From the West to the West

“I thought it was arranged that Sally was to join us at Quincy, on the Mississippi,” said Captain Ranger, after they were safely landed in the Indians’ territory.

“That was the agreement between Jean and myself,” interposed the frightened fugitive, still holding her babies close; “but I overheard a conversation at St. Louis that changed my plans. I was in hiding, down among the wharf-rats and niggers on the river-bank, in a cheap hash-house, half scow and half log cabin. The walls were thin, and I couldn’t sleep much, so I heard most everything that was going on, out o’ doors and in. And one night by the help of the good Lord I overheard a voice that I knew was Sam’s. He was telling a pal that he was hunting his runaway wife. He said she had stolen his babies, and he meant to get ’em, dead or alive.”

“I thought you’d led him off on an altogether different scent,” exclaimed Jean.

“So did I. But it appears that his mother got on the scent somehow, and betrayed me. I don’t know why she did it, for she was over-anxious to be rid of the children. But I suppose she was moved by an impulse of spite or revenge. I heard Sam say he’d overhaul us at Quincy, so I had good reason to change my route.”

“You had a close call, Mrs. O’Dowd!” exclaimed the Captain, earnestly. “I don’t know as he could have put me in limbo for harboring you, but he could have made it go hard with me for hiding the children. I hate a law-breaker; but what is a fellow to do in such a case?”

“God has been merciful to me, Squire. I felt all along that I would get away safe and sound.”

“Wouldn’t God have done a better job to have saved you in the first place?” asked the Captain, dryly.

“How did you get money to pay your travelling expenses?” asked Mary.

“I’ve a confession to make to you and Mrs. Ranger, Captain. Will you promise not to scold?”

“I’ll know better what to promise after I’ve learned the provocation. Don’t be afraid to tell the truth. Speak out. Don’t mind the gals.”

“I stole three hundred dollars—it was my own money—from Mother O’Dowd,” she whispered. “It didn’t seem so very wicked. She got my home without any equivalent, you know.”

“Oh, Sally! How could you?” asked Mrs. Ranger, her cheeks blanching.

“Do you think it was wicked to take my own money and my own children, when I had the opportunity?”

“It was a theft, certainly, under the law; and it is always wrong to steal,” retorted Mrs. Ranger.

“We must uphold the majesty of the law, if necessary, at the muzzle of our guns!” said the Captain, loftily.

“How about Dugs and her coon?” asked Jean, with a silvery laugh.

“That was different. Slavery, as I have often said before, is wrong, and no contingency can make it right.”

“You are making a distinction where there is no perceptible difference, except in the matter of complexion,” exclaimed Mrs. Ranger.

“Did Dugs, the slave, have money?” asked Mrs. O’Dowd.

“Dugs hasn’t taken me into her confidence,” said the Captain. “What in creation are we to do with you all?”

“There’ll be a way, John; don’t worry,” said his wife. “‘Trust in the Lord and do good, and verily thou shalt be fed.’”

“Do you know,” said Sally, turning to the Captain, “that the pretty little blonde in black, whom I see over yonder, is a jewel? I met her on the street this morning, on her way to the ferry, with her mother and her carriage and wagons and drivers. I was getting desperate with the fear that I couldn’t overtake you; and I knew there was no time to be lost. So I told her my story. I may have exaggerated somewhat, for I told her you had agreed to take me and the babies to Oregon. I said I had been detained (which was true) and I must overtake you before you crossed the river. She didn’t wait to ask a question, but bundled us all into her carriage without a word.”

“Didn’t I tell you you could trust my daddie?” asked Jean, aside. “He’s a whole lot better than he thinks he is.”

“Father thinks he is a stickler for the law,” said Mary, with a chuckle.

Indians came and went in great numbers around and into the company’s first night’s camp on the plains, sometimes growing insolent in their persistent demands for food and articles of clothing, but on the whole peaceable and friendly. Every man, woman, and child was under orders to give them no cause for offence, the Captain hoping, by example, to disarm hostility. But he soon learned that this liberal policy brought hordes of beggars; and the necessity of carefully guarding their freight was made apparent the next morning, when they found their breakfast supplies had been stolen, and with them the cooking utensils. The Captain found it necessary to send a messenger back to St. Joseph to purchase fresh supplies before they could go on.

The next day’s drive over the beautiful prairie was without unusual incident. The roads were good, the soil rich, and the undulating landscape perfect.

“Lengthy and Sawed-off are bringing in a buffalo,” cried Hal.

“We had one yesterday,” said Mrs. Ranger. “The game ought not to be slaughtered in this wasteful manner. You ought to stop it, John.”

“Men are still in a state of savagery,” replied her husband.

“The instinct to kill is as strong in us as it was in the days of Agamemnon,” said Scotty.

“Or the Cæsars,” exclaimed the little widow.

“We’ll need this meat for food before we get to Oregon,” said Mrs. Ranger, surveying the huge carcass of the fallen monarch thoughtfully. “We must cut the flesh into strips and dry it, Indian fashion, in the sun.”

“But we can’t stop to dry it, Annie,” exclaimed her husband.

“We needn’t stop, John. We can get the men to cut it into strips while in camp. Here is a ball of strong cord. We can string the strips of meat on the cord and festoon it along the outsides of the wagon covers.”

“A woman is a born provider,” exclaimed Scotty. “We men may take to ourselves the credit for the care of women and children, but we’d soon be on the road to starvation if it were not for the protecting care of the mother sex, to help us out.”

Mrs. Ranger, pleased with the praises of her family and the teamster, sank back on her pillows and slept fitfully.

