Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 887. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
TEXAS.
BY A. G. CANFIELD.
"One misty, moisty morning" of April, '36, there was quite a commotion
in the office of the _Weekly Telegraph_, enterprising pioneer of Texas
journalism, printed in English and Spanish, and published in the little
town of Harrisburg, east of the Brazos River.
The Alamo,[1] citadel and tomb of heroes, had fallen, and all the
western part of the young republic was held by the Mexicans. Houston's
hundreds were falling back towards the east; Santa Anna's thousands were
in close pursuit.
[1] For the story of the battle of the Alamo see "An American
Thermopylæ," in No. 876.
The Texans now occupied Harrisburg, and a good many of them occupied the
_Telegraph_ office. These were carrying on an animated and eager
discussion, while the object of their eloquence, a slim youngster of an
uncommonly dark and swarthy countenance, stood listening silently.
"I tell you," cried one, "you're risking your life by staying here.
Santa Anna's just as likely as not to have you taken out and shot.
Remember Goliad!"
"And if they don't shoot you," said another, "they'll clap you in irons
and shut you up in a Mexican jail. For my part, I'd rather take the
bullet; it's quickest over."
"And you must remember," remonstrated a third, "that your paper's always
been down on the Mexicans. _They're_ safe to remember it, and as the
editor has got clear off, they'll make you pay for yourself and him
too."
"All the same," said John Sibley, steadily, "I'll have to stay until Mr.
Bolden sends for me. He left me in charge here, but promised to get me
away before the Mexicans come."
"Huh! Think Editor Bolden's going to trouble himself to get you out of
the hole? You needn't if you do. He's saved his own skin, and that's all
he cares about. The Greasers might knock everything in the
printing-office into pi before I'd stay here to please him."
"Come, John," said one, somewhat older than the rest, "let me persuade
you out of this foolhardy project. Your young life ought not to be
thrown away in mere bravado."
"It's not bravado, Captain Hays," protested the boy. "It's my plain
duty. I promised my employer I would stay and look after his property.
He trusted me, and I mustn't disappoint him. So please don't ask me to
go with you, for I can't."
"What can a boy like you do to protect the property?"
"I can do just what anybody else would do," said John, smiling; "I can
do my best."
"Well," cried one gay young soldier but little older than John himself,
"you may thank your lucky stars that you're 'most as black as a nigger,
and can patter Spanish like a regular Don. The Mexicans will take you
for one of themselves. If they do, and you get a chance at old
Wooden-leg, make him believe we're ten thousand strong. It's all right
to lie till you're black in the face to fool an enemy and serve your
country."
John Sibley nodded and smiled, as the troop filed through the office
door with many wishes for his ultimate safety. He stood looking after
them with a queer twinkle in his black eyes, saying to himself:
"I'll do the best I can, as you do, brave boys, but I'll lie as little
as I can help. Wonder if I couldn't make the truth do as well?"
One day passed, and then another. The Texans had left the town, and
continued their retreat towards the east. Still, there was no word from
the editor and proprietor of the _Weekly Telegraph_ releasing his young
assistant from his perilous position, and John staid steadily on, caring
faithfully for the property intrusted to him. He was "on guard," and had
no more thought of deserting his post than if he had been a soldier
under orders.
He passed the anxious time watching and waiting for two
events--wondering which of the two would come first--news that he was
relieved from duty, and the approach of the Mexican army.
The latter came first. Early one morning the vanguard appeared, soon
followed by the main body, led by President Santa Anna in person.
Before noon dark-skinned soldiers were swarming over the town on the
lookout for plunder and mischief, and a crowd of them filled the office
of the obnoxious _Telegraph_.
They were surprised to find there a lad as dark-skinned as themselves,
who in a resistless flood of Spanish welcomed them like brothers,
assuring them in the most high-flown terms of Spanish courtesy that the
office and all it contained was theirs, and would be honored by
suffering destruction at their hands. But in the midst of this
rodomontade he continued by many adroit and well-turned phrases and an
assumption of genial camaraderie to induce his troublesome visitors to
postpone their destructive designs until he had laid the case before
General Santa Anna, to whom he wished to be taken immediately.
This request was granted without any difficulty, for without a word of
assertion on his part they had at once adopted him as one of their own
race. Who else in that country but a Spanish-American could boast such
smooth and courteous manners, such densely black eyes and hair, such a
copper-colored skin, and such a flood of Spanish!
When John Sibley stood in the presence of the Dictator of Mexico he
trembled from head to foot, but not with fear. He was an American boy,
and he could not look on the ruthless destroyer of so many of his
countrymen, the treacherous executioner of Goliad, the bloody victor of
the Alamo, without a shudder. But Santa Anna was used to seeing grown
men tremble before him, and took no notice of the effect he produced on
a boy.
"How is this, muchacho?" he demanded, sternly. "They tell me you are a
Mexican, yet you are employed on the _Weekly Telegraph_, a paper that
never ceases to attack the land of God and liberty, her government and
her people. Now tell me if this is what a true Mexican would do?"
By this time John had recovered his self-possession.
"Poverty, your Excellency," he replied, in as fluent Spanish as the
Dictator's own, "will, as our proverb says, make a man put up at bad
inns. A poor orphan Mexican boy might well be pardoned if he took the
work and pay the stranger offered. But if your Excellency thinks it was
wrong, let me atone by serving my native land in any way you can make
use of me."
