Part 5

The speculator, on entering my apartment, examined the lock to the door and added another fastening. He then seemed to breathe freely. His joy at the change was almost childish. Depositing his valuables at the foot of 'my' bed, as if he thought somehow they would be safer there, he soon fell into a peaceful sleep, from which he awoke in the morning, to renew his protestations of gratitude at what he deemed his escape from threatening peril.

"But," said I, "I am a stranger to you; how is it that you felt so safe with me?"

He replied, "I heard you asking for a meeting. I inferred that you were a religious man. From your appearance, I judged you to be a minister."

"But I meet many who sneer at Christians and Christian ministers."

"Sir!" he answered, with emphasis, "it's my business to FIND OUT WHO TO TRUST. Let infidels say what they will, the stoutest of them, if they had been in my place, would gladly have found refuge with a religious man."

Late in the forenoon, hearing loud voices in the bar-room, I glanced in. The altercation was between the landlord and the man with whom I had walked the morning previous.

"I will not pay so much. Give me back that dollar. It's every cent I've got. I was sick at St. Paul, and have spent every cent I had. I can't get work. I'm so weak nobody will hire me. Give me back the money, I say."

"I'll show you what I'll give you!" said the landlord, with a dreadful oath, "if you are not off mighty quick."

"But," said the other, in pleading tones, "I'm sick, I'm poor, I'm hungry—'hungry as a dog!' Have I eaten a crumb at your table? I've slept in your bed only one night,—last night I lay on the floor here, that you know. And what am I to do if you take the last penny from me?"

The scene moved me deeply. It confirmed me in the opinion I had formed, that the stranger was in some extremity Of trouble, and was not yet a villain. So stepped into the bar-room. On seeing me, the landlord threw a quarter on the counter, and said,—

"There, take that, then, and be off!" The man took the silver, went out, and sat down on the tavern steps. An hour later, and he came to me, and said,—

"I am going to D— now. Won't you go with me? I was going yesterday, but have waited for you."

Avoiding a direct reply, I started with him, and when the confines of the settlement were reached, while yet in sight of inhabitants, I turned, saying,—

"I must leave you now."

"What!" he exclaimed, fiercely; "you going back?"

"Certainly. Why should I go all the way to D— afoot? Besides, I fear the fatigue of such a walk would be a poor preparation for preaching next Sabbath."

His whole demeanor changed.

"Are you a preacher, then?" he ejaculated. "I thought you were a speculator!" and sinking down by the roadside, he looked the picture of wretchedness.

"Friend," said I, "you seem to be in trouble; can I help you?"

"Trouble!" he replied, bitterly, "it's all trouble."

I soon drew from him his story.

"I lived," said he, "in Western New York, and only two years ago thought myself perfectly happy. I had married to my mind. My wife loved me enough to connect herself with me against her parents' wishes—I being a mechanic, dependent on my own labor. They never were cordial to me, but kept themselves aloof, as if of another race. But she was always gentle, affectionate, and true. Ah, sir, she was indeed too good for me—too good for earth.

"My boyhood and youth had been industriously employed, and I had used such means of mental improvement as were within my reach; but religion had always seemed a thing of gloom suited to the aged, or the last moments of life, but having no special claim on my attention. Never shall I forget the first evening after our marriage. Clara placed the Bible on the table, and said,—

"'Will you not read a chapter, dearest, and by prayer, seek God's blessing on our new life?' I know not how to pray, but she did, and kneeling down, with sobs and tears, she besought God, oh, how fervently, to be with us in our journey together, and to enable us to live as he had commanded. She never faltered in her Christian course, never turned back, and was always happy. I looked upon her at times with feelings akin to awe. She influenced me more than any other being did before, and under that influence I was led to make a profession of religion, for I was powerless to resist her gentle persuasions. Still, I do not now think I ought to have taken that step; it was under the compulsion of a human love amounting almost to idolatry. Often I contrasted my hardened worldly nature with hers, and it seemed as if it could not be right that such a being should be united to one so unworthy of her.

"'Are you not an angel in disguise, come to save me from myself and from sin?' I asked one day; and I was sincere in the question, extravagant as it may sound to others. And when, after the labors of the day, as I approached our little cottage I saw her dressed in white, flitting among the flowers in the garden, or coming to meet me with a beautiful smile, the fancy would possess me that some visitant from a brighter world had taken compassion on my weaknesses, and in human form was seeking to lead me to the paths of peace and blessedness.

