Part 1

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed. New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

[Illustration: COME TO BE MARRIED. Frontier.]

ON THE FRONTIER,

OR

SCENES IN THE WEST.

[BY]

[Charles Henry Pearson]

_Written for the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society,_

_and approved by the Committee of Publication._

BOSTON: MASSACHUSETTS SABBATH SCHOOL SOCIETY DEPOSITORY, NO. 13 CORNHILL.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by the

MASS. SABBATH SCHOOL SOCIETY,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

STEREOTYPE AT THE

BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.

— — — — — —

PRINTED BY WRIGHT & POTTER.

CONTENTS. ————

ADVENTURE ON A WESTERN STEAMER

DEATH ON THE PRAIRIE

GOING FOR LUMBER

LIGHT FOR THE PRAIRIE

A RIDE TO A WESTERN WEDDING

THE LITTLE MOUND IN THE WEST

A WALK WITH A STRANGER

A FRONTIER TRAGEDY

FRONTIER WOMEN

THE MIDNIGHT CALL

THE WORLD-WANDERER

THE PASTOR'S DREAM

A SMILE, A GLANCE, A HYMN

A LOST OPPORTUNITY

"NOT IN VAIN"

THE PRAYING BANKRUPT

"A SOFT ANSWER"

THAT PROMISE

AFTER MANY DAYS

MY COUSIN

INCIDENT IN A DEPOT

MY STEP-MOTHER

ON THE FRONTIER.

[Illustration]

ADVENTURE ON A WESTERN STEAMER.

I HAD been for some years in poor health, and, at length, became almost prostrated in body and mind. Physicians advised a change of climate, recommending the Northwest as adapted to restore the tone of my physical system, and save my lungs from disease.

Having never visited the region designated, I wrote a letter of inquiry to a friend who had just returned from that part of the country. Among other things, in reply, he said, "Should you go West, beware of the Mississippi River desperadoes. In taking a steamer, appropriate a state-room to yourself; do not, on any consideration, share one with a stranger. Let the money you take with you be in gold, and what you do not at once need secure about your person, thus." Then followed an ingenious method of secreting it. At the close of his communication, the caution concerning the money and the state-room was repeated.

Now, it is all very well, doubtless, for the physician with a lucrative practice to advise his patient to take a long and expensive journey, and the well-to-do merchant, with characteristic foresight, to describe the best way of taking care of surplus funds; but how one whose income was "five hundred a year, and sass," as Peep at No. 5 has it, could make such directions useful, was a question.

Nevertheless, in one such case, at least, that problem was solved; I will not say "how," without the permission of the generous friends who saved heart and brain that tug. So one pleasant autumn morning found me on my way to the El Dorado of broken-down dyspeptics and pining consumptives.

A ride of fourteen hundred miles from my sick-room, and I was at Dubuque, weary, yet impatiently awaiting the steamer that was to take me to the rolling prairies and bracing air of Minnesota. I had seen "the lions," and had nothing to do but that most patience-trying of all vocations in this railroad era to wait—for a delaying conveyance. Hour after hour passed, and I had about given up expecting the boat, when the porter, touching his cap, said, "The steamer is coming, sir. Shall I take your baggage to the landing?"

What a swarming hive was that Mississippi steamer! What part of the world was not represented in that motley, jostling throng!

My first business was to secure a state-room, for it was plain that all on board would not have beds that night. Just then my friend's advice recurred, and I resolved it should be followed.

"I would like a state-room entirely to myself," said I to the clerk. "Can I be accommodated?"

"Can't tell about 'that!'" said he, crustily. Then, looking over his book, "Yes, here's 'one' empty—'forty-nine;' and here's the key," handing a key to which was attached a strip of leather marked 49.

I was enough of an invalid to retire early, and, having disposed of my valise, turned to fasten the door, when, on inserting the key, I found that it would not fit the lock. Returning to the office, my very meek statement of the unpleasant fact did not add to the amiability of the clerk. He couldn't be responsible for every key on the boat; if the wrong one had been labeled forty-nine, it wasn't "his" fault. "All is," said he, "that's the only state-room, and that's the only key to it 'I' know of!"

There was no redress. I could only go back to the state-room, barricade the door with such articles as were at hand, and make the best of it.

How welcome "nature's sweet restorer" to the sick and weary traveler, and how "unwelcome" to have its blissful spell disturbed, thought I, as strong-lunged voices banished my slumber. Looking from the little window at the head of my berth, an animated scene was presented. On an elevated stand was perched a well-dressed man, playing on a shrill-voiced accordeon a popular air, accompanying it with a superb voice; the swaying mass of humanity around joining in the chorus; scores of voices in unison making stentorian melody. I was in no mood to sympathize with their enjoyment, but felt rather like the old lady, who, not approving of martial music, as the military pageant was passing, stepped out, and requested the band to stop playing.