The General examined him critically.
"You seem an intelligent youth," he said at last, "and in spite of your
boyish look, you have all your wits about you. If you are sincere in
your offer, you can give me useful information."
Then followed the usual inquiries as to the number, equipment, and route
of the retreating army, to all of which John, contrary to precedent and
the advice of his soldier friend, returned truthful answers.
"For if I tell Santa Anna that Houston has more men than he has,"
reasoned John, "he'll be mighty clear of following him a foot further,
and will never fight if he can help it. But if I make him believe he can
eat the Texans up at a mouthful, he'll push straight on, and I know what
will happen then. The Texas boys will whip him out of his boots, or off
his wooden leg."
When these usual questions were disposed of, Santa Anna, looking keenly
at the boy, asked him if he knew the country thereabouts.
"Yes, your Excellency, I know the ground well on both sides of the
Brazos, and for some way east."
"Humph!" said the General, suspiciously; "how comes a boy of your age to
be so competent a guide?"
"My father was a ranchero," was the ready reply. "From a little chap, I
went with him everywhere, until he died, about a year ago. I know the
country almost as well as he did. Try me, and see if I fail."
"Perhaps I shall. My scouts know nothing of this country hereabouts. I
have a mind to send you with them on the enemy's track to bring me news
of their movements. Knowing the country and the people, you may gain
intelligence where they would fail. You can serve me well if you are
faithful; and if you are _not_--well, you deal with Santa Anna!"
"I'll take the job, and the punishment too if I fail," cried John,
eagerly. Then, curbing his impetuosity, lest it should excite suspicion,
he added, quietly: "I suppose your Excellency will furnish me with a
horse? I have none."
"_We_ have a good many, captured from the rebels on the Colorado," said
the General, with a smile of grim satisfaction. "You can take your
choice. And, muchacho, if you serve me well, your property shall be
returned to you uninjured, nor shall that be your only reward."
This was said with a gracious smile. John felt the tiger's claws under
the velvet pat; but his terror was gone now, and he exulted in the hope
of outwitting the cunning Mexican.
The General's orderly showed him the corral where the captured horses
were confined. There was a number of them; but the practised eye of the
ranchero soon picked out the horse he wanted--a beautiful black mustang,
whose satinlike skin, small head, and large bright eyes showed breeding
and intelligence, while his clean-built sinewy limbs gave satisfactory
promise of speed and endurance.
"This is the horse for me," said John, going up to him.
The orderly demurred. "_No, bueno!_" he exclaimed, emphatically. "He has
the temper of the Evil One himself. A muchacho like you will never
master him."
"He'll not show temper with _me_. Look!"
He patted the mustang's glossy neck and stroked its nose, while the
horse stood perfectly still and whinnied low. Then, with a bound, John
was on its back.
For a moment the mustang justified the orderly's bad opinion. With a
vigorous buck it tried its best to throw its rider. But John sat firm,
and his soothing voice and hand soon pacified the wild creature, which
stood quietly by his side when he dismounted, rubbing its head against
his shoulder.
"That horse knows you," said the orderly. "None of us can manage him;
but you are an old friend."
"Maybe so. We had a black colt on the ranch that had the making of as
fine a horse as this, but he was sold, and I don't know what became of
him. I'll try if this is he."
He went some distance from the corral, then called "Texas, Texas!" in
the caressing tone he had always used to his favorite colt. The mustang
trotted up to the fence, thrust its head over it, and looked eagerly
towards the place the voice came from.
"Texas! Texas!" cried John, delightedly, throwing his arms round the
horse's neck and kissing the "lone star" on its forehead, the sole white
spot on its glossy black hide.
The pursuit was resumed next day, and John went out regularly with the
Mexican scouts, and always brought back encouraging reports. Firm in his
conviction that a battle must result in a victory for the Texans,
notwithstanding the greatly superior force of the enemy, John felt
certain that the best service he could render his country would be to
bring about a collision between her invaders and defenders as speedily
as possible.
Meanwhile he learned to know his horse thoroughly. Although Texas
certainly deserved the orderly's assertion that he had the worst of
tempers, he never showed it to John. There was perfect understanding
between horse and rider, and John knew he could rely on Texas in any
emergency.
At last, when the scouts brought news that Houston had reached the San
Jacinto, and would cross the river and continue his retreat next day,
Santa Anna, President of the Mexican Republic and Generalissimo of her
armies, felt that his time for action had come, and John Sibley,
printer-boy, felt the same.
He was in the saddle before daylight next morning, ready for a long
day's scout. They were to scour the country between the two armies, and
send back reports to General Santa Anna. Whether the unusual number of
Mexicans sent out with him that morning was intended to supply
messengers, or a precaution prompted by doubts of his fidelity, John
neither knew nor cared. He patted his mustang's glossy neck, and
whispered in its ear that they two would do great things that day. The
scouts had their work cut out for them, and were off betimes.
They had traversed a good many miles of country, seeing no signs of the
Texans nor hearing anything new of their movements, when at noon they
stopped on the bank of a large wooded creek to rest and refresh
themselves and their horses. John's mustang was not hobbled like the
rest, as he had no fear of its straying, but, to allow it to graze,
freely, the bridle had been removed and was looped over the pommel of
the saddle.