"After I had joined the church, she always encouraged me to keep up household worship. Were it not for her watchfulness and loving tact, however, often would the service have been omitted. Indeed, sir, it was her faith that I expressed, her desires that were breathed from my lips, I fear, for my heart was often cold and unbelieving, and my feet constantly inclined to stray."

"Did you have no enjoyment, no peace of mind, no real resolution to serve God in all this?" I asked.

"Sometimes it seemed to me that I did. But my life since shows that I was deceived. I loved her better than my heavenly Father, else why have I been tempest-tossed, at the mercy of circumstances, restless, complaining, wicked. Oh, if I had not lost her, I never should have fallen so low!" he exclaimed passionately.

"Then your wife was taken from you?"

"Yes; in a little more than a year she died, and an infant daughter was laid with her in the grave. Oh, the agony of those few last days of her life. I called in the best physicians of the region; they could neither save her, nor relieve her sufferings, while my heart was breaking with fear of the result, and anguish at her sufferings. But she,—why, sir, not a murmur escaped her lips; her peace grew wondrously, like the dawning of heaven, and while her body was racked with pain, her face shone like Stephen's before his murderers. Before her departure she was ever praying for me or praising God, for her soul was filled with heaven. Her last words were, as she pointed upward, 'We shall meet there, George.'

"When she died it was just before daylight one wild tempestuous night. I rushed frantically forth through the streets of the village into the woods beyond, and fell helplessly on the ground, overcome with the terrible emotions of rage, and grief, and wretchedness. I felt that life had now no charms for me, and that God was a hard being, a tyrant, who had remorselessly robbed me of all I loved. Unable to apply myself to work, what little I had got together for her sake was soon gone. At length I came West, hoping that new scenes might help me to forget the old. The change was favorable for a time. I found work, but fell sick. The few acquaintances I had were gone when I got about. I was in debt for board, medical attendance, and other necessary expenses, and have since been unsuccessfully wandering around seeking employment."

Briefly, misfortune had brought him to despair, and well nigh unsettled reason. Hard-hearted treatment had filled him with hatred to his kind. He had even been tempted to self-destruction, and later to commit robbery. His brain, as he expressed it, was "all in a whirl, and his heart hard as stone."

"Ah," said I, "you have been all wrong in your feelings—you have neglected one thing most needful for you in your circumstances."

"What is that?" he asked.

"It is that which your sainted wife found help in,—'prayer.' I also have seen sorrow, and have found it an unfailing refuge."

"Oh," said he, vehemently, "that I could pray!"

Commending to him the case of the publican and the thief on the cross, I added, "One anciently said, 'I am poor and needy, yet "the Lord" thinketh upon me!' If you seek him, he will be found of you, he will sustain you. And he will hear your cries, and open before you, I doubt not, a door of deliverance as it regards your temporal necessities. Will you not thus go to him and trust him?"

Then advising him to keep away from the miasma of the Mississippi and from the large towns, and seek a shelter till he was well among the kind-hearted prairie farmers, and placing in his hand something to help him on his way, we parted.

——————

"That's a dangerous operation," said one, passing, as some months after the incidents just narrated I chanced at a village fifty miles inland, and stood watching a group of men engaged in raising a "liberty pole." It was of great height, and no little enthusiasm attended its erection, for the place had just been made the county-seat, after a spirited contest with rival aspirants for the honor. Being a stranger I could share little in the general joy, but was more concerned for the lives of those who pulled at the ropes by which the huge piece of timber was being elevated, than for the future of the town. Awkwardly enough, it seemed to me, was the raising managed by the gray-haired leader of the enterprise, and as the pole swayed now this way, now that, I shuddered. But a sudden "hurrah" told that the feat was accomplished and I was turning away relieved, when a man touched me, and said,—

"Excuse me, sir, but I believe we have met before."

It was my stranger acquaintance of the Landing. I had observed him, as among the most active in the raising; but in his new garb and new bearing did not recognize him. I had no time to reply to his greeting, ere he grasped my hand and said, tearfully,—

"I took your advice and have been prospered—been blessed;" and, pointing to a building just in sight, "there's my shop—I am a saved man!"

And, as we parted again, he said, "What a gulf I hung over when you rescued me! All the demons of the pit were dragging me to ruin! Thank God I was kept from crime but how narrow the escape! and," he added, "I now think that my dear wife's prayers and labors for me have been blessed. I have a hope, for God did not wholly leave me. He saved me from the snare of the fowler, and set my feet in a large place. The furnace of affliction was seven times heated, but I am not consumed, and by and by I expect to meet her whom I love, and be with her forever, in the presence of the dear Saviour, who loved us and gave himself for us."

