Chapter I: WAS waiting at — Landing, on the Mississippi, for friends from the (1)

East. The spring floods were subsiding. The low, level land on the other side, with its rich vegetation exposed to the hot sun, sent up sickly vapors, and each day brought some new cases of ague and fever. Lofty bluffs, between which the town extended, shut away every breath of air. At times the heat seemed like a furnace. Nevertheless, the chills often drove me out to the sunny side of the hotel, where I would stand shivering in my overcoat.

One morning I stood warming myself as usual. The street had few signs of life, save that scores of hogs ran about grunting their love of liberty, intent on plunder, which consisted mainly in running their sharp noses into bags of flour that stood in tempting array at the doors of the stores. The traders kept a long whip ready for the porkers, but "practice makes perfect," and the hogs would often outwit them.

An instance amused me. A shopkeeper, seeing the hogs coming, waited tills they were within reach, then, springing out, he applied the lash, and they ran squealing away. He saw them approach his neighbor's flour. Assured that his own in the mean while was safe, he returned to his counter. Scarcely was he there, however, when a long-legged boar rushed back with the fleetness of a hound, and, by a dextrous blow of his tusk, tore a bag from bottom to top, emptying the contents on the ground. At once his companions rushed to the spot. The flour quickly disappeared, and, as I was laughing at the scene, a deep voice at my side said, "Wouldn't you like to take a walk, stranger?"

The speaker was a tall, powerfully built man, of about thirty. His sallow, sunken cheeks and wasted limbs, marked him a recent victim of fever. Nature had given him a manly, open countenance; but over it there rested a reckless, fierce expression. His abrupt address was not unpleasant to me; it was in keeping with Western frankness; but there was a something, illy defined in his looks, that made me suspect an evil design.

"I came down from St. Paul in the boat this morning," he continued, "and it's dull enough here. Up the river a mile or so there is a scythe-snath factory; I want to see it myself. You seem to be alone. What say you to going, too?"

It was a wild, lonely path, but I was in the mood for a change from the present monotony, and felt also a desire, after a moment's thought, to study my new acquaintance, and assented. My companion proved to be a person of varied information. He had evidently seen much of the world, and I became interested in him; yet could not help watching him suspiciously. Why did he leave the bar-room and select me as the companion of his walk? Why did he wish to walk at all,—he so feeble and weary-looking? And then there was an occasional glare of the eye, and it seemed to me a look of desperation. This mingling of the winning and the repulsive in the man kept my faculties observingly alert. Instinctively, however, I assumed a careless demeanor. He was not artful enough to be a villain by profession, and that was clear, yet, before the walk was half completed, I could not divest myself of a sense of personal danger.

"Come," said he, after inspecting the manufactory, "the bluffs shade the way, let's keep on up the river a piece?"

He was disappointed at my declining. On our return, he spoke often of the pleasures of foot journeys, and at length stated that he was to leave next morning for D—, a town some twenty miles distant; said he intended walking there, and pressed me to join him, as my course homeward lay in that direction. This, also, I declined.

That evening, as I was going out to a religious meeting, a second stranger accosted me,—"Are you a clergyman, sir?"

On receiving an affirmative answer, he said, "I hope you will pardon the liberty I take. I am Mr. N., of New York. I am here looking up land; have made some good investments, and wish to look around a little more. I have some money with me, and am really afraid of being robbed. You are the only guest at this house that has a room to himself. Would you not, as a great favor, permit me to share your room with you to-night? Last night I lodged with eight of the roughest customers I ever saw. I slept but little; but once I was startled from a doze, and looking up, saw a big whiskered fellow fumbling about my clothes. He protested it was by mistake, but I don't believe it; and," said he, his voice sinking to a whisper, "there's the very chap, as I live!" pointing to my morning acquaintance, who was just entering the bar-room. "A desperado, no doubt," he continued, much agitated.

On inquiring, I found Mr. N. was a wealthy merchant from New York—a speculator in land. The host at length reluctantly consented that Mr. N. should room with me.

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!"

The dogs slunk away, while without another word the woman turned her back on us and reentered. Heavy boxes were pulled roughly across the floor to serve instead of chairs for us, as we followed her in. One object, however, fixed our attention. Opposite the entrance, on a narrow bed, his legs pendent from its side, his back against the wall, sat the suspected murderer, as if fast asleep. His lower jaw had dropped down, his hands hung listlessly; no attempt at life-expression on his face to conceal its deformity. His aspect was haggard and revolting in the extreme. Purposely raising my voice to a high key, I said to the son-in-law,—

"Callahan is missing; we wish to know if you can tell us where he is?"