Till eleven o'clock the noisy music continued, when a tall, red-faced man, who made it his business to tease the musician, dropped a satirical remark in one of the pauses in the concert about a certain duet by a cracked voice and a badly cracked accordeon. The leader of the orchestra, with the over-sensitiveness of his class, declared, in high wrath, he would play no more—an announcement which, very ungratefully, was received with cheers, and the passengers separated for the night.

Just from the sick-room, the journey and the loss of rest had so jaded me, that at once, as soon as it was quiet, I fell into a deep sleep. Suddenly, however, I was again aroused, by the falling of some article to the floor, and, rising upon my elbow, saw a face peering in at the door, as if some one was making exertions to enter.

It was a swarthy face, with shaggy eyebrows and heavy black beard, and the reader can feel assured it did not impress me at all favorably in the dim light and the dead silence.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I have come to turn in!" said my visitor, stepping fully into view.

"You have mistaken the number," said I: "this is my room."

"I think 'you' are mistaken," he coolly replied: "this is forty-nine, I believe? Yes," added he, stepping back, and reading the number on the door, "forty-nine," then exhibiting a key on which that number was marked.

"There is something wrong," I replied, "and I can not submit to intrusion."

"And I can not be kept out of my berth," he rejoined, determinedly. "The clerk sent me here not three minutes ago, with this key, and here I intend to stay."

"We will see what the clerk says about it," said I, starting out to find him.

My intruder followed; but the office lights were out, and save the echo of our footsteps, and the strain and rush of the boat, silence brooded in the vast floating palace.

"The clerk has turned in, I guess," said my new acquaintance, "the rascal! He was here not more than three minutes ago. What's to be done?"

I reflected a moment. A short time before, a passenger, walking the boat at night, mysteriously disappeared; his agonized family being put ashore the next morning penniless and without a protector. I must confess that, under the circumstances, I scarcely knew which to choose—the state-room with the stranger, or the open boat without the stranger, but concluded to take the former. So, returning together, and taking the upper of the tier of berths, I resolved to keep watch for the rest of the night, ready for any emergency. My unwelcome companion took the berth next below me.

It was not hard to keep awake after the events of the evening; and yet the moments moved slowly. Full two hours passed, and I was deliberating whether or not to dismiss my suspicions and go to sleep, when weariness overcame me, and I dropped into a restless slumber. How long this continued I can not tell; but suddenly a hand glided across my chest, pausing at the very spot where the gold had been secreted. The feat was accomplished with surprising dexterity, and, glancing in the direction from which the hand came, I found myself gazing into the same eyes that had peered in at me from the half-opened door! But the expression! Never had I seen any thing so fiendish—such a look of murderous determination. The left hand was at the gold, while the right held a gleaming knife. I felt that my hour had come. And yet it was not the glittering blade that filled me with horror, so much as the pitiless, demoniac expression of those eyes glaring from out their deep sockets. The blood froze in my veins. All power of resistance or of motion was gone. I could even feel the keen point of the knife entering my quivering flesh, before, with one last, desperate effort, I succeeded in throwing off the deathlike stupor. Happily, that final effort availed, and, raising myself in the attitude of resistance, I awoke—awoke to hear my new friend, who yet remained peaceably in bed, make our room resound with certain nasal sounds, which, if not as musical as one could wish, were not just then wholly unwelcome.

Morning dawned clear and beautiful, showing a more preposessing face on the person of my suspected room-mate. He was from the good city of Hartford, Conn., and, from motives similar to my own, had secured, as he supposed, a state-room to himself, and having "the key to the only empty state-room,"—"forty-nine,"—was as much astonished at finding it occupied, as I was at being intruded upon.

"But," said he, laughing, "I had no objections to passing the night with you!"

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because I knew you to be an honest man!"

"Ah, how did you know that?"

"From your anxiety to be alone."

DEATH ON THE PRAIRIE.

THE long, terribly cold winter was nearly over, when my hibernating was enlivened by a caller,—a man of some note with us, having traits which mark the frontier chieftain.

Brave, and physically powerful, he sometimes takes the law into his own hands, and settles quarrels. Not a few "new country" differences, of threatening aspect, have vanished before his stalwart form. As when, for example, a tempting "claim" was in dispute, and the rival party had gathered in force to drive the other away. Coolly listening to the altercation, he would espouse the side he judged in the right,—perhaps the weaker; then, laying aside his coat, as their champion, offer to decide the case by an appeal to muscular force, announcing himself ready to meet "any three" of the trespassers. But, however, the challenge was not accepted. Whether the sight of that huge fist excited fear, or conscience, or both, it proved a potent pacificator.

