Читать книгу The Warden of the Plains, and Other Stories of Life in the Canadian North-west - John MacLean - Страница 3

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In the wide western plains at the base of the Rocky Mountains, where countless buffalo once found luxuriant feeding-grounds, the white man's cattle were roaming in tens of thousands. It was the time of the "round up." The cowboys had been scouring the plain for hundreds of miles gathering in the cattle and horses, banding them and driving them into the corral, there to be counted and the young branded.

The "round up" party had camped for the night. Many of them were weary from the hard day's riding, and were sitting or lounging about in the tents or on the open prairie, waiting for the supper which others were preparing.

"Hello, Jake!" shouted one of these, as a man who seemed to have sprung from the prairie, so suddenly had he appeared, rode into the camp.

"All right, Bill," was the reply of the new-comer, uttered in a short but friendly tone.

"The boys 'll be right glad t' see ye, Jake, fur we haven't had a sermon fur a long time. Ye're the only preacher we fellows have got, and ye're welcome."

"Wall, Bill, ef ye wud follow the trail and no be straying frae the herd, ye wouldna get lost sae often, nur make it sae hard fur yerselves, and fur the Gospel cowboys t' find ye."

Jake, or as he called himself, the "Gospel Cowboy," was a queer character but a true man, who felt himself called upon to go from ranch to ranch to tell in his own strange way the story of the Saviour's love.

Before his conversion he was known as "Broncho Jake," but since then the pioneers on the prairie had called him "The Warden of the Plains." He was a daring fellow, fearless of danger in crossing the rapid rivers, a good rider and a splendid roper. Few of the cowboys could handle a lariat like Broncho Jake. He was always foremost in trials of skill and horsemanship. A few years before he had entered upon his new life of itinerating among the ranches, there was a contest between the cowboys to decide who among them was the most skilful rider. Jake was one of the competitors.

A large circle was formed upon the prairie where the contest was to be held. The various riders were surrounded by friends who had come to witness the exhibition of skill. Many feats of daring were performed, until the contest lay finally between Bill Jones and Broncho Jake.

Bill sprang lightly upon his horse, and riding rapidly around the circle, flung his hat to the ground; then increasing the animal's speed until it became a mad rush through space, he leaned downward on the right side, and holding on only by his left foot, picked up the hat, and, putting it on his head, threw himself back into the saddle. The crowd cheered him lustily as he sat his horse with easy grace and rode once more around the circle. The horse seemed to understand and feel that his master's reputation was at stake, and his nostrils quivered as he stretched his neck forward in the race. Still riding at full speed, Bill loosed his necktie and threw it on the ground. Surely he does not mean to attempt to pick it up! If he tries he will certainly break his neck. Bill rode once more round the ring; then throwing the reins on the neck of the sure-footed animal, while every eye was strained to catch his slightest movement, he bent forward, and with a sudden dash as he rode past where it lay, he grasped the necktie in his fingers and lifted it from the ground, waving it in the air as he rode onward to the starting-place. The cowboys were delighted. Many of them ran to him, seized his hands and expressed their hearty admiration of his skill.

It was then Jake's turn to show what he could do, and although everyone was interested, they felt that the contest was ended, and many of them said so.

"Bet yer life Jake can't beat that!"

Jake took no notice of this expression of public opinion, but threw himself on his horse as indifferently as if such contests were of everyday occurrence. Riding easily around the ring two or three times as if to get himself into trim for his work, he threw his hat on the ground, and as he rode past picked it up. Taking off his necktie, he cast that on the prairie and picked it up as deftly as Bill had done. The crowd were surprised. They had not thought Jake capable of such a daring feat. But he had not exhausted his ability to astonish them. Riding around as before, Jake flung down both hat and tie, and as he passed them on his next round leaned forward and picked up first one and then the other with his teeth; then turning to the crowd, who were cheering him loudly, he waved his hand in acknowledgment of their praise, and rode quietly homeward. Broncho Jake was henceforward honored by the boys. When he joined the ranks of the "Gospel grinders" there were wry faces made and queer remarks uttered, for some of the boys thought he would be sentimental and sanctimonious; but there were others who knew him better and said, "Jake's a square fellow, and you bet he'll be a good un; none o' yer long faces nur yer long prayers when a fellow is in need of anything."

Jake justified his friends' faith, and no one exerted a wider influence for good over the cowboys, or was given a heartier welcome when he came among them, than "The Warden of the Plains."

On this evening as soon as supper was over, the boys gathered round Jake and were soon singing the hymns he had set to the rollicking airs all cowboys love.

Jake had a grand supply of stories, and when the lads were in good spirits they would listen eagerly, unconsciously learning the lesson the story never failed to convey. Jake was too wise to draw the moral of his tales himself, thus treating his audience as children. He told his stories in a fascinating and suggestive manner, and left each listener to adapt their teaching to his own need or consciousness.

Much, however, as they liked his stories, the great event of Jake's visit was his sermon. The boys loved to hear him preach. He talked to them in language and in a way that they could understand, and his genuine goodness of heart and interest in their welfare had taught them to love him. It was a rough kind of affection, and the boys would not have called it by that name, perhaps, but it was none the less a genuine love for the man.

Taking a little book out of his pocket, Jake looked around on the men who sat about him, and smiling as he held it up, said:

"Ye see, boys, I allus bring my brand Book wi' me to see to the strays and return them to the masters. I've got nearly all the brands by heart. The biggest cattle-bosses I've known—an' a good many I've met in my day—are the Lord Jesus Christ and the devil. I'm a wee bit afeard the devil's got the biggest herd, for his range is cropped off bare, and the cattle are pretty thin. He's no a bit partic'ler how he gets them, mavrocks, strays and sich like, he puts his brand on them all. Sich a lot of scrubs you never saw afore. Puir things, wi' a hummocky, stony range they get hardly anythin' to eat.