Continuing to strop his razor, he replied, jerking out his words, "Don't know where he is, if he isn't to home! Lives in the shanty down there. I ain't the feller's gardeen. Comes and goes jest when he's a mind ter; perhaps he's gone off a while. He'll turn up safe and sound, I warrant yer."

"When did you see him last, Mr. Shuber?"

"O, as to that, I haven't seen nothing of him since Wednesday morning."

"But haven't you thought it strange that he should be away so long?"

"Don't give ourselves, up here, any trouble about the 'little Irishman,'" the last two words pronounced with a hard sneer. "He takes care of himself, and we take care of ourselves."

"Well," said I, loudly, "perhaps your father can tell us something about him. Won't you ask him?" at which a slight flush tinged the cheeks of the sleeper, then quickly disappeared, while the son-in-law, continuing to ply the razor, replied curtly,—

"He's asleep."

Questioning other members of the household, who returned confused and contradictory answers, I again said to Shuber, "Perhaps Mr. Ringe can give us some information about Callahan."

"Father's asleep," interposed Shuber's wife, "and we don't like to wake him up."

The old man's wife had been uneasily moving about, now going out of the house, now returning, avoiding conversation. Turning suddenly to her, I said, authoritatively, "We wish to ask your husband a question. You must at once wake him up."

Stepping to the bed, she placed her hand lightly on his knee, and ere she had uttered a word, he opened his eyes, stretched up his arms and yawned, saying, confusedly,—"What—what—what do you want?"

"These gentlemen have called to ask about Callahan," said the wife, quickly. "They say he's gone off, or something."

"What, the little Irishman—as I call him? Some folks call him an Englishman, but I say he's an Irishman. O, he's all right. He's often taking a notion to go nobody knows where, and to come back nobody knows when. Can't put no dependence on him. But we never give ourselves any trouble about it; we're used to his tricks. Why, I don't suppose he knows any more about us, or we about him, than if he lived 'tother side of the ocean. We don't hold to meddling with other folks' business. He'll turn up again, I'll warrant. Why, you 'couldn't kill' the little feller if you should try."

"How long has he been away this time?"

"Can't say as to that. The last time we saw him was Tuesday afternoon. He was hoeing his potatoes there—right over there," pointing through the window; "and I said to the folks, guess the little Irishman means to get ahead of us. Soon after I saw him go toward his shanty, to rest, I suppose. You see he's got only one hand, and gets tired pretty easy, and then goes down by the cabin, and stands there and takes a smoke till he feels better. Well, as I was saying, he went down there, and pretty soon I heard a gun go off down that way, and Shuber says to me, 'What does that mean?' and says I, 'O, it's nothing but a wagon jouncing over a root or a stone in the road.' After that he was gone from the shanty, and I spoke to Shuber about it."

"When did you find out that he was gone?"

"Thursday morning. You see Shuber and I were at hunting deer along the creek, and we had to go right close to his house, for the creek is close by, you know. And says I, 'Wonder if the little Irishman's up yet? Let's give him a call, and see!' So I called out 'Callahan, Callahan!' but he didn't answer. And we both hollered, but all was still as death. And, says I, 'The little feller sleeps sound this morning.'"

"Did you go back that way?"

"Yes, but 'twas on 'tother side of the house. And we called to him again, but he didn't say a word, nor show his head."

"When you went after deer, the path led you within a few feet of his dwelling and the fence. Did you see any thing unusual there? any blood on the rails, or on the ground, or any article of clothing?"

"No; it was so dark you couldn't see your hand before your face. Saw his vest, though, kicking about, that's all; but he's a mighty careless feller about leaving his things round."

"Well," said I, "you are a neighbor to him, and acquainted with these woods; we suspect something very serious has befallen him, and we want you and Shuber to go and help find out about it."

They consented; but as they walked, grew excited, and talked fast; and although no charges had been made against them, protested that "they" didn't murder "the little Irishman," that they knew nothing about the matter, that they believed he would turn up alive and well;—ending by stating that he was killed; that they knew who the murderer was; that it was a young German living in the vicinity, and that they could prove it.

"We think the body is in the creek," said a man in a low tone. "The trail ends there—we could follow it no further."

Stepping to where some willows had been felled into the stream, I was searching among them, when I caught sight of a pair of boots floating among the branches. They were fastened together with a rope. Taking hold of this to draw them out, to my surprise I found that they were on the remains of the Englishman. He was naked to the waist; his only hand was lashed to his feet; and as I deposited him on the bank, the blood still stood in what seemed to be deep gashes in the back. I had just stooped down to ascertain the character of the wounds, when, to our horror, old Ringe, officiously gathering a handful of dry leaves and grass, with a grim smile wiped away the blood, saying,—

"That's only where the blood has settled like."