“It pays a mother to rear a family of loyal children,” said Mrs. O’Dowd to Mrs. McAlpin, with whom she had become quite intimate. “I’d rather be an honored mother, like Mrs. Ranger, than be a Queen Elizabeth or a Madame de Staël.”

“I believe I’ll reconnoitre a little, Annie, if you don’t mind,” said the Captain, after the camp was still. “I’d like to study the lay o’ the land from the adjacent heights. You won’t miss me?”

“No, John. Or, I mean, I won’t mind it. You must learn, sooner or later, to depend upon yourself for company, my dear. And you’d better practise a little beforehand.”

“What do you mean, Annie?”

“Can’t you see that I’ll not be able to finish this journey, John?”

“Nonsense, Annie! Just be patient till we get to Oregon. I mean to build you a pretty room, away from the noise of the household, where you’ll enjoy the fruits of your labors. I’ve hired Dugs to be your body-servant during the remainder of your days.”

“I’ll change her name, John. I’ll have nobody around me that answers to the name of Dugs. It isn’t a good name for a dog.”

“What’ll you call her?”

“Susannah.”

“What if she objects?”

“She’s already agreed to the change, if it suits you and the girls.”

John Ranger laughed.

“So-long!” he cried, and galloped away to a point overlooking a bend in the river, where he loosened the reins and allowed the mare to nibble the tender herbage, which, tempted by the sunshine, was clothing the moist earth in a covering of grass and buttercups.

“O life,” he cried, “what a mystery you are! How puny, yet how mighty! The living rain comes down in silent majesty upon the sleeping earth; the living sunshine melts the ice and snow; and the living earth, awakening from her season of hibernation, answers back to rain and sun with a power of reproduction that defies the mighty law of gravitation, and sends outward and up toward the living sky the living vegetation that sustains the living man. O sky, all a-twinkle with your myriads of stars, how inscrutable you are in your infinitude! And how like a worm of the dust is man, who has no power to hold in the precious body of even the woman he loves the mystery of existence, of which Creation is the only master!”

Below him, so far away that it gleamed like a silver ribbon in the starlight, ran the muddy Missouri, carrying in its turbid waves the débris of the Mandan district, and bearing on its troubled breast the throng of river craft at whose little windows hundreds of lights were twinkling, like diamonds on parade. Beyond gleamed the moving steamers and their accompanying hosts of lesser boats, now nestling close to the water’s edge, and now climbing in irregular fashion toward the uplands at the town of St. Joseph; and, far beyond, his mental eyes beheld the homes of his own and his Annie’s beloved parents.

“I do wonder if it is really wrong for me to leave them in their old age, and take Annie away also,” he said to himself, half audibly, as he continued his gaze over the dim expanse of silence that surrounded him on every hand.

There was no answer. He gave Sukie the rein and bowed his head upon his hands, and wept. How long he remained alone, absorbed in the mingled emotions that possessed him, he did not know. He took no note of time, and Sukie moved leisurely over the plain, daintily cropping the tender grass.

“I was ambitious, selfish, and exacting,” he exclaimed at last, as a sharp gust of wind slapped him in the face. “Annie doesn’t complain; but she is fading from my sight. It is all my fault. If she could be happy, she would soon be well. I wonder if I ought not to take her back to her father and mother and her childhood’s home. Everybody would laugh; but what should I care? Are not the life and happiness of my wife worth more to me than all the world’s approval?” Then, after a long silence, he tightened the reins and said: “Come, Sukie; let’s go back to camp. Right or wrong, I must go ahead. I’ve burned my bridges behind me.”

As he expected, Scotty was found sitting in the midst of an audience at Mrs. McAlpin’s camp-fire. He was discoursing on his travels in Egypt, and had collected about him quite a crowd.

“The earth is old, very, very old,” the teamster was saying. He arose to make room for Captain Ranger, as he passed the reins to Jean, who, with Mary and Marjorie, had been an enraptured listener. “The comparative topography of Central America and northern Africa excites the liveliest speculation. When I was in Darien, I found many features among the ruins abounding in the jungles of the isthmus, strikingly similar to those one sees in the land of the Pyramids. True, the analogy is not always apparent, because the almost total absence of rain in Egypt is exchanged for an almost total lack of dry skies in Panama and Yucatan. Science scoffs at my assumptions, because I cannot prove them; but I’d bet a million if I had it, and wait for the fact to be proven—as it surely will be some day—that there was once a continuous continent between the homes of the early Pharaohs and those of a prehistoric people who inhabited the two Americas.”

“I’ve often reached a similar conclusion myself when visiting the prehistoric scenes of both hemispheres,” said Mrs. McAlpin. “Sometime, not so very remote in the history of the planet, there must have been a sudden and awful cataclysm, such as might result from a change in the inclination of the earth’s axis, of which history can as yet give no authentic account.”

“Then the fabled Atlantis may not be so much of a fable, after all,” exclaimed Mary.

“Do you suppose any of you know what you are talking about?” asked Captain Ranger.

“The world has scarcely yet begun to read the testimony of the air, the earth, the water, and the rocks,—especially of this Western Continent,” said Scotty, with a respectful bow to his captain.

“That’s true,” remarked Mrs. McAlpin, rising to end the interview. “Travel in any direction broadens and enlightens anybody who has eyes to see or ears to hear.”

“Or a soul to think,” echoed Jean.

“Say, Scotty, have you watered your steers?” asked Captain Ranger, in a sarcastic tone.

“By Jove! I forgot. Good-evening, ladies!” The teamster turned away, crestfallen.

“Excuse me, madam; I didn’t intend to be rude,” said the Captain, as he paused to say good-night; “but we’ve embarked on a journey in which theories must be set aside for duties sometimes,—that is, if we’re ever to see Oregon.”