"I've ridden over the range, an' I reckon I know what it's like. His herd is just like Slim Jim's, where the cattle feed on furze and rushes, thinkin' they're fine grass and vetches, but ye can tell when ye see their ribs they're no well herded. I reckon the cowboys are asleep, an' the puir things maun rustle fur themselves. Ah, ma lads, ye're among the strays the devil has stolen, an' he's put his brand on ye. Ye canna see his mark, fur he's put it pretty well on yer flanks. He's a cunnin' cattle-boss. He's afeard the owner might claim ye, for would ye believe it, ye belong to the herd of Christ, an' ye've strayed, and some of ye were mavrocks. It's easy to get lost on the prairie when ye take the wrong trail, an' some of ye hae jist shut yer eyes an' followed the ithers ahead o' ye. I reckon the Christ cowboys and the devil's cowboys hae pretty hard times when they meet on the prairie. It's none o' yer wee fights, but a strong tussle. They're just like the big cattle-bosses I wus a readin' about that got into trouble about their ranges. There wus Old Abe and Parson Lot. Wall, they had big herds, an' they got cropped bare, an' one day Abe, the cattle-boss, looked out o' his ranch and he sees Parson Lot, the other big cattle-boss, a comin' wi' his cowboys an' cattle, an' they was a singin'

'We're comin', Father Abraham,

Wi' three hundred thousand more.'

"Old Abe wasna pleased at Lot's puttin' on airs like that, and he says, 'Come in!' They sat down in the cattle-boss's shanty, and he says, 'See here, this is not going to do. If the cowboys get a fightin' the Injuns an' half-breeds will come an' drive us out, so ye see it wull pay us to be friends.' Lot turns to him and says, 'That's what's the matter.'

"Wall, the two bosses rode over the country prospectin', an' Abe says, 'It's a big country; make your choice, Lot, fur I respec' ye, ye're an honest chap.'

"Wall, Lot went to the prairies o' the Jordan, an' Abram went to the range o' Canaan. That ended their wee bit spat. An' that's the way to settle squabbles on the ranches. Jist separate them, an' that will save powder, an' none o' the cowboys will get scalped. If ye're no contented to herd for Lot, I guess Abram would give ye a job, an' he pays well, an' the grub is good.

"I tell ye, the devil's a good roper, an' his boys are up to all kinds o' pranks. Get on his range an' he'll hae ye coralled an' his mark on ye afore ye know it. Christ is a fine boss, an' don't you forget it. His cattle are all slick an' fat, an' his cowboys allus engage again after their time's out. Stick to him, my lads. He disna say much, but ye get the best o' everything!"

Jake fell upon his knees and prayed briefly:

"Blessed Maister, we love you, an' we're not ashamed to tell everybody. We oughter be ashamed if we didna tell. Some of us are not on the right trail. We've lost it, and we canna find it. The snow must o' covered it, or else our eyesight is gettin' bad an' we canna see. Corral us, O Lord, afore we get lost in the storm. Brand us wi' yer ain mark, that ye'll ken yer ain. Keep us on yer ain range, an' if ever we stampede, throw yer rope an' lead us to yer ranch. Save us frae wand'rin' in the mountains or strayin' in the coulees when there's fine feed on the prairie. Help us to feed on grace an' truth, an' may we be prepared to walk in the trails o' heaven; no runnin' an' tossin' up the horns, but walkin' an' lyin' down, sae peaceful like. When we're faint in the winter, an' there's no room fur us in the herd, or in the stables at the ranch, take us quietly some night, when there's nobody lookin', an' when we get hame we'll thank ye oursels fur all yer kindness an' love. Amen!"

Before sunrise the camp was astir, and Jake, bidding his friends good-bye, continued his journey after partaking of a hasty meal.

Few were the houses on the prairie, and frequently did this "sky pilot," as he was sometimes called, travel from forty to fifty miles to visit some aged miner or sick cowboy.

"An' yer lyin' there yet, Jim," said Jake, as he entered the shack of an old-timer who had been sick for a few weeks.

"Ay, Jake, it's hard lines, but I might be worse."

"That's true. Ye never looked on it that way afore, an' I'm glad to hear ye talk in that way."

Jake threw off his coat and stepped outside without saying a word, and in a few moments the vigorous play of an axe was heard. It was Jake putting in a preface to his sermon. Oftentimes he would say, "Ye maun heed the Book, fur it tells ye afore ye eat ye maun work, an' a clean religion is to creep down quietly afore anyone sees ye to the widow's house, an' split wood an' carry water. Ye min' that publican? I reckon he must hae been a cowboy when he was young. Afore he prayed he struck his breast pretty hard, an' then he prayed; but that Pharisee was too lazy an' proud, fur he prayed first. Now, ye maun work afore ye preach or pray or eat. Ye see it means if ye dinna work ye'll get so fat ye'll no be healthy, an' if ye don't take exercise prayin' a bit, readin' the Book awhile, choppin' wood fur the widows an' sheerin' sheep fur the orphans, ye'll be lazy an' unco clumsy. An' if ye get fat the devil will soon get ye, fur he's allus on the lookout fur fat cattle.

"The Maister didna think much o' them publicans, but I reckon He had a kind o hankerin' after that un that cried, 'God be merciful!'

"Publicans! I should think yer Master wouldn't travel on the same trail with them, fur they're the fellows as sells ye bad whiskey fur a big price, an' when yer dimes are gone, turn ye out on the prairie," said Jim.

"Ye're on the wrong trail, Jim; them publicans were Nor'-West lawyers, who charge ye thirty per cent. fur lendin' money, an' when ye borrow a hunner dollars gie ye sixty-four. I know them, fur I've been there. Some o' them fellers will hae to strike their breasts pretty hard afore the Maister 'll hear the crack."

Jake had a roaring fire on, and was soon busy making pancakes, buns and tea, and frying some bacon.

