Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 105 — page 21: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

‘ it ain’t too much, I ask it ov ye. IT've always wanted it, and maybe ye'll do it fer me. I always thou’t thet [laid yer mother down ter sleep in ther pleasantest place in all ther broad prairies. I want ter rest ther’ too. I want ter be laid as near her as may be. Can it be done ?” The Hawk stepped forward. “Tt can be done; I will see it done.” “Thank yer, Injin. Ah, Hawk, how ar yer? Ye are one of ther few Injins I w’u’d ever trust. Now ye’ve promised, I feel safe.” “Most gone, Rube?” asked the Hawk, who had met him often at the posts. “ Yes, Injin,’’m about done. I’m anold stick, and it don’t make so much odds. Tl tell ye whar’ ter go, so that ye may find the spot safe, for these might forget it” He described the spot. Willie, Dolf, and Charlie kneeled by his side, and the man’s eyes turned upon them in a farewell glance. “ Well, boys,” he said, “it’s over—our tramping and fighting together. I hoped fer one thing. I looked ter see ye safe back ter the settlements. ’T'would hey’ been hard ter part, fer I'd got ter likin’ ye, an’ p'r’aps it’s better as it is. Willie ?” “Yes, Rube.” “Ye are from the north of New York, ain’t ye ?” “ec Yes,” “Well, I'll tell ye what itis. Ye won't laugh at me any of ye, but here is summat I want ye todo. Ye know whar’ Ontario is ?”’ “ Yea, “ Wal, there’s a little village there called Dayton. Yer know it?” “T go there often, Rube.” “Wal, you take this.” He drew out from his bosom a crumpJed sampler of an- cient date, the work of some deft maiden’s hand in the olden time. “ How long would ye think I’ve carried thet? A matter of twenty-five years, or thereabouts. Wal, if she lives, her name is Susan Blair, and the place is so small everybody will know her. Ef she is alive, tell her how I died with yer, doin’ my duty. I left her when I were twenty, and she were a rosy little girl of eighteen years. Well, we had lots of prom- ises to make, but I never went back, ’cause I got to love the plains, and, ’sides, some one told me that she had forgotten me, I found out, after thet, thet it was a tie, but Ic’u’dn't go back then, so I never looked upon her face again. You take it to her, ef she’s alive, and ef she’s dead, jest lay it on her grave, and kiver it with a little dirt so it won't belugged away. Ef they tell us true about the angels, then she will know it, and be glad.” o the rough hunter had a love-page in the history of his life! Ah, it is a dreary heart, indeed, which never loved. One of the sweetest poems poet ever sung says: “Better to have loved and lost, Than never to-have loved at all.” The world would be a sad place without love. The hunter was sinking fast. He looked from face to face in 2, hasty, undecided way, Old Rube, the Hunter. ee ee true heart, bashful as a girl, he feared to ask her aloud. “Would you mind kissin’ me ag’in ?” he said. “Pm an old man, and dyin’, you know.” Ida sat down by his side, and took the poor head upon her knees, kissing him as he would have been kissed, and parting his hair as tenderly as a mother might have done—the mother who, in that old brown frame house by the side of the distant Lake Ontario, had long since laid down to rest— the mother who, through the long years in which she never heard from her boy, never ceased to pray that the God who had been her counsel and stay, would never forsake him, no matter how far he strayed. His breath grew shorter and shorter still, and a film gathered over his eyes. “Sing!” he said, as the memory of the old-time songs of childhood came slowly back to him. “Sing.” And Ida, in a voice broken by her sobs, sung of the Redeemer, and his power to save. The hunter rose upon his elbow. “T believe it,’ he said. “ Hev’ ye got a Bible, where it tells how the Lord kem’ to save jest sich as I am ?” Dolf took a testament from his breast- pocket. “ Let the little ’un’ read,” said he. And she read the glorious promise of the Redeemer, and how, when upon the earth, he did not despise the weak and the lowly, and that his followers were unearned and ignorant men. “That is the religion fer me,” cried Rube “T ain’t afraid ter die. Jest giv’ me thet lit- tle prayer ag’in. Thet wasa prayer. ‘ Lord be merciful to me, a sinner. Good-by, lit- tle’un’. Good-by, boys. Never forget me.” A gasp, a bounding upward, and the life of the brave man was ended. She laid him reverently back upon the sod. There was a strange procession filing out of the Crow village next day. Every war- rior and old chief went with it. In the middle of the line walked the mustang of Rube, bearing the ciead body of his master Ida and the young adventurers rode ip front. For two days they traveled, and then they came to the grave on the prairie. There they made a grave, clove to that of those whose death he had so well avenged, and, as he had wished, laid him to rest. Willie read a service over his grave, and then they turned away, to bid farewell to their Indian friends. Idarode out in front and spoke to them feelingly for some moments, thanking them for their kindness to her, disclaiming any good done by herself, and bidding them a hearty good-by. There were speeches made by the old men, and then a general shaking of hands; after which a guide was given them, and a guard of two men, and they were away. Once only did Ida look back, and she could see the white stone shining out upon the prairie, at the head of her mother’s grave. They reached Laramie in goo time, and here a surprise awaited them, for the first person they met was Jake, in the best of spirits. He had escaped from his captors, 'and been picked up by a@ party of hunters 21 ee seeing them, whom he had never expected _ to see again on earth, The party set out in high spirits to the States, joining a large train which started that day. The overland route was safely passed, and they reached Leavenwerth at last. Their happiness would have been complete but for the cloud the death of Rube had cast upon them, and through life, they retained an endearing recollection of that brave trapper who had done so much for them. Pass three years, and go with me to the banks of Ontario, not far from the city of O Here, upon a pretty slope, looking out upon the lake, stands a brown-stone cot- tage, emlbowered by vine and leaf. Shaded walks and arbors adorn the grounds, and every thing shows a cultivated taste. This is the home to which Charlie West- gate brought his bride, for the prophetess did not remain in §t. Louis and work, as she had said she would do, and here they had lived happily for more than two years. A carriage rolls up to the gate, and two young men descend. Surely we know the first—yes, it is Dolf, grown brown and hardy in these three years, and with him, Willie. The youn g couple come out to meet them, and we see that the face of Ida has that look which we see only upon faces which are the index of a happy heart. She car- ries upon her arm a boy of a year, smiling up into her face. “What did you say you called him ?” asked Willie, taking the little fellow in his arms. “ Don’t you know ?” said Ida. “ Reuben.” “ After him ?” questioned Willie. “Yes. For, under God, we owe every thing to him. But, Dolf, come here. Why, yeu are getting brown as a Hindoo. Ihear that you have come to a sensible conclusion, Going to get married, are you ?” “Umph, yes. Nell Fields marries me next week, to get rid of me. Queer way of doing that, I fancy. I couldn’t do any better since Charlie took you.” “And you, Willie ?” “T! Oh, I am a bachelor, dyed in the wool. J—” “T don’t like to doubt the word of a gentleman, but he tells my sister, Mollie, a different story, since they are to be married in the holidays. Own up, Willie.” “T won't. Give me that boy back again, Ida.” “ For you to hold him up by the neck in that manner?” cried the young mother, in- dignantly. “ No, thank you.” | “Reuben is his name, is it? You could do no less. Do you know that I found that Susan Blair, whom the poor fellow loved, and gave her the sampler, telling how he died. She was a middle-aged woman, married and happy, but when I left the room, I looked back to see her sobbing over the faded relic as if her heart would break.” And thus the hunter was remembered THE END, ad then beckoned Ida nearer. Honest, returning to the fort. He was overjoyed e* . Eomichooks:co