"Unsaddle, Juan, and let your horse roll," said José Cardenas. "That
rests them more than anything else."
"Suppose Houston's scouts come upon us while we're unsaddled and
unbridled?" suggested John.
"_That_ for Houston's scouts!" retorted the Mexican, with a contemptuous
gesture. "He has all he can do to picket his camp. But, _amigo_, I would
prefer to see your horse in the same condition as ours, so if we have to
fight or fly, we may be all on equal terms."
"All right," said John, carelessly.
He removed saddle and bridle and placed them beneath a tree. José gave a
satisfied grunt, and coiled himself on the ground for a _siesta_. His
companions followed his example, and in a short while the camp sank into
utter stillness, the horses' crisp cropping of the long grass being the
only sound disturbing the deep silence.
John raised his head and looked around. No one was watching. The
solitary guard had his back towards him; all the others seemed asleep.
He rose noiselessly and moved towards his horse.
In a tone little above a whisper he called, "Texas!" Instantly the small
head was lifted from the grass, the small ears pointed forward, and the
large intelligent eyes asked plainly, "Do you want me?"
His master replied by a gesture, and the horse walked softly up to him.
John mounted and headed him towards the creek. And then--
"Whither go you, _amigo_?" rang in his ears.
He looked round. José Cardenas had risen, and his hand was on the pistol
in his belt.
"It's time we were all going," called out John, coolly. "Wake the
others, _camarada_, and saddle up while I give Texas another drink."
Cardenas hesitated. He looked at the boy sitting carelessly sidewise on
his horse, he looked at the fine silver-mounted saddle and bridle lying
under the tree, and his suspicion seemed absurd. He removed his hand
from the pistol and turned to rouse his comrades.
With one far-reaching bound, Texas and his rider were over the creek and
dashing through the woods beyond, a jubilant shout ringing back:
"_Adios, camaradas!_ Any message for General Houston?"
The boyish bravado had like to have cost him dear. Before the words were
well out of his mouth a bullet from Cardenas's pistol showered the
leaves from the bough just over his head.
On he dashed, a fusillade of pistol-shots ringing out behind him. But he
did not mind them; he was fast leaving them behind. His horse was in
perfect condition, and as John felt the springy stride beneath him, he
felt sure he could trust Texas to carry him safe out of danger.
"José Cardenas little thought I could ride barebacked as well as on the
finest Spanish saddle," he chuckled to himself, "or he wouldn't have
been so particular about my unsaddling. Ha! ha! what was I born and
raised on a ranch for?"
He pressed on as fast as due care for his horse allowed. He must not
exhaust Texas, for he bore news of vast importance which General Houston
must hear before the sun went down. And should his horse fail him, or
any unforeseen obstacle interrupt his journey, a glorious chance for
victory would be lost to his countrymen, and might never be regained.
He had lost all fear of being overtaken by his late comrades, when the
sound of a horse's hoofs behind him caught his attention. He checked
Texas and listened.
Whoever followed him was coming at furious speed. Should he wait and see
who it was? No; it was too perilous a risk. He must on.
He pressed Texas into a swifter and ever swifter gallop, but the noise
of pursuit grew louder, and was evidently gaining on him. He looked
back. His pursuer was José Cardenas, mounted on a powerful bay, and
coming up hand over hand. Where could he have got that horse? There was
none in the band to match Texas. Ah! the ranch near the creek! Cardenas
had helped himself to the ranchero's best steed to catch him.
What on earth should he do? He could not distance his pursuer, and there
was no chance for concealment on the open prairie. He was armed, but so
was Cardenas; and in a personal encounter he knew well his slight boyish
frame would stand no chance with the stalwart Mexican. But he would not
yield his life and fail in his mission if one lucky shot could save him.
He would have time for but one.
He felt for his pistol. It was gone. How, or when, or where he could not
guess, unless it had fallen from his belt when his horse jumped the
creek. He was at the mercy of his foe, and well he knew that foe would
have no mercy.
Now Texas had other peculiarities besides his fiendish temper. One was a
great dislike to being followed too closely. The sound of hoofs
clattering close behind him rasped his nerves, and he generally let it
be known. John saw that his savage temper was rising now. It had never
troubled _him_, but other individuals, equine and human, had had
frequent occasion to regret it, and the man and horse now in their rear
would probably have the same.
The mustang's ears were laid flat on his head, his lips curled back in a
fiendish grin, and the whites of his eyes showed prominently. And, to
John's horror, he began to slacken his pace. In vain he urged him on.
Slower and slower went Texas, and faster and faster came José Cardenas
and his bay.
Now they were alongside, and Cardenas's hand was extended to grasp
John's collar and drag him from his horse. On the whole, he preferred
not to shoot the muchacho, but to carry him back for Santa Anna's
judgment.
Texas saw that his time for vengeance on his too persistent follower had
come. Whirling around, he measured his distance accurately, and drove
his iron-shod heels into the bay's flank. Again came the flying heels,
this time on Cardenas's bridle arm, and broke it.
With a fierce curse the Mexican changed the bridle to his other hand,
and tried vainly to control his plunging horse. Wherever he plunged
Texas followed, and his swift heels rattled on the unhappy bay's ribs
and his master's limbs indiscriminately. At last no bay was there to
receive them. He had beaten an ignominious retreat, and was carrying his
helpless rider across the prairie as fast as his demoralized condition
would allow. As soon as the foe was fairly routed, Texas recovered his
equanimity and became as gentle as a lamb.