A coincidence connected with the facts just related is worthy of record. Our ride to the place was enlivened by a discussion between several of the passengers on the subject of benevolence. Some took the ground that it was the duty of every man to look out for number one.

"But," said another, "we are constituted mutually dependent; our Creator has made us stewards of each other's happiness, and when we assist an unfortunate neighbor we not only discharge a sacred obligation, but always receive in return a generous equivalent."

"In what way?" inquired his opponent.

"Oh, if in no other, in the satisfaction that flows from the performance of a deed of kindness."

"Not quite substantial enough for my use," returned the other. "When I invest money, I want money, or something equally tangible, in return. A consciousness of befriending somebody won't put meat into the kettle nor flour into the barrel."

"But what, after all," it was further urged, "is the motive of our money seeking? Is it not that we fancy that earthly possessions will make us happy? Certainly. But the experience of mankind shows that the soul can not be satisfied with perishable things. The millionnaire may be more wretched than the holiest beggar by the wayside. The pleasure of doing good is, however, pure, ennobling, satisfying; a source of perennial enjoyment, purchased at a cost infinitely below its real value. Besides, our benefactions, bestowed without the expectation of any reward save that found in the pleasant thoughts and emotions which result, often come back to repay us in kind."

"Well, well," said the first, impatiently. "I prefer to invest where there is something positive to be realized. These uncertainties may do for those of a less practical turn of mind. I am a business man, and as such I want some security when my dollars are invested."

"Very well; the apostle says, 'He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the Lord, and that which he hath given shall he pay to him again.'"

"I suppose," said the business man, "that you practise as you preach."

"Sometimes."

"Very well. When the funds you have disposed of in this way pay a dividend, let us know—that is all!" Our journey just then terminating, and not having proof at hand, the laugh rang against me.

On our return, after meeting the man of the Landing reminiscence, I said,—

"Gentlemen, you may remember our conversation on the subject of benevolence, and that I was requested when any money devoted to charitable purposes pays tangibly, to report. I have such a report to make at this time,"—proceeding to repeat the story of my two interviews with the stranger, then showed the bank-bill that my grateful beneficiary forced into my hand. There was not a dry eye present.

"Well," said my mercantile friend, warmly, "you've got the case, and I frankly own that I envy you your happiness."

A FRONTIER TRAGEDY.

"MR. PETERSON, the Norwegian, wishes to see you," said the lady with whom I was boarding. "Something dreadful has happened, I know," she added, earnestly, "he looks so pale."

Going to the door, I was struck with the appearance of the caller. His cheeks blanched to a deathly hue, his eyes glancing apprehensively about, as he said, in a low voice,—

"You know Callahan, the one-armed Englishman, living near me?"

"Yes."

"He has disappeared; has been murdered, I fear."

"When did you first miss him?" I asked.

"Three days ago," he replied. "He lived alone in the cabin he was building on his claim—which joins mine. Being a single man, my wife had done his baking, for which he always came regularly. She had his bread ready for him last Wednesday, but he didn't come for it. Supposing some unusual business had detained him, she gave herself no uneasiness. But Thursday and Friday passed without bringing him, so she mentioned the circumstance to me. To-day I went over to see what the matter might be, but he was not there. Near his shanty, however, was a great deal of blood, and his hat and coat lying by."

"Did you make inquiries concerning him of the neighbors?"

"I did not dare to, but came away as quickly as possible. I knew he had had trouble with old Ringe. Only last week, he said he was afraid the old man would put him out of the way, and I advised him not to stay alone on his claim. I have no doubt his fears have been realized, poor fellow! I scarcely dared leave home to tell you about it, for if old Ringe, or any of his tribe, suspected my errand, they would serve me in the same manner. Hadn't something ought to be done?"

"Yes. We must call the neighbors together, and search for the missing man."

"When shall we do so?" he asked. "It is now nightfall, and to-morrow will be the Sabbath. Would it be right to attend to it then?"

"Certainly. Human life is sacred. And here, on the frontier, it is necessary to take prompt measures in such a case, or no person will be safe. We do not yet know that the Englishman is dead. Perhaps he is lingering in agony in some place to which, after being assaulted, he was borne for concealment. At any rate, this is, emphatically, 'a work of necessity' and 'mercy,' and steps must be taken at once to ascertain the facts, and if your suspicions are confirmed, secure the person or persons guilty of the deed."

Messengers were accordingly sent in different directions, inviting the settlers to start the next morning at nine o'clock for the scene of the tragedy, seven miles distant.