Jim was badly crippled with rheumatism, and seldom saw anyone except a cowboy or an Indian. He did not, however, feel lonely, as he had been accustomed to this mode of living for many years. The present year had been one of the hardest for him, he had suffered so much with rheumatism. Jim had been well brought up, his connections being numbered amongst some of the first families of Philadelphia. When quite a young man he had drifted westward, attracted by the report of the fortunes made at the mines. His life had been one of expectancy, always hoping for the fortune which seemed to others a long way off. He was not daunted in his pursuit of wealth. Several times he had made large sums and then squandered them freely, hoping to replace them by greater; but that happy day never came to him, and now he was almost a helpless cripple, crawling around his shanty, and glad to see the face of a stranger. There was none more welcome than Broncho Jake. Jim had known him before he became a "sky pilot," and so fully did he believe him, that no one dared to say a word against him in his hearing.

"The slap-jacks are no the best, Jim, but I reckon they'll keep life in for a while."

"They're fine, Jake, they're fine."

"The Maister," said Jake, "must ha been a good one, for He wus worse off than our rabbits; He didna hae a hole to creep into out o' the sight o' His enemies; an' min', He had a lot o' them, fur He was the friend on the side o' the men who had their failings and had none to sympathize with them. When a cowboy went off on the wrong trail an' got lost,—wi' drink, I mean,—He wud come after him an' make signs like the Indians, an' shout, 'Come back, ye're on the wrong trail!'

"He didn't trample ye down when ye fell, but waited till ye got yer breath, an' then takin' yer arm, He wud say, 'My friend, get up; ye'll soon be well. I'll gie ye a hand to put ye on yer horse, an' I'll help ye to find the trail.' He was a bonnie man, an' don't you forget it; none o' yer gentry, but a real man, wha, if He were here among us, win I dress in 'chapps' an' sombrero, an' ride a fine horse. I reckon He wud beat us a' at the ropin' an' ridin' an' sich like. I wud allus let Him beat me if I thought I could do better than Him."

Jim was silent. He had finished his meal and drawn near to the stove. He had seldom thought of such things until Jake began to visit him, and then his mind was directed towards religion, but in the quaint way which was characteristic of these men of the western plains. Jim sat gazing intently into the fire, while Jake continued his talk as he cleared the dishes from the small table and began to wash them. As he scrubbed and cleaned he talked about the Master in such a familiar strain that Jim felt as if he were some relation, that he also had some claim upon His sympathies, and would work gladly for him. The dishes were cleaned and the room swept, and then Jake joined him beside the stove.

"Ay, Jim, many a time I hae crossed these prairies thinking I was pretty smart, but I tell ye I found my match. I could ride faster and better'n any of the boys, 'n, thinks I, there's none can beat me, I'm boss o' the ranches. Wall, I wus a ridin' to the ranch one day, an' as I wus a crossin' the Belly River I thought I heard a voice out o' the bush calling my name. It wasna the same as the boys call me, but the voice cried, 'Johnnie!' Wall, it wasna the name that struck me so much as the voice. I says to mysel', 'I ken that voice.' When I got across the river I went into the bush, and agen I heard my name called out, 'n I says, 'Hullo!' but I heard nothin', till the third time I was a listening an' then fainter so I could hardly catch it, it said, 'Johnnie!' I turned my horse's head to go to the mountains, but, wud ye believe it, the beast wudna go. I got a kind o' skeered, 'n says I, 'There must be some ghosts here.' I dinna believe in such things, so I drove the spurs into my horse, but he wudna go; so, jest to see the end o' the thing, I let him take his own way, an' I gie him the lines an' let him go. He turned right to the river an' crossed back an' off as fast as he could go. 'The spirits hae got him sure,' says I. But as he went on, I began to think, an', puttin' the voice an' the horse's gait together, I says, 'I'll see the end o' this.'

My horse took me right to the Missouri River, an' without thinkin' what I was doin', I put him in a herd an' stepped on a boat, an' off I went down the Big Muddy. I couldna tell ye all my queer journey, for I wasna mysel'. Wall, I landed at last in a wee bit of a town, an' as I wus goin' up the street, I thinks to myself, I hae seen some o' these things afore. I stopped at a door to pick up a wee thing that was cryin', an' when I was talkin' to it, an old man comes to me, an' holdin' out his hand, he says, 'I'm glad ye're come. She's been a lookin' fur ye, an' she'll be right glad to see ye, fur she canna last long.' I looked at him an' shook my head. 'Come in, John Fraser,' says he, and I looked. I didna ken what to say. That was the first time fur many long years that I'd heard my name. I had almost forgotten it mysel'. I went into the house. It was none o' yer shanties, but a fine big house; an', as I went in, the old man took me to the bed, an' he says, 'He's come! Didna I tell ye that yer dreams an' prayers would all come true?'

"'Johnnie! Johnnie!'"

Broncho Jake stopped. The tears were coursing down his cheeks, and his lips were quivering with intense emotion.

"It was my mither, Jim. I hadna ben back since I ran away when I wus a wee fellow, an' I had forgotten all about them, an' I didna ken which way to find them, an' here I was at last! That voice at the river brought me to her bedside. She took my hands in hers an' says,

"'Johnnie, He'll be a true friend to ye.'

"'He's too old, mither, to be any use to me. He wouldna make a cowboy; he's too old.'

"'Oh, Johnnie,' says she, 'dinna talk in that way. I hae trusted in Him since I wus a wee lassie, and He'll no leave me noo when I'm crossin' the Jordan.'

"'Mither, I'll tak ye across the Jordan if it's no too deep. Mony a time I hae crossed the Kootenay an' the Saskatchewan, an' if the Jordan's no wider an' deeper an' them I can tak ye across. He's too old to tak ye o'er the water.'

"'Johnnie, Johnnie! my laddie! hae ye forgotten all I taught ye at my knee?' says my mither to me.