John pursued his journey without further interruption, exulting in the
victory and lavishing praises and caresses on the victor, assuring him
over and over again that he was worthy of the "lone star" on his
forehead and of the land whose name he bore.
They reached the Texan camp at sundown, and John disburdened himself of
his great news. It was to the effect that Santa Anna had divided his
army, part of them to cross the river at a ford several miles below and
strike Houston in flank while Santa Anna attacked him in front.
"And they ain't more'n two to one now, General," concluded John,
eagerly, "and I know you won't retreat for them."
"Not a step, my boy," replied Houston. "We'll not retreat--we'll fight."
So on April 21 the battle of San Jacinto was fought, and the
independence of Texas achieved. John was triumphant at the result of his
calculations, and when the army reoccupied Harrisburg he had the
pleasure of restoring to his quondam chief the entire plant of the
_Weekly Telegraph_ intact.
For himself he asked no reward but the consciousness of having done his
duty at considerable risk to himself, and the possession of his beloved
Texas, who was formally presented to him by General Houston, at the head
of the army, as a slight reward for his devoted patriotism.
The young republic afterward showed her gratitude in a more substantial
manner by granting to John Sibley, his heirs and assigns forever, as
many acres of her virgin soil as formed a magnificent ranch, where John
and Texas lived to the extreme of the years allotted to man or horse,
honored by all who knew them as potent factors in the cause of Texan
independence.
THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."
BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.
XII.
"Snoozer shall have a pancake medal."
This was the first thing Ollie and I heard in the morning, and it was
Jack's voice addressing the hero of the night before. We speedily rolled
out, and agreed with Jack that Snoozer must be suitably rewarded. He
seemed fully to understand the importance of his action in barking at
the right moment, and for the first morning on the whole trip he was up
and about, waving his bushy tail with great industry, and occasionally
uttering a detached bark, just to remind us of how he had done it. He
walked around the pony several times, and looked at her with a haughty
air, as much as to say, "Where would you be now if it hadn't been for
me?"
"He shall have a pancake," continued Jack--"the biggest and best pancake
which the skilful hand of this cook can concoct."
Jack proceeded to carry out his promise, and when breakfast was ready
presented a pancake, all flowing with melted butter, to the dog, which
was as big as could be made in the frying-pan.
"I always knew," said Jack, "that Snoozer would do something some day.
He's lazy, but he's got brains. He would never bark at the moon, because
he knows the moon isn't doing anything wrong, but when it comes to
horse-thieves it's different."
Snoozer munched his pancake, occasionally stopping to give a grand swing
to his tail and let off a little yelp of pure joy.
As we were getting ready for a start, and speculating on the prospect
for water, a man came along, riding a mule, and we asked him about it.
[Illustration: "YAH, BLENTY VATERS. DOAN NEED TO DAKE NO VATERS ALONG."]
"Yah, blenty vaters," said the man. "Doan need to dake no vaters along."
"Any houses on the road?" asked Jack.
"Blenty houses," answered the stranger--"houses, vaters, efferydings."
We thanked him and started. Notwithstanding this assurance, I had
intended to fill a jug with water, but forgot it, and we went off
without a drop. We were going down what was called the Ridge Road, along
the divide between Elk and Elder creeks, and hoped to reach the crossing
of the Cheyenne at Smithville Post-office that evening, and get on the
Reservation the next morning. In half an hour we passed some trees which
marked the site of the Washday Springs, but there was no house there,
nor had we seen one at eleven o'clock. We met an Indian on foot, and
Jack said to him,
"Where can we get some water?"
The Indian shook his head, "Cheyenne River," he replied.
"Isn't there any this side?"
"No," with another jerk of the head. Then he stalked on.
"Yes, and the Indian's right, I'll warrant," exclaimed Jack. "'Blenty
vaters' indeed! Why, that Dutchman doesn't know enough to ache when he's
hurt."
"Well, we're in for it," said I. "We can't go back. Maybe it'll rain,"
though there was not a cloud in sight, and there was more danger of an
earthquake than of a shower.
So we went on, and a little after dark wound down among the black baked
bluffs to the crossing, without any of us having had a drop to drink
since before sunrise. After we had "lowered the river six inches," as
Jack declared, we went into camp.
We were up early in the morning, and Jack went down the river with his
gun, and got several grouse. There was one house near the crossing,
which was the post-office. The man who lived there told us it was a
hundred and twenty-five miles across the Reservation to Pierre, and
twenty miles to Peno Hill, the first station at which we would find any
one. The ford was deep, the water coming up to the wagon-box, and there
was ice along the edges of the river. It was a fine clear day, however,
and the cold did not trouble us much. We wound up among the bluffs on
the other side of the river, and at the top had our last sight of the
Black Hills. We went on across the rolling prairie, black as ink, as the
grass had all been burned off, and reached Peno Hill at a little after
noon. There was a rough board building, one end of it a house and the
other a barn. All of the stage stations were built after this plan. We
camped here for dinner, and pressed on to reach Grizzly Shaw's for the
night. About the middle of the afternoon we passed Bad River Station,
kept by one Mexican Ed.
