Over the Rocky Mountains: Wandering Will in the Land of the Redskin

Preface

Note: Plan of this Miscellany.

There is a vast amount of interesting information, on almost all subjects, which many people, especially the young, cannot attain to because of the expense, and, in some instances, the rarity of the books in which it is contained.

To place some of this information, in an attractive form, within the reach of those who cannot afford to purchase expensive books, is the principal object of this Miscellany.

Truth is stranger than fiction, but fiction is a valuable assistant in the development of truth. Both, therefore, shall be used in these volumes. Care will be taken to insure, as far as is possible, that the facts stated shall be true, and that the impressions given shall be truthful.

As all classes, in every age, have proved that tales and stories, are the most popular style of literature, each volume of the series (with, perhaps, one or two exceptions) will contain a complete tale, the heroes and actors in which, together with the combination of circumstances in which they move, shall be more or less fictitious.

In writing these volumes, the author has earnestly endeavoured to keep in view the glory of God and the good of man.

Chapter One

It was late on a winter evening when our hero, William Osten, arrived in England, in company with his two friends and former messmates, Bunco and Larry O’Hale.

When a youth returns to his native land, after a long absence which commenced with his running away to sea, he may perhaps experience some anxieties on nearing the old home; but our hero was not thus troubled, because, his father having died during his absence, and his mother having always been tender-hearted and forgiving, he felt sure of a warm reception.

Our hero was so anxious to see his mother, that he resolved to travel by the night-coach to his native town of B—, leaving his companions to follow by the mail in the morning. Railways, although in use throughout the country, had not at that time cut their way to the town of B—. Travellers who undertook to visit that part of the land did so with feelings somewhat akin to those of discoverers about to set out on a distant voyage. They laid in a stock of provisions for the journey, and provided great supply of wraps for all weathers. When Will Osten reached the coach-office, he found that all the inside places were taken.

“You’ll have to go aloft, sir,” said the coachman, a stout and somewhat facetiously inclined individual, who, observing something of the sailor in Will’s costume and gait, suited his language to his supposed character; “there’s only one berth left vacant, on the fogs’l ’longside o’ myself.”

“Well, I’ll take it,” said Will.

Five minutes afterwards the guard shouted “all right,” and they set off.

“Do you happen to know many of the people in the town of B—?” said Will to the coachman, as they emerged from the suburbs and dashed out upon a long tract of moorland.

“Know many of ’em, sir,” said the man, tipping the off-leader on the flank by way of keeping his hand in; “I should ’ope I does; it’s two year, this very day, since I came to this ’ere part o’ the country, and I’ve got married in B— to a ’ooman as knows everythink and everybody, so, of course, I knows everythink and everybody, too.”

“Then you have heard of a Mrs Osten, no doubt, a widow lady?” said Will.

“Wot, the widder o’ that grumpy old gen’lman as died last year, leavin’, they say, a big estate in furrin parts?”

Will felt a tendency to seize the man by the throat, and tumble him off his box into the road, but on second thoughts he restrained himself and said—

“She is the widow of a gentleman with whom I was intimately acquainted. I did not know anything about his having estates abroad.”

“I axe your pardon, sir,” said the man, a little abashed by Will’s grave manner; “didn’t know they wos friends of yours. No offence, I ’ope. The old lady is raither low since her husband’s death—for it wos somewhat sudden—an’ they do say she’s never got over the runnin’ away of her only son—at least so my wife says, an’ she ought to know, for she’s bin intimate with the family for many years, an’ knows the ooman as nussed the boy—”

“What, Maryann?” exclaimed Will.

“The same. You seems to know ’em all, sir.”

“Yes, I know them well. Is Maryann still with my—with Mrs Osten?”

“Yes, sir, she is, an’ wot’s more, she aint likely to quit in a ’urry. W’y, sir, that ’ooman ’as ’ad no fewer than six hoffers of marriage, an’ ’as refused ’em all for love of the old lady. My wife, she says to me the other night, when she wos a-washin’ of the baby in the big bread can—you see, sir, the washin’ tub’s gone and sprung a leak, an’ so we’re redoosed to the bread can—Well, as I wos a-sayin’, my wife says to me—‘Richards,’ says she, ‘it’s my belief that Marryhann will never marry, for her ’art an’ soul is set upon Mrs Osten, an’ she’s got a strange feelin’ of sartinty that Master Will, as she calls the runaway boy, will come back to comfort ’is mother an’ look arter the furrin estates. No, Richards, mark my words, Maryhann will never marry.’”