He was also well read,—a fluent public speaker, when once under way, and in debate, an opponent not to be despised. A politician, too, he had graced more than one new State legislature. And though in his early days in Maine he stood well as a church-member, he was now, alas! an avowed skeptic;—perhaps not a strange sequence to years of migratory life in California and the West.

Many a fine chat had Mr. B. and I enjoyed together, seated before the ample clay-stick-and-stone fireplace in his cabin, as he solaced himself with his pipe of an evening; and though, at times, I pressed home the claims of religion, he was not offended, if not convinced. But this was before the fierce wintery blockade had cut off neighborly intercourse.

The object of his call was at once stated. It appeared that, recently, having got out of supplies, he had ventured to break a road to M—, a settlement eleven miles distant, to buy flour and other stores. While there, he heard that a lad, twelve years of age, was frozen to death on the prairie, the first of the season, and that the parents were so deeply afflicted that it was feared the mother's reason would be unsettled. His sympathies being stirred, he visited the sorrowing household to offer consolation. To his surprise, his words were powerless. Nothing he could say, however kind or well-reasoned, reached their case; and, baffled, he saw they needed divine sympathy, of which he could not speak. He advised them, therefore, to call in a Christian minister.

Weepingly, they rejoined that they knew not as there was one in all the region.

"There is one tarrying in my neighborhood," he replied, "and I doubt not he will cheerfully come, preach a funeral discourse at your house, and do all he can for your peace of mind."

"And now," said he, after narrating the above, "if you will set a time to go over, I will carry them word, that they may arrange for your coming, and give due notice of the sermon."

It was with no little satisfaction that I made the appointment. For what more exalted privilege than to bear the balm of the gospel to bleeding hearts! Moreover, the testimony my infidel friend had thus unwittingly borne to Christianity, was exceedingly gratifying, and led me to hope for his further enlightenment.

The day set for the services at M— dawned calm and clear, with a slight relenting of the cold. A good brother had offered the use of his handsome span and a generous pair of "runners," and calling for Mr. B., who, with a show of reluctance, consented to accompany us, we set out. A choir had been extemporized for the occasion. It was composed of persons originally from various States and from Canada, a miniature specimen of western society. Strewing the bottom of the long pung with clean straw, and taking our seats thereon, the better to screen us from the sharp, frosty air, and carefully enveloped in blankets and buffalo robes, the ride was made quite comfortable.

"There's the house!" said Mr. B., at length, as we began to ascend a swell of land, on which stood a pretty painted cottage, reminding one of New England. On the extended ridge grew the burr oak, with almost the regularity of cultivation,—producing the illusion that we were passing through an eastern orchard. In the background were cleared fields, well fenced, and the river belted with forest trees. It was a charming place, and an exclamation of delight broke from our company. One glance assured us that this was the abode of taste and thrift. The interest awakened by exteriors was not lessened when I met the inmates. The master of the house impressed me as a large-hearted, industrious man in his business enterprises, and in social relations kind and affectionate. His wife and a married sister entered the room soon after our arrival, neatly dressed in mourning; the former pale and worn; the gentle, refined face of the latter, sad and sympathizing. They were from Vermont, accustomed to the best influences of that goodly State, the stamp of which was indelibly placed on them.

The story of the parent's sorrow was heart-touching.

Judson, the son they mourned, was the eldest of five children,—a child of promise; "the flower of the family," as the neighbors expressed it. He had a mind mature beyond his years, and was a dutiful son. For some weeks before his decease, a change had taken place in his health. Without any known cause, his bodily strength wasted.

And, on the subject of religion, his feelings became tender and earnest. That ripening for the Reaper, by unearthly culture, sometimes witnessed in children, despite the most unpropitious circumstances, just ere they pass away, was his blessed experience. Deep questions about God and Christ and Heaven he revolved by himself. Questions of duty he was often propounding to the parents' slumbering consciences. His father had been a consistent member of the church, and faithful in family duties years before, but in the absorbing cares of frontier life, and the destitution of religious privileges, becoming backslidden, he had forsaken the family altar, and his conversation was utterly worldly. The son, with shadows of eternity deepening on his pathway, and the Spirit gently leading him, became unhappy in view of the parental shortcomings.

With tearful, pleading eyes, he would often say, "Oh, why don't father read the Bible and have prayers as he used to, mother?"

And the mother would ponder these things in her heart.

One day an elk had been shot some three miles out on the prairie, and a party were going with a wagon to bring it in. Watson Freeman, a companion of Judson's, and two years his senior, was going with the hunters, and Judson asked his mother's permission to accompany him. Contrary to her custom, for she watched over her idol with jealous care, she gave her consent, "scarcely knowing," as she told me, "what she said." The boys, as the team went slowly, soon got out and followed on behind. Excited by the expedition, they noticed not that the horses were gradually leaving them, till a great weariness fell on the more delicate of the two. He complained of being too tired to walk, and his young friend called to the men: "Stop a moment and let Judson get in. He's tired!"

