edge of the lake near, and Jim, seizing his rifle and taking aim,

brought down a goose at three hundred yards. One of the boys ran down

and picked up the goose and brought it to his mother. Under her

skilful hands it was soon plucked, and being cut in pieces was dropped

into the pot of water they had hung from the tripod of willow over a

fire of buffalo chips to boil. All had been done with such rapidity

that within forty minutes of the moment when the goose had been killed

the men were eating it with that hearty relish only healthy appetites

can give.

Every member of the party was grateful that the adventure of the

morning had not terminated in an accident, as some had anticipated when

the watery-eyed horse had bolted, and they were consequently in

excellent spirits.

The meal ended, the men smoked their pipes together while the women

washed the dishes and repacked them in the wagon. Donald saddled his

horse, and bidding his hospitable friends good-bye, mounted and rode

away.