“‘It may be so, Jemimar,’ says I,—Did you speak, sir?” said the coachman, turning sharp round on hearing Will utter an exclamation of surprise.

“Is your wife’s name Jemima?”

“Yes, it is; d’you ’appen to know her, too?”

“Well, I think I do, if she is the same person who used to attend upon Mrs Osten—a tall and—thin—and and—somewhat—”

“Stiff sort of woman—hout with it, sir, you’ll not ’urt my feelins. I didn’t marry Jemimar for her beauty, no, nor yet for her money nor her youth, for she aint young, sir—older than myself a long way. I took her for her worth, sir, her sterlin’ qualities. You know, sir, as well as I do, that it aint the fattest an’ youngest ’osses as is the best. Jemimar is a trump, sir, without any nonsense about her. Her capacity for fryin’ ’am, sir, an’ bilin’ potatoes is marvellous, an’ the way she do dress up the baby (we’ve only got one, sir) is the hadmiration of the neighbour’ood.”

“You said something just now about the deceased Mr Osten’s estate. Can you tell me how he came by it?”

“No, sir, I can’t. That’s the only thing that my wife ’as failed to fathom. There’s somethink mysterious about it, I think, for Missis Hosten she won’t speak to Marryhann on the subjec’, an’ all she knows about it is that the lawyer says there’s an estate somewheres in furrin parts as needs lookin’ arter. The lawyer didn’t say that to Maryhann, sir, of course, but she’s got a ’abit of hairin’ ’er ears at key’oles an’ over’ears things now an’ then.”

Further conversation on this point was here stopped by the arrival of the coach at the end of a stage, and when the journey was resumed with fresh horses, Will felt inclined to sleep. He therefore buttoned up his coat tight to the chin, fixed his hat well down on his brows, and put himself into one of those numerous attitudes of torture with which “outsides” were wont to beguile the weary hours of night in coaching days. When the sun rose next morning, Will was still in that state of semi-somnolence which causes the expression of the countenance to become idiotic and the eyes owlish. At last the chimneys of his native town became visible, and in a short time he found himself standing before the well-remembered house tapping at the old door, whose panels—especially near the foot—still bore the deep marks of his own juvenile toes.

It is not necessary to drag the reader through the affecting scene of meeting between mother and son. Two days after his arrival we find them both seated at tea in the old drawing-room drinking out of the old mug, with the name “William” emblazoned on it, in which, in days gone by, he was wont to dip his infantine lips and nose. Not that he had selected this vessel of his own free will, but his mother, who was a romantic old lady, insisted on his using it, in order to bring back to her more vividly the days of his childhood, and Will, in the fulness of his heart, said he would be glad to drink tea out of the coal-scuttle if that would give her pleasure. The good lady even sent to the lumber-room for the old arm-chair of his babyhood, but as neither ingenuity nor perseverance could enable him to squeeze his stout person into that, he was fain to content himself with an ordinary chair.

“Now, dear mother,” said Will, commencing the fifth slice of toast, under pressure (having eaten the fourth with difficulty), “you have not yet told me about this wonderful estate which everybody seems to know of except myself.”

“Ah! darling Will,” sighed Mrs Osten, “I have avoided the subject as long as possible, for I know it is to be the cause of our being separated again. But there is no help for it, because I promised your dear father when he was dying that I would tell you his wishes in regard to it, and that I would not attempt to dissuade you from doing your duty. Well, you remember uncle Edward, I suppose?”

“His name—yes,” said Will, “but I never knew anything else about him. I had nothing to remember or to forget, except, indeed, that he got the name of being a wild scapegrace, something like myself!”

“Like yourself, darling,” exclaimed the old lady, with a look of indignation—“no indeed! Have not you repented and come back, like a good prodigal son; and didn’t the dear beautiful letter that you wrote from that awful island—what’s its name—where you were all but eaten alive—”

“The coral island,” suggested Will.

“Yes, the coral island—didn’t that dear letter give more delight to your beloved father than any letter he ever received in his life, and more than made up to him for your running away, and cheered him to his last hour, whereas uncle Edward was wicked to the last—at least so it is said, but I don’t know, and it’s not right to speak ill of the dead. Well, as I was going to say, uncle Edward died in some outlandish place in North America, I never can remember the name, but it’s in the papers, so you’ll see it—somewhere on the other side of the something mountains—I forget—”

“Rocky, perhaps.”