"Wall, Jim, she talked to me till I couldna see, fur my eyes were fu' of tears. The dear old body took me by the hand as she prayed for me wi' her dying breath, and afore she went away she says, 'Ye'll serve him, Johnnie?' an' I put my hand in hers, and I couldna say anything, but jest kissed her old cheek afore she died. 'Meet me yonder, Johnnie,' she said, and then she closed her eyes.

"I got a fine stone an' put it at her grave, an' I got the fellow who made it to cut out on it a saddle and a pair o' spurs, and above them the words, 'Meet Me Yonder.'

"Late one night I went to her grave an' got down beside it, an' wud ye believe it, I prayed and I says, 'Maister, Maister, I'll serve ye! I'm no happy here, an' I'll gang back to the ranch and serve ye.'

"I went again next morning to take a last look at the grave, and then I said: 'I'm off to the mountains to serve Him."

Jim was deeply interested. Jake had never opened his mind so freely to anyone. When he had finished there were tears in Jim's eyes.

"Jake, I had a mother, and she wus a good un. Her prayers were short, but I tell ye they were to the point. She was what some o' the folks called a Gospel liver, not a Gospel talker. When I wus a boy there wus two kinds of religion—the livers and the talkers. The talkers had bigger churches an' bigger crowds, an' the folks said they wus fine on Sunday; but ye had to look out when you wus dealin' with them on Monday. The livers were fine folks all the week, an' ye could trust them."

"Just like our bronchos," said Jake. "Christians are like bronchos, Jim. If they're well broken in when they're young they'll be steady, an' if ye break them to ride or drive it's all the same to them, if ye train them right. Now, there are some Christians that have never been broken in right. Sometimes they'll balk, an' it's no their fault, they were trained wrong. An' there are some kickers. Wall, the fellows that broke them in are to blame, not the kickin' Christians; they were na broken in right. There are some Christians that shy at a prayer because some fellow didna pray like them, or they shy at some Christian in their churches just like a horse at a piece of paper or an engine on a railroad. Then there are some Christians like our bucking horses, they won't work. Ye can't put a saddle or harness on 'em, an' they're fat, sleek an' strong. They all want to be bosses an' feed on the best without doing any work. Wall, they're not to blame. It's the fellows wha breaks 'em in that causes all the trouble. Gie me a steady Christian, a good stepper, sure-footed, well-built for saddle or to draw, not a genteel, high-spirited nervous thing, but one full of life, well broken in, willin' to work and wha kens his boss. I don't like yer dreachy Christian, allus going into his neighbor's field or corral, an' I don't want them that won't stay in their own band, but are allus runnin' on their neighbors.

"I hae, like you, Jim, met some queer folks in my day, jest like the horses I hae handled. Once I wus boss of a ranch, an' I had some fine bands of horses, but there wus one band that beat me. I wus kept in the saddle most o' the time lookin' after them. I had a fine black horse called Scottie; he stood sixteen an' a half hands high, an' was as sober as a judge, but would ye believe me, I couldna keep him at hame. He would stray away every chance he got, an' I allus found him in a band called the Methodist band. They got the name frae the way in which they worked thegither. You never saw the like; wheniver they were hitched up thegither they would pull for all they wus worth. They would keep step and pull well. When they came to a hill they bent down their heads, and afore ye could get yer breath they had the load on the top o' the hill. Whenever they were put out on the range they wud run and toss up their heads, an' kick an' whinny. They were all so full of mischief, an' man, they seemed to like each ither that well you couldna part them. Once in a while they would stampede, and then for several days they wouldna look into each ither's faces, they seemed sae ashamed. There wus nothing in it; it wus purely good spirits. They wur sae full o' life they didna ken what to do. Wall, Scottie wud stray into the Methodist band, an' I wusna pleased, fur I saw that the boss o' the ranch wud like to get him, and whenever Scottie wus with the band the cowboys drove the whole band onto the finest pasture on the range. Fur a long time I couldna mak out what attractions wus there, fur I wus sure Scottie wus a sensible animal. I found out the secret from one o' the cowboys. This fellow wus a particular friend of mine, so he told me. There wus a fine mare in the band that Scottie had taken up wi', an' the two got to like each ither that much ye could hardly separate them.

"'Buy her,' says my friend, 'she's a fine animal, then ye can keep Scottie at hame.'

"Wall, it was hard work, as the Methodist boss didna like to part wi' the mare, but I paid him a big price, an' so I wus able after that to keep Scottie in his ain band."

Jim was deeply interested in Jake's style of preaching. He seemed to understand him easily and it suited him well.

"Yer mother was a good un," said Jim. "If we wus only as good as our mothers we'd be the pick o' the prairie."

The two men sat talking together over matters pertaining to their welfare, temporal and eternal, and after Jake had attended to his horse he knelt in prayer, pouring out his heart for Jim and himself. It was a simple prayer, short and pointed:

"O Lord, ye ken Jim and me. We're no strays, fur we belong to yer band, but we don't keep in the trails every day, an' we sometimes steal pretty close to the devil's range. It's no because there's good feed, but we get lazy, and afore we open our eyes to look up, we're right close on his boundary. Lord, keep us frae wanderin' in that way. It's no to our credit, fur ye're a kind Maister. O Lord, corral the cowboys an' make them yer ain. Some belong to the devil, fur I've seen his brand on them, an' some are mavrocks. They're kind, good-hearted lads, an' if ye'll be on the look-out ye can catch them, an' when they ken that ye're a good Maister, they'll stay on the range. Shelter the poor cattle on the prairie th' night. Poor things, they'll be tired an' hungry wi' the round-up. Be kind to them, an' no let any rain spoil their rest, or wolves touch their calves, an' incline the hearts o' the cowboys to be kind to them. Fur ye ken I love the cattle, an' I hope some day to meet them in heaven. I want to do what's right, but, O Lord, it would be a poor heaven to me if there wur no cattle there, an' no cowboys, fur I hae loved them all my life. Watch over Jim an' me. May we keep our spurs bright, our saddles in good shape, an' our horses well fed, an' when we're done servin' ye on the prairies, take Jim an' me to yer heavenly range. Amen."