He knew. The marks were indentations caused by the twigs on which the body had rested. Death was inflicted by a heavy charge of slugs shot into the back under the right shoulder.

Old Ringe sat over the ghastly form of Callahan like an ogre, gesticulating with the hand that held the clotted leaves, by turns asserting his innocence, and railing at the unconscious dead.

"'I've' nothing against the little Irishman. We had a little difference, it is true, but I jest taught him his manners, and he's been good enough since then. We haven't had a word together since last spring, when I slapped him, and he's been as quiet as a pig ever since."

His manner and language were horrible.

While waiting for the coroner, some of us went to a spring, a few rods distant, to allay our thirst. Old Ringe and his son-in-law followed, incessantly talking. He reiterated that he was guiltless, and implicated the young German. At length I abruptly said,—

"Mr. Ringe, it is an old proverb that 'murder will out.' I have much faith in that saying, and for this reason: There is a God. His eye is ever on us. He has said, 'Thou shalt not kill.' He can alone give life. It is one of the greatest crimes possible for man wantonly to destroy that life. God is the Governor of the world, and he will punish the murderer. For the safety of society, and that bad men may be deterred from this highest form of sin, he takes special pains to bring to light the murderer. From him there can be no such thing as escape. Man is sometimes deceived and foiled, but God never!"

His countenance grew dark. The clamor of his tongue ceased, and for a few moments we were permitted to think in quiet as we stretched ourselves by the fountain's side.

Returning to the cabin, I had seated myself on a log, Ringe and Shuber by my side,—for they did not lose sight of me,—when the former stealthily left me, and went to the south side of the dwelling. A small ell had been attached to the main building. That only had been occupied by the owner, as the rest of the cabin was unfinished. In front of the ell was a high rail fence, making a snug enclosure a few feet square before the door. Ringe stopped at the little yard, and stood intently looking, now on the ground, now in at the door. Was he afraid that some clew had been left there by the assassin? His manner was eager and shy.

Springing over the fence, I began to pick up fragments of letters thickly scattered among the loose straw, when suddenly it occurred to me that that was the place where the fiend had laid in wait for his victim. The Englishman had been shot on the other side of his house. From the condition of his field, and the fact that his hoe and pipe were near where he fell, it was plain that he had been hoeing, and had left his work in order to rest and, smoke a while. The murderer having crept into his cabin, had no doubt shot him then. But if so, as there was no window on that side of the house, an aperture must have been made in the building, through which to take aim. A bed stood before the open door against the northern wall. Getting upon that, I saw an opening had indeed been made. It looked out over the bloody spot. Calling a neighbor, and directing him to stand by the spot, I found he was in exact range.

Ringe and Shuber were arrested on suspicion.

The justice, before whom the first trial was to occur, resided at a newly-settled town, twelve miles from our place. A friend, who acted as sheriff, invited me to ride over with him. Before the justice's cabin were a large number of persons watching our buggy as we drove up. Old Ringe and his friends were among them, and, as I alighted, he came forward, extending his hand as to an old acquaintance, saying,—

"Welcome! welcome! Glad to see the minister,—was afraid you wouldn't be here. 'You' will want justice done. 'You' won't stand by and see an innocent man like me falsely condemned. Look at my gray hairs and my dim eyes. Why, sir, these poor eyes couldn't 'see' to shoot a man, even if I wished to take the life of a follow-creature. But why should I do such a thing? I am almost in my grave,—have but a few days here at most. No; no, you are a minister of Christ, and I know you can't have an old man like me hung,—I know you can't!"

This appeal, so unexpected, so affecting in its allusion to his advanced years, uttered in the thrilling tones of one who felt that his life was at stake, came near unmanning me. Releasing myself from his grasp, I said, aside to the sheriff, "How is this? Persons arrested for a capital offence at large—prisoners and witnesses mingling freely together! What does this mean? Why, they can agree on any testimony they choose!"

"Oh," replied the easy official, "never mind; the lawyers will pick the witnesses to pieces when they come to the stand!"

At the hotel a mile off, after tea, old Ringe met me again, with the most touching and insinuating appeals. They were hard to withstand, even from him. And when, next morning, he renewed his entreaties, I said,—

"Mr. Ringe, it is useless to appeal to me in this way. You know that I would not wrong you for the world. I shall state, as a witness, only what I have seen and heard, no more, no less. I can keep back nothing. I shall add nothing. This is all I could promise the dearest friend on earth."