“Yes, that’s it, the Rocky Mountains, and I wish they were not so rocky, for your sake, darling, for you’ve got to go there and take possession (or serve yourself heir to, or something of that sort) of the property. Not that it’s large, so they say (I wish with all my heart it did not exist at all), but they tell me there is gold on it, though whether it is lying on the fields or down in holes I’m sure I don’t know, and oh dear, I don’t care, for it entails your going away again, my darling boy.”

Here the poor old lady broke down, and, throwing her arms round Will’s neck—regardless of the fact that in so doing she upset and broke one of her best china tea-cups—wept upon his bosom.

Such was the manner of the announcement of the news in the drawing-room.

In the kitchen the same subject was being discussed by a select party, consisting of Maryann, Mr Richards the coachman, his spouse Jemima—formerly Scrubbins—the baby Richards—who has already been referred to as being reduced in the matter of his ablutions to a bread can—and Larry O’Hale with his faithful Indian friend Bunco.

“To think,” said Maryann, with a quiet laugh, as she handed a cup of tea to Bunco—“to think that I should ever come for to sit at tea with a live red Indian from Ameriky—not that he’s red either, for I’m sure that hany one with eyes in their ’ead could see that he’s only brown.”

“Ah, my dear, that’s ’cause he’s changed colour,” said Larry, pushing in his cup for more tea. “He wasn’t always like that. Sure, when I first know’d Bunco he was scarlet—pure scarlet, only he took a fancy one day, when he was in a wild mood, to run his canoe over the falls of Niagara for a wager, an’, faix, when he came up out o’ the wather after it he was turned brown, an’s bin that same ever since.”

“Gammon,” exclaimed Maryann.

“Sure ye don’t misdoubt me word, Maryann,” said Larry reproachfully; “isn’t it true, Bunco?”

“Yoos a norribable liar, Larry,” answered Bunco with a broad grin.

Richards the coachman, who had been for some minutes too busy with the buttered toast and bacon to do more than listen and chuckle, here burst into a loud guffaw and choked himself partially. Jemima and Maryann also laughed, whereupon the baby, not to be outdone, broke suddenly into a tremendous crow, and waved its fat arms so furiously that it overturned a tea-cup and sent the contents into Bunco’s lap. This created a momentary confusion, and when calm was restored, Mrs Richards asked Maryann “if hanythink noo ’ad turned up in regard to the estate?” which she seemed to know so much about, but in regard to which she was, apparently, so unwilling to be communicative.

“Not so, Jemimar,” said Maryann, with a look of offended dignity, “unwillin’ to speak I am not, though unable I may be—at least I was so until yesterday, but I have come to know a little more about it since Master Will came ’ome while I chanced to be near—”

Maryann hesitated a moment, and Richards, through a mouthful of toast, muttered “the keyhole.”

“Did you speak, sir?” said Maryann, bridling.

“No, oh! no, not by no means,” replied Richards, “only the crust o’ this ’ere toast is rayther ’ard, and I’m apt to growl w’en that’s so.”

“If the crust is ’ard, Mr Richards, your teeth is ’arder, so you ought to scrunch ’em without growling.”

“Brayvo, my dear,” exclaimed Larry, coming to the rescue; “you’re more nor match for him, so be marciful, like a good sowl, an’ let’s hear about this estate, for it seems to me, from what I’ve heard, it must be somewhere in the neighbourhood of Bunco’s native place.”

Maryann, darting a look of mingled defiance and triumph at Richards, who became more than ever devoted to the toast and bacon, proceeded—

“Well, as I was a-sayin’, I ’eard Mrs Osten say to Master Will that his uncle Edward—as was a scape somethin’ or other—had died an’ left a small estate behind the Rocky Mountains in Ameriky or Afriky, I aint sure which.”

“Ameriky, my dear,” observed Larry.

“An’ she said as ’ow they ’ad discovered gold on it, which could be picked up in ’andfuls, an’ it was somewhere near a place called Kally somethin’—”

“Calliforny?” cried Larry.

“Yes, that was it.”

“I towld ye that, Bunco!” exclaimed the Irishman, becoming excited; “go on, dear.”

“Well, it seems there’s some difficulties in the matter, wich I’m sure don’t surprise me, for I never ’eard of things as ’ad to do with estates and law as didn’t create difficulties, and I’m thankful as I’ve got nothin’ to do with none of such things. Well, the end of it all is that, w’en master was dyin’, he made missis swear as she’d urge Master Will to go to see after things hisself, an’ missis, poor dear, she would rather let the estate and all the gold go, if she could only keep the dear boy at ’ome, but she’s faithful to her promise, an’ advises him to go—the sooner the better—because that would let him come back to her all the quicker. Master Will, he vowed at first that he would never more leave her, and I b’lieve he was in earnest, but when she spoke of his father’s wish, he gave in an’ said he would go, if she thought it his dooty so for to do.”