The two men then lay down side by side. Their couch was of the rudest and most primitive description and somewhat the worse from age and wear, but its occupants were soon fast asleep.

Jake remained several days with his friend. Jim was ill and sadly needed all his friend's willing care. He intended staying until Jim was quite recovered and able to do for himself, but his plans were upset by the arrival of a messenger from Sam Burgoyne's shanty demanding his help there. Sam's babe was lying very nigh to death, and having learned that Broncho Jake was at Jim's shack, Sam sent a young Indian lad to fetch him.

Questioning the lad, Jake gathered that the child was very ill. He saddled his horse and set out at once. He had only a few miles to ride, but when he reached the shanty and looked at the child, he saw that his knowledge was not sufficient to save it. It was beyond human aid. Jake sat down, and by kind, sympathetic words and prayer did his best to comfort the parents.

The mother was a Blood Indian woman and the father a white man. She understood the English language, although she did not speak it well or frequently. Her husband understanding the Indian tongue, she talked to him in it while he conversed with her in English. In this way they understood each other perfectly, though practising little in the use of the tongue spoken by the other.

As Jake sat beside the bed of the dying child and offered his simple prayers, asking that the blessing of the Father of men might rest on the wee lamb, he thought what a pretty babe it was, and realized something of the pride the mother felt in her darling, and his heart went out in sorrow for them as they watched the ebb tide in the life of the child they loved.

As her eyes closed, Jake fell upon his knees. He could say nothing to the poor father and mother, his heart was too full; there were tears in his eyes as, taking their hands in his, he offered up the following short but touching prayer: "Lord, take the wee lamb to yer ain fold, where she'll be safe frae the wolves an' the winter's snow. Come yersel' an' comfort the hearts o' my comrades here who hae lost their lambie. Feed them wi' yer ain hand. Corral them in dangerous times. We are puir folk, but ye're our friend an' ye ken what we say. Dinna furget us an' pass us by, but brand us well an' then ye'll know yer ain. Amen."

As Jake rose from his knees he said gently, "The lambie's gone!" and then with true refinement of feeling he turned aside that the bereaved parents might give way to their grief unwatched.

The Indian mother wept bitterly when she saw that life had fled, but after the first paroxysm of grief had spent itself, she set to work to prepare her darling for its last resting-place.

Jake beckoned to the father and led the way out of the room. After a few moments' consultation they went out on the prairie together to choose a spot not far from the shanty for the grave.

Like the women of many of the Indian tribes, this poor mother had been accustomed to see her dead placed upon a platform supported by poles and raised upon the prairie some eight or ten feet from the ground: and knowing how hard it is to give up old customs, Jake was anxious to make the new mode of burial as attractive as possible to the feelings of the mother. He chose a beautiful spot, and, being a strong man, soon had a neat grave dug. He then returned to the shanty and found the woman had wrapped her babe in a fine blanket, and with it for a covering was going to have the child buried. Jake bade her wait a little while. In a few hours he had made a handsome coffin and placed the babe in it.

The little funeral procession went to the grave, and after laying the coffin in it, Jake said a few words of love and faith—words that were listened to and understood by his hearers, who could live only up to the light they had been given. They put a fence around the grave, and Jake set up a board at the head of it, on which he wrote the name and age of the child. The little one had not lived long, but she had not lived in vain. As a beautiful flower of the prairie, she had come in the spring-time and bloomed through the glad summer, filling the home with sunshine and happiness until summer came again. Then the playthings were laid aside and the stricken child lay down to rest.

Jake often visited the desolate home, and was able to lead the bereaved parents to thoughts of the higher life, from the perishable things of this earthly dwelling place to the eternal blessedness of the immortal land.

*****

"He's a rum one, and don't ye forget it."

"Wall, he's none o' yer dandy city preachers. A fellow can catch what he says, an' ye bet he's no fool."

The speakers were in a group of cowboys and settlers, who had assembled in one of the new towns of the country, attracted by the rumor of a service to be held in the settlement. Many of them were strangers to each other, while others were strangers to the place. The assembling to attend a religious service where there were stores not only gave them an opportunity to meet and know each other, but also of doing business at the same time. Some of the men came to get their mail and to buy provisions, and when they heard of the "Gospel cowboy" and his eccentric ways, they were induced to remain.

Broncho Jake had not arrived, and while they waited remarks about him and his deeds were bandied about from one to the other. They were still speaking of him when a solitary cowboy rode quickly up to the group and dismounted. He was a tall man and a good rider. Only a few of the old-timers in the group recognized him or guessed that he was the man they had waited to hear.

Jake, still sitting his horse, spoke a few words in the peculiar phraseology of the West, and then prayed briefly. Drawing a small Bible from the canteen on his saddle, he opened it and began his sermon:

"Boys, I allus carries my guide Book, an' it tells me the ranges an' brands an' sich like. I'm goin' to read what Paul says about backslidin' and backridin'. Paul wus a character. He had a mind o' his ain, an' he wasna afeard to speak. Wall, he says in the first Corinthens, in the tenth chapter and verse twelve, 'Let him that thinks he stands take heed lest he fall.' An' that means, don't think because ye're ridin' ye'll no get a tumble, fur the cowboy that rides wi' his head too high will sometimes get thrown in a badger hole."

As he spoke, Jake turned upon his horse's back, his face toward the tail of the animal, and spoke to him to start. Suddenly, when touched by the spur, the horse bolted and Jake was thrown to the ground. As he struck it, he jerked the lariat, which he still held in his hand, and brought the horse to a stand. Turning to the audience, he said:

"If ye're guilty o' backridin' ye'll get left every time. Backridin' is backslidin'. Seek the Lord, an' when ye're workin' on His range never ride wi' yer back to yer horse's head. Fur let him that thinks he's ridin' take heed or he'll fall."