"I'm going to watch and see if he runs when he sees Snoozer," said
Ollie. Snoozer had insisted on walking most of the time since his
adventure with the horse-thieves; but greatly to Ollie's disappointment
Mexican Ed showed no signs of fear even when Snoozer went so far as to
growl at him.
As it grew dark we passed among the Grindstone Buttes--several small
hills. A prairie fire was burning among them, and lit up the road for
us. We came to Shaw's at last, and went into camp. We visited the house
before we went to bed, and found that Shaw was grizzly enough to justify
his name, and that he had a family consisting of a wife and daughter and
two grandchildren.
"Pierre is our post-office," said Shaw, "eighty-five miles away."
"The postman doesn't bring out your letters, then?" returned Jack.
"We ain't much troubled with postmen, nor policemen, nor hand-organ men,
nor no such things," answered Shaw. "Still, once in a while a sheriff
goes by looking for somebody."
We told him of our experience with thieves, and he said:
"It's a wonder they didn't get your pony. There's lots of 'em hanging
about the edge of the Reserve, because it's a good place for 'em to
hide."
"Must make a very pleasant little walk down to the post-office when you
want to mail a letter," said Jack, after we got back to the
wagon--"eighty-five miles. And think of getting there, and finding that
you had left the letter on the hall table, and having to go back!"
We were off again the next morning, as usual. At noon we stopped at
Mitchell Creek, where we found another family, including a little girl
five or six years old, who carried her doll in a shawl on her back, as
she had seen the Indian women carry their babies. We had intended to
reach Plum Creek for the night, but got on slower than we expected,
owing partly to a strong head-wind, so darkness overtook us at Frozen
Man's Creek.
"Not a very promising name for a November camping-place," said Jack,
"but I guess we'll have to stop. I don't believe it's cold enough to
freeze anybody to-night."
There was no house here, but there was water, and plenty of tall dry
grass, so it made a good place for us to stop. Frozen Man's Creek, as
well as all the others, was a branch of the Bad River, which flowed
parallel with the trail to the Missouri. We camped just east of the
creek. The grass was so high that we feared to build a camp-fire, and
cooked supper in the wagon.
"I'm glad we've got out of the burned region," said Jack. "It's dismal,
and I like to hear the wind cutting through the dry grass with its sharp
swish."
There was a heavy wind blowing from the southeast, but we turned the
rear of the wagon in that direction, saw that the brake was firmly on,
and went to bed feeling that we should not blow away.
"I wonder who the poor man was that was frozen here?" was the last thing
Jack said before he went to sleep. "Book agent going out to Shaw's,
perhaps, to sell him a copy of _Every Man his own Barber; or, How to cut
your own Hair with a Lawn-Mower_."
[Illustration: THE CLOSEST CALL THE "RATTLETRAP" HAD.]
We were doomed to one more violent awakening in the old Rattletrap. At
two o'clock in the morning I was roused up by the loud neighing of the
horses. Old Blacky's hoarse voice was especially strong. As I opened my
eyes there was a reddish glare coming through the white cover. "Prairie
fire!" flashed into my mind instantly, and I gave Jack a shake and got
out of the front of the wagon as quickly as I could. I had guessed
aright; the flames were sweeping up the shallow valley of the creek
before the wind as fast as a horse could travel. Jack came tumbling out,
and we knew instantly what to do. We both ran a few yards ahead of the
wagon and knelt in the grass, and struck matches almost at the same
moment. Jack's went out, but mine caught, and a little flame leaped up,
reached over and to both sides, and then rolled away before the wind,
spreading wider and wider. I beat out the feeble blaze which tried to
work to windward, and ran back to the wagon, while Jack went after the
horses. The coming flames were almost upon us by this time; but Ollie
was out, and together, aided by the wind, we rolled the wagon ahead on
our little new-made oasis of safety. Jack pulled up the pony's
picket-pin, and brought her on also, while the other horses, being
loose, sought the place themselves. The flames came up to the edge of
the burned place, reached over for more grass, did not find it, and died
out. But on both sides of us they rushed on, and soon overtook our
little fire, and went on to the northwest. The wind, first hot from the
fire, now came cool and fresh, though full of the odor of the burned
grass.
"Closest call we've had," said Jack.
"Yes," I replied; "been pretty warm for us if we hadn't waked up. Our
animals are doing better; first Snoozer distinguished himself, and now I
think we've to thank Old Blacky mainly for this alarm."
We were pretty well frightened, and though we went back to bed, I do not
believe that any of us slept again that night. At the first touch of
dawn we were up. As it grew lighter, the great change in the landscape
became apparent. The gray of the prairie was turned to the blackest of
black. Only an occasional big staring buffalo skull relieved the
inkiness. Far away to the northwest we could see a low hanging cloud of
smoke where the fire was still burning.
"Blacky ought to have a hay medal," said Jack at breakfast. "If I had
any hay I'd twist him up one as big as a door-mat."
But Blacky, unlike Snoozer, seemed to have no pride in his achievement,
and he wandered all around the neighborhood trying to find a mouthful of
grass which had been missed by the fire; but he was not successful.
"If the frozen man had been here last night he'd have been thawed out,"
I said.