"Can't wait," replied the hunter; "if he wants to ride he must run and catch up!"

The poor boy tried to rouse himself to hasten, but in vain.

His companion, alarmed, entreated the driver to wait, saying, "Do stop, just a moment, Judson's so weak! Do let him get in; he can't run a step; he can scarcely walk!"

"Well, let him stay where he is, then!" was the rough answer. "If he's too much of a baby to walk he ought to have staid at home!" And quickly the wagon was out of sight.

Meanwhile the cold increased. The sky became overcast. And a snow-squall, such as frequently sweeps the prairies of the northwest in late autumn, set in. The blinding flakes were whirled about with the fury peculiar to the storm where the wind, unobstructed, gathers mightiest force, and the enfeebled boy felt a deathly chill striking to his vitals, and said, "O Watson, I'm freezing to death!"

His companion saw the danger, and, exposing himself to the terrible air, as he took off his own coat, and wrapped his friend in it, he replied, cheerfully, "There! That will keep you warm, I guess. Now take hold of my hand, and we'll go right home. I'll help you all I can. 'I' can find the way!" And, turning about, they started for the settlement.

Those who have known, as I have, the hardy pioneer to become bewildered and lost close to his own dwelling, when overtaken by one of those violent tornado-like storms, his cries for help drowned in the roar of the tempest, will understand the nature of the task which that brave young heart proposed to itself.

An instance of the kind occurred about the time of the event I am relating. A settler, experienced in frontier life, had gone to attend to his cattle, which were yarded in a temporary rail enclosure, a few rods from his cabin. While busied there, suddenly the dusky wing of the snow-tempest obscured the heavens. Hastily finishing his task, he started for home. Already every object was hidden in the awful gloom, and how the maddened gusts charged upon, and smote and baffled him!—pelting him with the cruel sleet; filling eyes and nostrils, nay, almost burying him with the driving drifts. The sharp coldness cut to the bones. The whole air was in commotion,—hissing, howling, wailing, groaning. Downward rushed the heavy snow-clouds, upward shot opposing columns, with surprising speed and strength; from every quarter to every quarter the whirlwind hurled the swift moving flakes. He had cleared forests in Michigan, and conquered hardships in prairie land, but now the strong man was at his wit's end; hoping each moment, as he was tossed about in the mighty tumult, to reach his destination, only to be perplexed in his disappointment. Meanwhile, the families at home—for two occupied the dwelling—had become alarmed for him. Two stout men set off for his rescue, shouting his name. They returned, unable to cope with the rage of the elements. Getting their guns, they made another attempt. The report of the firearms reached the lost man's ear. He had been whirled about near the locality from whence he had started; and when the sound of the gun reached him, in his bewilderment, he was going directly out "to the solitudes of the prairie." A moment more and he would have been beyond recovery.

It was a mile and a half to the nearest dwelling, and they had gone only a few rods when Watson perceived his playmate could proceed no further, and, with a heroism beyond his years, he took him on his back and bore him on, on; the raging winds disputing the way, and the snow beating against him pitilessly.

Three quarters of a mile—the neighbors afterward estimated—did that noble boy carry his precious burden, nerved to strange strength by the love that was in his heart, and the consciousness that life or death hung on the issue. But the hands about his neck relaxed their hold, and his own step faltered; so, coming to a lonely oak, he leaned his charge against it, and covering him up carefully with the over-garment, bidding him not to be afraid, fled for help.

As soon as possible, he returned with a wagon, accompanied by its owner and a neighbor. By the side of the tree they found him, covered with a fleecy robe, sitting there still and silent, a faint trembling of the pulse was all that told that life was not extinct. What had been his thoughts there alone amid the wild storm; what the tenacity with which his young heart clung to life,—the yearnings for father, mother, little brothers; what the agonized soul-cries that ascended above the voices of the tempest, piercing heaven, or what visions of angel ministrants strengthening him in the last conscious struggle, there was none to tell. He was speechless.

Laying him gently in the vehicle, they drove for his home. Bursting open the door, they bore the child in,—rash, kind men! "Judson was dead!" Not an intimation had the parents received that evil had befallen their son, since a few short hours before he had gone forth in his young joy. The blow fell with stunning force, it was so sudden, so unexpected; and while the father was sorely stricken, the mother mourned in an agony that "refused to be comforted."

"Oh, that he had been taken away from before our eyes by disease, then we might have been prepared for it!" she exclaimed. "But to have him perish all alone, with no one near to speak to, no one by to soothe his last moments! Left, too, so brutally by neighbors who, if they had been at all humane, might have saved him from such a fate. And to bury him without a minister of the gospel to speak to us from God's word, and offer prayer, it was so revolting, so dreadful!"

"Did you have no funeral service?" I asked.