Mounting his horse, with a farewell wave of the hand to his hearers, Jake rode rapidly away over the prairie, leaving the listeners to his brief but pointed sermon visibly impressed.

*****

Winter had returned with its short days and long, cold nights. The rivers were frozen, the buffalo were no longer seen, the antelope kept well to the sheltering woods and mountains; the wolves alone roamed the prairie in search of food, haunting the neighborhood of man. The snow was deep, and many storms swept over the country, making the travelling very difficult and often dangerous. The cowboys, devoted to their work and the care of the herds, remained on the ranges. These sailors of the prairies are daring fellows, and have large, true hearts. The ranchers cheered each other by frequent visits—visits which extended from a few days to two or three months.

At night they gathered around the large stove, which is always the principal article of furniture in a rancher's shanty, and entertained themselves and each other by telling tales of adventure and repeating many an experience of their life on the prairie.

Young though some of them were, they had gone through many a scene of temptation and trial, had been brought safely through many an hour of difficulty and danger. These experiences had hardened their sinews and muscles, developed the keen sense of sight and hearing, as well as the readiness of resource and rapidity of action peculiar to the cowboy. It was a life which made them true men, faithful to their work and courageous of heart.

It was on a bitterly cold night—just how cold no one cared to say; the experience of that winter was sufficient for any tenderfoot on the prairie—that the cowboys at Oxley ranch were gathered around a roaring fire recounting their individual exploits. The mail-wagon had been detained somewhere by the deep snow; literature, always scanty, was thus scantier than ever, and the boys had no other source of entertainment.

"Five years ago I wus working on a ranch in the Bitter Root valley, when I had a pretty close shave," said Tom Jones, an industrious, strong-limbed, strong-minded young man, who was as true and daring as he was strong. "Those wur the Indian times, and I wus green at the business. I didn't know when to shoot an Indian and when to let him alone. Wall, the boss was going away fur a month, an' he put me in charge, an' I was getting good pay, so I says to myself, I'm going to do my level best fur him, an' let him see that I can work better for him behind his back than when he's here allus a watchin' us. I wus in the saddle from mornin' to night, an' you bet I got pretty tired; but I wus a bit afeard the Indians would play sharp on me when the boss wus away. The cattle wur strayin' pretty hard, an' I got it into my head that there wus some mischief goin' on, fur after I had got them all bunched up an' on the range feedin' quiet an' contented, next day they wud all be scattered, an' I had to go after them again.

"There wus five of us on the ranch, an' after talkin' the thing over we made up our minds that we wud get all the cattle in again an' then we'd keep a watch on them. We started out after layin' our plans, an' after a lot o' hard work we got them on the range. We wur used up, but we wur so angry at havin' to do so much that we determined to ketch the fellow that gave us the trouble. One o' the boys took the first part o' the night, an' at twelve o'clock it wus my turn to be on herd. Wall, I wus tired an' not in the best trim fur doin' any fightin', if there wus Indians about; but I wus in fur it, an' of course I couldn't back out; besides, I wus takin' the place o' the boss, an' I had to see that everythin' wus right. I had a good strong cup o' tea at the ranch an' rode out to take my partner's place. When I got up to the spot where we had agreed to watch, I saw him sittin' on horseback, never movin'. I called out low so as no one else wud hear, but he didn't answer. It was dark; I rode up near to him. My mare began to snort, and then she gave a terrible spring an' bolted. I held on fur a minute when, whiz! whiz! came two bullets after me. Had my partner turned traitor, or did he think that I was an Indian? In another minute an Indian came rushin' past me. He gave a wild warwhoop an' made a swoop at me with his big knife, but in the darkness he missed me. I kept a sharp lookout fur my partner, but I couldn't find him. I wus lookin' round with my sharpshooter in my hand, when I saw a tall object comin' toward me. I grasped my revolver firm an' kept my eye on the movin' figure—"

Tom had reached this part of his story when the cowboys, who had been listening intently, started and turned their heads. There was an unusual noise outside. Still affected by the story and their minds full of Indians and enemies, they drew their revolvers and made for the door. After a momentary hesitation, the first one to reach it threw it wide open. It was no enemy, although the noise made by the new-comers was of so unusual a nature as to startle the cowboys almost as much as if it had been the discharge of half a dozen revolvers. Upon an Indian travaille, wrapped in a buffalo robe, lay a man apparently dead or dying. The sound of the travaille, as it was dragged over the frozen snow, and the loud voices and shouts of the two horsemen who accompanied it, was very different from the merry laugh or song of the cowboy and the swift rush of his horse's feet over the prairie to the door of a ranch.

The three men had been out hunting cattle, and late that afternoon while passing some Indian lodges at the edge of the wood, several ugly curs rushed out and snapping at the heels of the horses had made them rear and plunge. The horse which Sam Lynch had ridden was frightened by the sudden onslaught of the dogs, had kicked and plunged, and, rearing, had fallen over backwards with his rider under him.

Sam's companions thought at first that he was killed, and the Indians had rushed out to see the victim of the calamity. They carried him into one of the lodges and the medicine-men gave him some of their remedies; but his comrades, fearing that he might have sustained some internal injuries, thought it would be unwise to trust to the knowledge of the Indian doctor. As soon as he recovered consciousness, they secured the loan of a travaille and started, hoping to find better medical aid and care for him at one of the ranches. They travelled several weary miles and reached the Oxley ranch, as we have seen, after dark.

The lads lifted the injured, apparently dying man, and carried him into the shanty. They laid him on the best couch they possessed, thinking only of making him as comfortable as their means and the accommodation at their command would permit. Although the storm was still severe, one of them set out in search of a doctor, riding fifty miles to reach one and procure his services.

When Sam had been obliged to seek his straying cattle his wife was ill, and his only child, a little girl five years of age, had succeeded in finding an Indian woman to take care of them during his absence; but the boys, knowing how dependent they were upon Sam, felt that every effort must be made to restore him to the wife and child who needed his care and protection. When the doctor had examined Sam's injuries he shook his head, and told the men that though he would probably recover he would be a cripple for life.