"Yes; and if Shaw had been here, what a good time it would have been for
him to let the fire run over his hair and clear off the thickest of it!"
returned Jack.
We started on, but the long wind had brought bad weather, and before
noon it began to snow. It kept up the rest of the day, and by night it
was three or four inches deep. We stopped at noon at Lance Creek, and
made our night camp at Willow Creek; at each place there was a stage
station in charge of one man. It cleared off as night came on, but the
wind changed to the north, and it grew rapidly colder. Shortly after
midnight we all woke up with the cold. We already had everything we had
piled on the beds, but as we were too cold to sleep, there was nothing
to do but to get up and start the camp-fire again. This we did, and
staid near it the rest of the night, and in this way kept warm at the
expense of our sleep.
The morning was clear, but it was by far the coldest we had experienced.
The thermometer at the station marked below zero at sunrise. We almost
longed for another prairie fire. It grew a little warmer after we
started, and at about eleven o'clock we reached Fort Pierre, on the
Missouri, opposite the town of Pierre. The ferry-boat had not yet been
over for the day, but was expected in the afternoon.
"You're lucky to get it at all," said a man to us. "It is liable to stop
any day now, and then, till the ice is thick enough for crossing, there
will be no way of getting over."
The boat came puffing across toward night, and we were safely landed
east of the Missouri once more. But we were still two hundred miles from
home; the country was well settled most of the way, however, and we felt
that our voyage was almost ended. Little happened worthy of mention in
the week which it took us to traverse this distance. The weather became
warmer and was pleasant most of the way. On the last night out it snowed
again a little and grew colder. We were still a long day's drive from
Prairie Flower, but we determined to make that port even if it took half
the night.
It was ten o'clock when we saw the lights of the town.
"Here we are," said Jack, "and I vote we've had a good time, and that we
forgive Old Blacky his temper, and Old Browny and Snoozer their
sleepiness, and Ollie his questions, and the rancher his general
incompetence."
"And the cook his pancakes," cried Ollie.
We stopped a little while in front of Squire Poinsett's grocery, and
Jack picked up the big revolver and fired the six shots into the air.
The pony had come alongside the wagon, and Snoozer had his head over the
dash-board. Half a dozen people came running out, including Grandpa
Oldberry, wearing red yarn mittens and carrying a lantern. He held up
the light and looked at us.
[Illustration: "WELL! WELL! WELL!" SAID GRANDPA OLDBERRY.]
"Well, I vum," he exclaimed, "if it ain't them three pesky scallawags
back safe and sound! I've said all along that varmints would get ye
sure, and we'd never see hide nor hair of ye again! Well, well, well!"
It was clear that Grandpa was just a little disappointed to see that his
predictions hadn't been fulfilled.
So the voyage of the good schooner Rattletrap was ended. It had been
over a thousand miles long, and had lasted more than two months.
THE END.
TILL THE GAME IS DONE.
BY SEELYE BRYANT.
Captain "Reddy" Alden, of the Blackwood Academy football team, was not
handsome. He was not even graceful. But his chin "meant business," and
there was a serene look in his eyes which was likely to make a bully
think twice before taking hold of him. His nickname sufficiently
indicated the color of his hair, which grew back from his forehead in a
"cowlick," and showed a tendency, when of approved football length, to
drop in straggling masses down either side of his freckled face.
Reddy--or more properly Mark--was nineteen years old, tall, and
long-armed, with a very slight outward bend of the legs, and a chest not
broad but deep. He looked wiry rather than muscular.
As he started toward the village, one Thursday afternoon, his hands were
in his pockets, his leather cap was on the back of his head, and the
collar of his heavy sweater fell over his shoulders above his
double-breasted coat.
He walked slowly down the hill, as if waiting for some one, and
occasionally turned to look back toward the academy. Soon a clear quick
call stopped him entirely. "Hold on there, Reddy!" it came, and the next
moment "Buck" Harris darted down the hill and caught him by the arm.
The two settled into a brisk walk, and Buck remarked, "I saw Billy Hurd
just now. His knee'll keep him off the field for a month."
"Too bad!"
"Well, what are you going to do?"
"Going to do?"
"Yes. Saturday comes in two days, and with Hurd gone there's no one on
the team safe enough to kick twenty yards."
The Captain smiled grimly, "We'll _run_, then!"
"Why not give up playing Winston this year? It's an extra game, and
they're too heavy for us, anyway. Think what a strain it's going to be
to face that rush-line for the two halves. And if they know enough to
keep Mellen kicking, he'll about kill us before the end of the first
half, making us chase the ball. Besides, he's dead sure to drop a goal
from the field, if he gets any sort of an angle within decent distance
of the posts."
Reddy straightened up, and his blue eyes gleamed.
"That game's no picnic for either side!" he jerked out. "The Blackwood
boys'll play it for all that's in it! Our tricks are good, and I shall
save you for the second half. As for me--well, I was never killed yet,
and I never saw a Blackwood eleven go back on its Captain!"
This was a long speech for Mark Alden, and it had its effect upon his
chum.
* * * * *
Seton Harris was short, thick-set, and very muscular, although his
fashionable clothes and perfect grace of movement might at first deceive
you in regard to his "solid contents."
He had regular features, and clear, glowing cheeks, with handsome eyes,
and dark hair, whose clustering waves even the exigencies of football
could not persuade him to wear at more than conventional length. He was
two years younger than Alden, and a class below him in school.