Some six months before the event I am relating, an aged clergyman who had immigrated to the vicinity, was obliged to go from home to buy hay. He invited me to accompany him. Crossing the open prairie, six miles, we came to a heavy growth of timber belting a sluggish creek. On the verge of the woods stood an unfinished cabin, before which were immense stacks of hay. The owner was a man of small stature, with curly black hair. As he mounted a stack, the winds that careered across the prairie blew off his hat, revealing a good brow and face. He had only one arm, with which he worked with a will, cutting off the hay and weighing it. His crippled condition excited our sympathy, and we helped him at his task, for which he thanked us with a manly gratitude. How strange to see him in the van of civilization, striving to do that with one hand for which many men found two insufficient. Yet he had made, and drawn, and put up that hay for sale (certainly no light proof of his energy and foresight), and for miles around his more able-bodied neighbors were coming daily to him to purchase. Besides this, he had quite a pile of rails split, ready for fencing.

Falling into conversation with him, I learned that he was of Irish parentage, though born in England, and a Roman Catholic. He was candid and thoughtful, and on my friend mentioning that I was to preach at R— River, next Lord's day, he promised to attend. He kept his word, showing much sensibility during service. At subsequent interviews, he expressed desire for religious instruction, and concern for himself as a sinner against God. His ingenuousness and deep feeling led me to hope for a happy result in store for him, and his lonely, disabled state—surrounded by strangers—heightened my desire for his temporal and spiritual prosperity.

As on our first meeting, we stood talking together, an old man, withered yet sinewy and lithe, came and leaned against the rail enclosure that fenced in the hay. His complexion denoted a mingling of races. His wrinkled face wore that sinister impress that, when once seen, is not forgotten; hard, savage, insinuating, a mingling of the wild beast and serpent. I had not heard of him before; knew nothing of his antecedents, but shrunk from him instinctively, as, fixing his leering eye on me, he said, with an odious smile, that displayed in his almost toothless gums an upper and a lower fang on each side of a wolfish mouth,—

"Perhaps the gentleman is land-hunting. I've got a handsome piece of property up here," pointing to a cabin just in sight; "prairie and timber, that I will sell dog cheap."

Replying that I did not wish to buy, as our team started, I said to my companion, with the "invincible assurance of a sudden presentiment," "that man can commit murder. How does that one-armed man dare to live by him?" Those two were "old Ringe" and Callahan.

The following Sabbath saw no small stir in our usually peaceful community. From various quarters men poured forth, afoot and in teams, many heavily armed, for old Ringe was the patriarch of a numerous and motley company, in which French, English, African, and Indian blood intermingled, producing, with their besotted habits, a degraded and desperate band. It was a balmy May morning. The air was fragrant with the scent of fresh grasses and spring blossoms, while the bluebird and the robin made joyous music. Could it be that amid such sights and sounds we were on our way to a scene of blood? On that holy, heaven-blessed morning, too?

"There's the cabin," said a voice at my side, arousing me from the revery into which I had fallen. The same dreamy quiet rested on it, as on the entire landscape. Not a person was to be seen as we drew near, and the birds sang as blithely from the covert of the woods, as out among the flowering hedges and shrubs of the green spreading prairie, away from "habitations of cruelty." On the side of the dwelling at which we stopped there was nothing to denote violence, but passing around it, a sight met the eye that sent a shudder through every spectator. In the hay that littered the ground was a deep sanguinary pool. Beneath the gory mass, the blood was still limpid; the quantity leaving no doubt on our minds as to the fatal character of the deed. A hoe leaned against the building, a pipe, with some partially burnt matches, near it; the dead man's cap and vest were not far off, while scattered around were bits of clotted paper that had been written over. These last I carefully gathered, placing them in a rifled pocket-book I had picked up. From the blood spot to the fence the grass was bent, and the soil disturbed as if the body had been dragged that way. On the rails were crimson stains, while over them, the trail could be traced towards the creek, which ran between us and a tangled grove.

Old Ringe's window, forty rods north, overlooked our group, but not an inmate came to ascertain the cause of the gathering. It was proposed that I should take some of our number with me, and make inquiries there, while the rest hunted after the remains of Callahan. Two good men volunteering, we started on our mission. At the window, as we drew near, was the old man's son-in-law, Shuber, making ready to shave; at his elbow a mulatto woman watching us. Two barking curs disputed the passage as we approached the open door, at which Ringe's wife, also a mulatto, stout and ill-favored, her heavy features badly pitted by the smallpox, came to the door, and called out with a hoarse, savage voice, "Be still, I tell yer!"