During the three or four weeks that Sam lay at the Oxley ranch he was well cared for by the rough but kindly cowboys, and when he was able to move they took him home. Sam was not able to ride, so a buckboard was called into requisition for his conveyance. He was very grateful to them for all their care, and when one of them put fifty dollars into his hand, telling him they had made it up among themselves to help him to keep hunger from his door until he was able to fight it himself, he knew not how to express his thanks. Rough, kindly lads, they proffered their gift in so unostentatious a manner that the value of it was enhanced tenfold both in the heart of the recipient and in the sight of the Giver of all good gifts.

Sam found his wife very low, but she seemed to be comfortable. When he went round the house and into the out-buildings he was struck by the neatness and evidence of care and comfort he found everywhere. There were several cords of wood piled neatly in one place, and a quantity split up and laid in the yard. The stables were clean, the small storehouse had been repaired; there was an abundance of food provided, and there were several hand-made articles of furniture in the house Sam did not remember having seen before. Someone had certainly been taking a deep and helpful interest in his affairs during his absence. Who it was he could not tell. His wife was unable to answer any questions he might ask; she seemed to be at the point of death, and he needed no experienced eye to tell him that her hours were numbered. He was still so weak from the effects of his accident that the little exertion wearied him. Sitting down in a chair by the fire, unable to do anything except to watch the dying woman, he let his thoughts dwell upon his many troubles, while he wondered from whom the strange help had come.

Presently his wife opened her eyes and beckoned him to her side.

"Sam," she said feebly, "you have been a good husband to me. When you got hurt I thought I would die, and I was so anxious about you and Minnie. My heart was hard against God and I could not weep. I could not see why we should be compelled to suffer so much, but I can see it all now, and as I lie here at night praying I can say, 'Thy will be done!' I know it is hard to think what will become of you when I am gone, Minnie so young and you so crippled, but God has been good to us. You see how things have been provided for us while you were away, an' I'm sure you will not suffer after I'm gone. Never look to yourself, but trust in the wisdom of our Father in heaven," and she sank back on the pillow exhausted with the long speech. Sam looked at her with loving, sad eyes. He said nothing, but was thinking seriously of her words, and wondering what the end would be.

The future was desolate to the poor man as he sat thinking, his face buried in his hands, no sound in the room but the labored breathing of the sick woman. The door opened and Sam raised his head. It was Broncho Jake with his arms laden with parcels. He had been away to the settlement, and was now returning with a supply of groceries for the house. Putting them down on the table he held out his hand to Sam. "Sam, my heart is sore fur ye," he said gently. "You an' me have been friends fur many years, an' I hae come to help ye. When ye wus hurt I wus a ridin' the range just doin' the work of a Gospel cowboy, an' one o' the lads told me about yer wife. I wus readin' the Guide Book an' I seed my brand, an' as I wus lookin' at it I could see the bulletin o' the Cowboys' Association had on it the words, 'Pure religion an' undefiled before God an' the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, an' to keep himself unspotted from the world.' Now that means when anybody is sick or poor there's no use singin' an' prayin' if there's no wood in the house. It means that if ye would serve the Maister ye're to chop wood fur the sick, mind the house, make a chair, carry in water, and get them som'at to eat. Singin' an' prayin' isna religion. The Maister healed the sick an' helped the poor, an' did all His singin' an' prayin' after. If ye havena anything to eat ye canna sing very well, an' if there's no wood fur the stove an' it's a cold day, ye canna pray very hard. Afore I start on a long trip I allus feed my horse well, an' that's how God does. He fills ye wi' the good things so ye can sing an' pray."

The change in the surroundings on Sam's small ranch was thus due to Jake's kindly, practical Christianity. He had obeyed the instructions he had found in the bulletin of the Cowboys' Association, as he called it, and came to the aid of the wife of his friend, her helpless condition being sufficient reason to him for leaving the preaching for the doing of God's Word. The journey was a long one, but Jake was strong and happy. He sang as he rode over the prairie, his heart full of gratitude to God for giving him the health and strength by which he was able to come to the aid of the helpless. He was never so happy as when chopping wood, preparing or earning food for those who were unable to work for themselves. His place for the present time was in Sam's shanty.

When work for the day or hour was done the two men sat by the stove and talked, speaking in subdued tones that they might not disturb the sick woman. She was very low, and they both felt the approach of the death-angel could not long be delayed. Sam's little daughter clung to her father's knee, her loving, questioning glances divided between his sad face and the bed where her mother lay. The Indian woman passed to and fro in her tender ministrations, proving herself a kind and capable nurse. Jake prepared all the meals, and with kind words of encouragement he persuaded Sam to eat, and by keeping up his slowly returning strength be more hopeful for the future. He had brought medicine and food for the invalid, too, and when she was awake and could understand him, he talked to her of the better land where she should ere long find rest and peace.

Two days passed in anxious watching before the end came. Late in the evening while the Indian woman sat at the bedside, she noted a change in the sick woman. She called the family together that they might say the last words permitted them before her spirit departed on the long journey to its eternal home. As they waited her lips moved, and Sam, bending down, caught the words, "Meet me there"; then as he lifted the child Minnie to kiss her mother, a smile of joy passed over her face, and she closed her eyes as the spirit passed without a sigh to its rest.

Sam wept bitterly when all was over. She had been a good wife, and now that she was dead he felt alone and desolate indeed.

Sunset on the Rocky Mountains is a grand sight. Its loveliness once seen can never be forgotten. The lofty and varied mountains rear their majestic heads high into heavens that seem aglow with fire; clouds lined with silver and gold guard the topmost heights. The lines of light and shade deepen the glory of the sky, until the beholder stands entranced with the beauty of the scene. It was on such an evening, when the radiance of the heavens seemed more beautiful than ever, that the mourners laid their dead in her grave upon the prairie at the foot of the mountains.