Their intimacy had been the surprise of the year. When the principal
heard of it he said, "Well, if anything can make a man out of Seton
Harris, it is to room with Mark Alden. I am delighted with the
arrangement, though I confess I do not understand it."
Others felt in the same way, and perhaps the most thoroughly astonished
person in the whole academy was Seton Harris himself!
He had come to Blackwood the year before with an obliging disposition,
no strongly settled principles, and more spending-money than was good
for him. As a natural result, the sort of boys who voted him "a jolly
good fellow," and with whose doings he soon became identified, was not
the sort most likely to make his academy career a success in the eyes of
his teachers.
His great lack was persistence. He hated to face opposition or to keep
steadily at work on anything that was disagreeable.
Still he had plenty of energy when he chose to exert it, and everybody
liked him, even the principal.
He was the fastest short-distance runner in school, and when they made
him "half-back" on the football team he became the "star" of the eleven.
His occasional fits of application had results sufficiently brilliant to
save him from hopeless disgrace in his studies.
But he lived under a chronic state of reprimand for general conduct, his
miscellaneous offences ranging from noisiness in his room during study
hours to absence from the building after proper time at night.
In fact, he had so many executive sessions with the principal that
new-comers were usually informed he was "Doctor Walker's private
secretary." Rumor stated that a member of the entering class was
accustomed to lift his hat when Seton spoke to him!
Even at football the boy could not be depended upon.
In practice and in minor games his play was wonderful. But he was likely
to lose his nerve in a close struggle. It was not that he was actually
afraid. He had physical courage, only his confidence did not meet the
requirements of a "forlorn hope." Once start him with the ball, and he
was all right, seemed perfectly reckless of himself, made those
"phenomenal rushes" that capture a grand stand by storm.
But he seemed unwilling to run after he had failed once or twice to gain
ground. When sharp work was needed, he was not sure of catching the
ball, and might even trip himself up in getting under way.
Besides, the managers continually complained that he was irregular about
training.
This was Buck Harris at the time when steady-going, self-contained Mark
Alden first showed an interest in him. Buck never told exactly how it
happened, and no one ventured to ask Reddy.
But it came to pass, after one of Buck's numberless escapades, near the
beginning of the fall term, that he moved his personal effects into the
large corner room on the second floor where Alden had planned to reign
alone during Senior year.
The escapade in question was unusually serious. The "wild set" had
destroyed some abandoned buildings belonging to a farmer in the lower
village. The owner did not love the Blackwood boys, and vowed to push
the case to the extreme of the law.
"Jest let me git one o' them pesky young villyuns behind the bars 'nd
I'll be satisfied!" he told the postmaster.
Now it chanced that Seton Harris was identified as the particular
"villyun" whom he was most anxious to prosecute. Money would not satisfy
the man, and matters looked black for the culprit.
But, to the surprise of the town, the case did not come to trial.
All that the public knows about it is that Mark Alden walked down to the
lower village with Seton one afternoon, and that when they came out of
the farmer's house, an hour after, the owner was seen to shake hands
with both the boys.
The public does not know what took place as Seton and Mark sat under the
academy maples waiting for supper.
"Reddy, not one of my set would do as you've done for me to-day. I
believe I'd like to cut the whole tough outfit!"
"Why don't you?"
"Too hard work; besides, there's nobody else much that I know very
well."
"Room with me."
Seton gasped, and turned around to look his companion squarely in the
face. "Do you mean it? Wy, I'd drive you crazy!"
"I mean it."
And so it was brought about.
* * * * *
Saturday afternoon, and one o'clock. The old "Elm House" barge drew up
promptly at the academy door. "Pete" Marston had driven that barge for
the boys on every athletic occasion in the last fifteen years. No one
enjoyed the successes or mourned the defeats of Blackwood Academy more
sincerely than Pete.
"I vum, boys, ye look 's if ye cal'lated to start for the north pole
this trip, with all them duds wound round ye!" he called back as the
players tumbled in.
Sweaters, ulsters, toboggan caps, and padded suits made it difficult to
tell where woollen goods left off and the boys began. Buck Harris had
wrapped a huge Turkish towel around himself on top of everything else,
"by way of ornament," he remarked. Buck's dark eyes were the only
visible portion of him, but from the continual "chaff" he kept flying,
the rest knew that somewhere was an open passage to his mouth. Everybody
was talking except Mark Alden. Some were excited, and a few were gayly
indifferent. Mark did not look at all worried; he simply kept quiet.
* * * * *
Half past three o'clock on the grounds of the Winston Normal Institute.
The game with Blackwood was in progress. Mark Alden had just "tackled" a
Winston player in his decided way, which left no doubt as to where the
ball was "down."
"That Captain of yours is an ugly customer, I judge," said the Winston
storekeeper to Pete Marston, who had put up his horses and was leaning
against the fence.
"Waal no, Reddy ain't ugly 'xac'ly. He's square 's a
meetin'-house--ain't afraid 'f th' inside o' one neither; only when
football's on he _plays the game_, that's all. Don't believe he sees
anythin' but the ball, or knows there's anybody here but them players.