As I spoke, a stern, bitter glance shot from his eyes, and a deathly pallor spread over his face. He avoided me from that time.

"Would you like to ride a few miles before court?" asked the sheriff. "I am going for two of Ringe's daughters, who were from home at the time of the murder. He says he can prove by them that the young German intended to kill Callahan. He states that they dropped corn for the German a short time before the murdered man was shot, and that he had tried to hire them to poison Callahan, that he might get his claim.'"

"Well," said I, "there is one request I wish to make; and that is, that the girls shall not be tampered with by the father, or any of his witnesses."

"Don't see the need of that. But if you wish it, I can take them to another house, and keep them there till you see the justice about it."

They were singular enough in appearance. Short, stout, tawny; with large, oval eyes; ears so long as to look inhuman; bold faces, and an oily speech. I had heard that they could lie and steal, and what might they not do, if their own father was ready to testify that their employer had sought to bribe them to poison his neighbor?

"Father didn't kill that man!" said one of them, sharply.

"How do you know that?" asked the officer.

"Because he's almost blind, he's so old. He couldn't see," she added, "if he was here in this wagon, to shoot the tail of that horse!"

"How does that agree with his deer-hunting before daylight?" said the sheriff.

The girls were kept secluded, despite the ravings of the father and the arts of his supporters; and it was significant that they were not summoned as witnesses, nor was the German accused.

During the trial, the State's attorney, taking me aside, said, "Search should be made through time neighborhood in which the murder was committed, for evidence that may serve as a clew to the murderer. I am persuaded that if any thing can yet be found, you can discover it. Would you be deputized for that purpose?"

"Yes, rather than let the criminal escape."

His horse and buggy were placed at my service, and, accompanied by a Frenchman, and a substantial farmer, I soon arrived at our place of destination. Cabin after cabin was visited, boxes and trunks opened, beds stripped, floors taken up, each nook and cranny scrutinized, without avail. Repairing to the creek, I noticed that on the stumps of the willows, that had been felled to conceal the body of the murdered man, gaps in the ax used, had left their impress on the wood. The farmer at once cut off the willow stumps, and taking them with us, we examined the axes in the neighborhood. In Ringe's house was one, the edge of which corresponded perfectly with the impression in the wood. The steel and the helve were also bloody.

"Now look sharp for bloody garments," said I.

A low, unlighted attic, to which access was had by a ladder, held the accumulated cast-offs of the household. Such a dusty, filthy collection! Only the friendship cherished for the inoffensive deceased, deepened by that peculiar interest felt in one for whom the Christian minister has toiled and prayed, and a strong desire that justice should be done, could have borne me through the repulsive task. The search was vain.

"Mr. D., hadn't we better give it up?" cried the farmer. "It's getting late, and we've seen all this house has to show!"

"A moment more," I replied, as I remembered that two beds, lying side by side on the floor, had not been removed. Lifting them up, we found beneath one a man's shirt, the arm and shoulder saturated with blood.

As we reëntered the court-room with the discoveries we had made, a deep silence prevailed. We had brought also another witness, who testified that old Ringe attempted, on one occasion, to burn Callahan to death; and that the old man had repeatedly said in his presence that he meant to kill him yet. The ax, willows, and garment were critically examined, the counsel for the prisoners not being able to explain away the evidence thus presented.

That night I slept in the same room with one of Ringe's lawyers. I shall not soon forget him, and the developments of our interview. He had a calm, keen eye; dark hair thrown back from a finely-turned forehead; a physiognomy sincere and refined. In his address there was a perfect air of good-breeding that inspired respect. He had an acute and logical mind, liberal acquirements, and a well-balanced intellectual and moral character. He realized my ideal of a learned, cultivated, upright lawyer. A "protegé" of Hon. Mr. Giddings, he had come to Minnesota on account of impaired health, and this was his first case in the territory. After retiring to our room, he wished to know the particulars of the terrible tragedy. The narrative impressed him deeply. I soon after fell asleep, but was in a short time awakened by his groaning and restlessness.

"Are you ill?" I asked.

"No," he replied; "but it is so horrible, so horrible—that murder!"

Again, as he turned from side to side, he exclaimed, "Blood cries from the ground for vengeance!"

And this was the man who, in the court-room, was so unimpassioned, permitting nothing to pass that was adverse to his client, without the most searching scrutiny!

Before day broke, he said, "I have been dreadfully harassed by this case." Then, after a few moments, he added, "I have no doubt of the guilt of that old man. He's the murderer; but I can clear him. My partner has proposed a plan, which I am not at liberty to explain, that must be effectual. What shall I do? Help spring the legal trap, and let the criminal loose, and thus succeed professionally, or not?"