They placed the coffin on a travaille and drew it to the spot Jake and Sam had chosen for the grave. Jake knelt upon the ground and offered up one of his simple, manly prayers—a prayer for strength to be given to the mourners and of trust in the Almighty. After they had covered the grave they planted a few flowers in the upturned soil, and placed a small upright board at the head of the grave, inscribing on it the name and age of the deceased.

On the Saturday morning following Jake bade his friend good-bye. He had to keep an engagement he had made to preach at Macleod, on Sunday. Jake often claimed the prairie as his church, though he sometimes called it his "range." His favorite pulpit was his horse, and he felt more at home on the back of this faithful friend than he would have done in a beautiful walnut pulpit such as the preachers have in the city churches.

A large congregation had assembled in one of the billiard halls in Macleod on that Sunday morning to hear the "Gospel cowboy" preach. The majority of the men were drawn thither by the report of the strange style of his preaching, but there were many who had been helped at various times by Jake, and their gratitude and love constrained them to meet and hear again the man who had done so much for them. They were Jake's "boys," and he felt he had a claim upon them. The singing of the congregation was hearty in spite of the fact that there were only two or three women among them; but the old-timers and the cowboys could sing, and at this meeting they sang out lustily and seemed to enjoy themselves.

A simple prayer was uttered, and then after the singing of another hymn Jake addressed his hearers. He would not call it a sermon, just a talk; yet if a sermon means talking with effect upon religious themes, Jake was an impressive preacher. He could describe in his western phraseology religious life as it ought to be on the prairie. He did not, however, always confine himself to the prairie, although he was so enamored of it, and understood it so well, that he felt more at home, and therefore talked more frequently on the subjects the cowboys could handle, and that he could spiritualize for their benefit.

Christ was his "Maister" or "Boss," and to be a sinner was to be "lost on the prairie in a blizzard." Sometimes he took a text, but he often began with a story, and as the men listened more attentively he spiritualized it and directed them through it to the Gospel of Christ. Generally he had a definite aim in addressing the cowboys. He did not preach merely to explain a text; he had always a target to hit, or, as he expressed it, "I allus try to hit the mark when I point my talk at the boys."

The men at Macleod listened attentively to Jake's discourse, seriously impressed when he closed with the following earnest words:

"Boys, it's easy work to throw a steer, but ye canna tie him down alone. Ye maun get the boys to help ye. That's what the heathen parsons—missionaries, I think, they call them—are tryin' to do. They canna throw down sin themselves, and they hae to call upon the Christians to help them. They canna all run to their call, so they jist send some dollars an' let other folks go in their place. That's the way they throw down sin in Africa and China. I never wus there, but I heard the parsons who wur there tell the stories, an' they ought to know. Wall, boys, ye know Long Sam, wha got hurt in the winter. Wall, his wife has just faded away like a snowdrift in a Chinook wind, an' there's Sam an' the wee lass left. Sam's a cripple, an' now an' again poverty comes in at the back door, an' Sam tries to throw him an' tie him, but the rascal sits down in every room in the house, an' then the poor fellow lies down exhausted, and he says, 'I'm beaten.' Wall, boys, I want ye to lend us a hand in tethering the beast, an' if ye'll throw yer lariat ye can capture the animal an' corral him, so that he'll no' do any harm. So here's my hat, lads; pass it round an' drop in yer dollars fur Sam an' his wee lass. Ye a' ken him, an' he's worth more than ye a' kin gie him. The Maister will pay ye back wi' interest when ye go to the bank on the day ye want to draw out yer savin's."

Jake's hat was passed around, and although no warning had been given, and therefore no opportunity to prepare themselves for it, still they carried about with them considerable sums of money, and when the hat was emptied on the billiard table and counted, there were over one hundred and twelve dollars.

Jake thanked the boys, offered a brief prayer, and retired to the house of a friend to spend the evening. Early next morning he was seen crossing the river, well laden with supplies, starting northward, and singing a hymn as he rode.

Upon the evening of the second day Jake reached his destination with the goods he had purchased as the result of his missionary sermon, and there was peace and plenty in Sam's home for a long time.

That was an effective sermon, for Sam was never allowed to want after that day. He was able to do a few chores, but not sufficient to make a living. Minnie became the cowboys' favorite and Jake's protégé, and she was well provided for with so many benefactors. The mavrocks were given to her whenever any were found upon the round-up, and some of the boys occasionally brought her a lamb, so that in a short time she had quite a band of cattle and a goodly-sized flock of sheep.

*****

One morning before sunrise, in the early autumn, a solitary traveller was seen riding hurriedly toward the mountains, apparently on some mission. He stopped to rest his horse and partake of some food, and then he continued his journey. As he rode he sang occasionally a few snatches of song. He was well laden, and seemed to be going a long distance. He entered one of the mountain passes, and when he had reached the top of a foot-hill from which he could command a wide view of the country below, he alighted, and took a survey of the plains. Having glanced around and feasted his soul upon the beauties of nature, he took off his hat, knelt upon the ground and prayed. What a manly countenance he wore, and how striking was the attitude of this noble man! It was Jake, the Warden of the Plains.

At a gathering of cowboys where he had preached the day before, he bade them good-bye, saying that he was going west, as many settlers were now coming to the country, and they were getting parsons to take care of them. He felt constrained to seek out the cowboys and old-timers farther west, so he had decided to leave his old mission-field.

Several of his friends protested, but Jake was firm. Lest there might be a demonstration in his favor he had left early in the morning.

The last we heard of Jake was that he was doing pioneer work among the miners in the Kootenay country, and helping many toward a nobler life and deeper devotion to the truth.

Upon the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains there are many hearts that remember with joy the quaint sermons of the cowboy preacher, and some are living better lives to-day in the shanties because they cherish the teaching of the stalwart Warden of the Plains.