He's jes so in ev'rythin' else. 'Twouldn't be no diff'rent if 'twas
drawin' trygomertry figgers on that there blackboard up 't Blackwood
school. He wouldn't hev nothin' in his red head then but rules 'nd
chalk-marks. He ain't jest what I call a chromo fer looks, but he's all
pluck, 'nd I hain't seen no cleaner-talkin', perliter boy in the last
ten years."
* * * * *
It was a disheartened group that gathered in the Blackwood dressing-room
for the intermission when the game was half over. Winston had five
points, Blackwood none. Buck Harris had fumbled the ball almost in front
of his own goal. A Winston man immediately dropped on it, and in the
play that followed Mellen had kicked a clean goal from the field at
twenty-eight yards.
As the last man came in and shut the dressing-room door Harris dropped
on the bench and groaned out:
"It's all my fault, boys, but we're beaten now. We're all worn out. The
next half'll be a regular procession."
"Buck, that's enough."
The boys stared. Mark Alden seldom spoke like that, but he was stern
enough now.
"Set won't fumble again, I'll answer for that. Get rubbed down, all of
you, and then rest till time is called. This game is young yet."
And loosening his jacket Mark pulled a towel from the rack.
* * * * *
It was evident in the last "half" that Winston was on the defensive. Its
players merely tried to keep Blackwood from scoring. They made some
pretense of running with the ball for the sake of using up time; but
their real work was done by their brilliant full-back, Mellen, whose
sure kicks carried the ball far down the field whenever their goal-line
was in danger.
These tactics succeeded until a few minutes of time remained. Buck
Harris was doing nobly, and had nearly succeeded in getting a
touch-down, but the next play gave Winston the ball. The two elevens
were lining up for Mellen's inevitable kick, when Barstow, of the
Winstons, passed near the Blackwood Captain.
Alden's hair was flying wildly about his face. His cheeks were flushed.
He was dark under the eyes and pale about the mouth and forehead. His
lips were tightly closed, and his nostrils wide apart. One stocking was
half-way down his leg, his canvas jacket was torn in several places,
and, in spite of the chill air, perspiration soaked him through and
through.
Ned Barstow knew him well, and could not resist a bantering word.
"How d'you like it, Reddy?"
"Blackwood's never beaten _till the game is done_!" came through Mark's
set teeth.
The ball was kicked on along slant, more across than down the field, and
as the players scattered to follow it, Mark and Seton found themselves
running together off at one side away from the rest. The ball, which had
gone over their heads, was still in the air, but very near. Directly
behind them there was almost a clear field to the Winston goal-line.
"I'll catch it, Buck," Mark whispered. "You be all right to start when I
give it to you. Keep behind me when I turn around; we can't afford a
foul pass!"
It was on the ground before they reached it, but Mark snapped it up and
shot it under his arm to his chum, who darted up the field behind him.
The two were fairly started before the others saw what had happened.
Fleet-footed Buck Harris, plus a clear field and Reddy Alden for
interference!
"[Illustration: BUCK'S BLOOD WAS UP, AND HE TURNED THE FULL-BACK
COMPLETELY OVER."]
No wonder the Blackwood crowd yelled with delight. Winston men started
across the field to head off the runners, but only two reached Harris.
Barstow dodged Alden, and threw himself straight for Buck's knees. With
a surprising wriggle the boy jumped clear over him, and left him
sprawling. He was fairly caught, though, by Mellen, about a yard from
the line. But his blood was up now, and by a supreme muscular effort he
turned the full-back over, and together they rolled across. A
touch-down!
Score: Winston, 5 points; Blackwood, 4.
Of course pandemonium reigned for a few minutes! Then the spectators
calmed down, and the ball was brought out for the kick. Time was up, but
the rules allowed the try for goal.
Captain Alden walked steadily toward the ball, which was held by the
quarter-back, and just as it touched the ground his foot struck it
fairly and drove it over the bar between the posts. A goal! Two points
more.
Score: Blackwood, 6; Winston, 5.
It was Seton Harris who got the credit of saving the game, but Mark
Alden did not care.
"Buck was really the only man who could make that run," he said to
himself, "and it'll do him lots of good to have kept his nerve in one
tight place."
Besides, Blackwood was not beaten, and the game was done!
A RACE WITH DACOITS ON MY BICYCLE.
BY DAVID GILMORE.
I believe I was the first man to ride a bicycle in Rangoon. I know I was
the cause of much wonder to the natives, who would stare in open-eyed
astonishment to see a white man scorching by on a little iron carriage
with two wheels. When I chanced to dismount, they would gather around
and take a look at the machine, finger the tires, ask how much it cost,
and finally grunt out some such remark as "_Teh goundy, naw?_"--Pretty
good, isn't it? It was pleasant to be the centre of all this admiration,
but not so pleasant when I turned the admiration into amusement by
coasting boldly down a steep hill, making a sharp turn just in time to
avoid a deep ditch, and driving full speed into a most unyielding fence.
It is peculiarly mortifying to be laughed at by those whom you regard as
your social inferiors.
When I arrived in Rangoon, it was just after the "dacoit times." Dacoits
are the highway-robbers of India. They work in gangs, and travel over
the country plundering, murdering, and sacking and burning the villages
in the jungle. They carry guns when they can get them; but as the
English are very careful to confiscate guns found in the possession of
natives, the dacoits are generally armed with _dahs_, as the Burmese
swords are called.