"Let me entreat you," said I, "to do right. God will bless you in it, and you will have a clear conscience."

"I will think it over," he replied, "and see what I can do," and he relapsed into his uneasy slumbers.

With eager scrutiny I studied his countenance in court the next day to ascertain his decision. In vain. I trembled for him, so severely loyal did he seem to his client's interests, and true to the pride of success. But his sterling, moral principle prevailed and Ringe and Shuber were recommitted.

He knew my anxiety, and said, as he passed from the court-room, with a happy smile upon his handsome face,—

"'Did I do right?'"

As for myself, procuring a box, I put the ax, willows, and shirt in it, in the presence of suitable witnesses, and committed the whole to the justice for safe keeping.

No jail had been built. The sheriff, therefore, took the accused to his own home. He lived quite a distance from the culprit's place, and it was not long before the cunning old man had so won upon his unsuspecting nature, as to be permitted to hire out as a day laborer. Wherever he went he pleaded his cause so effectually that the public mind became strongly excited in his behalf. He made also another diversion in his own favor. Among his children was one, familiarly called Bill, who was about eighteen years of age. He was the youngest of his boys, as well as the whitest. He was a great rogue, and was well known as such. His father called him half-witted, but he was an adept in villainy. Horse-stealing, robbing trunks, money-drawers, and stores of their goods, were among his exploits. Over the vices of his boy, Ringe whined and groaned among his new friends, and at last accused Bill of being the murderer. The lie was believed. When the witnesses of the State went to the second trial, they found that the settlers at the county-seat and vicinity had prejudged the case. A jury was drawn from the material at hand, and, although on hearing both sides most of them modified their views of the case, such was the previous condition of their minds, coupled with the fact, perhaps, as stated afterward by a juror, that several of their number were "opposed to capital punishment," Ringe and his confederate were cleared.

The terror that this result inspired among those who had been active in endeavoring to bring the perpetrators of the murder to light, can not be described.

The Norwegian went armed. Every night he and his family slept in the wretched attic of his low-roofed cabin, drawing the ladder up after them on retiring. But this state of things could not be endured. A party of resolute men went to the cabin of liberated desperadoes, and warned them off, on pain of forcible ejection. They soon disappeared.

The murdered man's valuable "claim," with its movable property, that his assassins had intended should become theirs, were sold at a good price. The fragments of paper which I had saved, on being put together, proved to be a letter from a brother of Callahan, residing in Lowell, Massachusetts, to whom we had the pleasure of sending the avails of the estate.

Who can predict the next new thing that will transpire on the frontier? One day, some two months after Ringe's final trial, an elderly man called on me, and said,—

"I have come to ask, sir, if you will not make a five o'clock appointment, some Sabbath, to preach at my place. We have a very respectable community there, sir, now. Many new families have come in, and we would like to hear a gospel sermon now and then."

"Where do you live?" I inquired.

"At Slough Creek, seven miles from here."

Assenting to the request, the next Sabbath found me on my way there.

"Can you tell me where Mr. C. lives?" I asked of a well-dressed woman whom I overtook.

"Just through the woods, a few rods, the first house," she replied.

On arriving, what was my surprise to find that the meeting was to be at Ringe's log-house, now in new hands, and refitted and enlarged so as to present quite a neat and comfortable appearance. There was a good attendance and earnest attention. Among the audience, here and there, was one who had been partially of Ringe's company. They listened with no less respect because of the part I had taken in seeking to make the power of the law felt among the lawless dwellers upon our frontier.

FRONTIER WOMEN.

THE gentler traits of womanly character find little expression on the outskirts of civilization. When the wife and mother turns her back on her Eastern home, she enters on scenes which change the whole current of her existence, and often seem to make her a new being. It is interesting to notice how the transition process varies in different persons.

Some are "persuaded" into emigration. They start on the journey reluctantly, clinging to the old, familiar places. They have no day-dreams to lure them—no heart for the transplanting. From regard to others they join the restless tide that sots toward the West. Others take the "Western fever" as readily as their husbands, and clothe the stern realities of removal with a roseate hue, seeing only ease, comfort, competency in prospective. But when, at the end of their journey, they take up their abode in a wild prairie,—

"Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide, wide sea"

of vegetation, and dead-level monotony; no churches, no school-houses, scarcely a neighbor to speak to, friends and kindred far away,—how the thermometer of the feelings goes down! how the air-castles vanish!

But if you think either of these classes make poor pioneers, you mistake.