“Hooray!” shouted Larry, jumping up at this point, and performing a species of war-dance for a few moments, and then sitting down and demanding another supply of tea. “Didn’t I tell ye, Bunco, that the order would soon be up anchor an’ away again! It’s Wanderin’ Will he’s been named, an’ Wanderin’ Will he’ll remain, that’s as plain as the nose on me face.”

“No doubt the nose on your face is very plain—the plainest I ever did see,” said Maryann sharply,—“but you’re quite wrong about Master Will, for he’s very anxious to get married, I can tell you, an’ wants to settle down at ’ome, like a sensible man, though it does grieve my ’eart to think of the creetur as has took him in in furrin parts.”

“Get married!” exclaimed Larry, Jemima, and Richards in the same breath.

“Yes, get married,” replied Maryann, very full of the importance of her keyhole discoveries, and not willing to make them known too readily.

“How did you come to know that, Maryhann?” asked Jemima; “are you sure of it?”

“How I came for to know it,” replied the other, “is nobody’s business (she paused a moment and looked sternly at Richards, but that sensible man continued to gaze steadfastly at his plate and to ‘scrunch’ crusts with grave abstraction), and, as to its bein’ true, all I can say is I had it from his own lips. Master Will has no objection to my knowing what he tells his mother—as no more he shouldn’t, for Jemimar, you can bear me witness that I’ve been a second mother to him, an’ used to love him as if he were my own—though he was a aggrawatin’ hinfant, an’ used to bump his ’ead, an’ skin his knees, an’ tear his clothes, an’ wet his feet, in a way that often distracted me, though I did my very best to prevent it; but nothink’s of any use tryin’ of w’en you can’t do it; as my ’usband, as was in the mutton-pie line, said to the doctor the night afore he died—my ’eart used to be quite broke about him, so it did; but that’s all past an’ gone—well, as I was a-sayin’, Master Will he told his mother as ’ow there was a young lady (so he called her) as ’ad won his ’art, an’ she was a cannibal as lived on a coal island in the Paphysic Ocean. Then he told her some stories about the coal island as made my blood run cold, and said his Flora behaved like a heroine in the midst of it all.”

At this point Larry and Bunco exchanged meaning glances, and the former gave vent to a soft whistle, which he accompanied with a wink.

“I’m sure,” continued Maryann, “it’s past my comprehension; for instead of being dreadfully shocked, as I had expected, Mrs Osten threw her arms round Master Will’s neck and blessed him and the cannibal, too, and said she hoped to be spared to see ’em united, though she wouldn’t like them to remain on the coal island in the Paphysic. I do assure you, Jemimar,” continued Maryann, putting the corner of her apron to her eyes, “it quite gave me a turn, and I was nearly took bad w’en I ’eard it. Master Will, he made his mother promise to keep it to herself, as, he said, not a soul in the world knew of it but him and her—”

Mr Richards coughed at this point, and appeared to be engaged in a severe conflict with an untractable crust, which caused Maryann to stop suddenly and look at him. But Larry again came to the rescue by saying—

“Why, Maryann, my dear, ye’ve bin an’ mistook a good deal of what you’ve heard, intirely. This Flora Westwood is no cannibal, but wan o’ the purtiest bit craturs I iver had the good luck to set eyes on; as white as a lily, wid cheeks like the rose, not to spake of a smile an’ a timper of an angel. She’s a parson’s daughter, too, an’ lives on a coral island in the Pacific Ocean, where the people is cannibals, no doubt, as I’ve good raison to know, for they ait up a lot o’ me shipmates, and it was by good luck they didn’t ait up myself and Master Will too—though I do belaive they’d have found me so tough that I’d have blunted their teeth an’ soured on their stummicks, bad luck to them. But it’s surprised that I am to hear about this. Ah, then, Master Will, but ye’re a sly dog—more cunnin’ than I took ye for. Ye threw dust in the eyes of Larry O’Hale, anyhow.”

Poor Maryann appeared much relieved by this explanation, although she felt it to be consistent with her dignity that she should throw considerable doubt on Larry’s statement, cross-question him pretty severely, and allow herself to be convinced only after the accumulation of an amount of evidence that could not be resisted.

“Well, now, that accounts for the way in which his mother received the news,” said Maryann.

“It is a strange story,” remarked Jemima.

“Uncommon,” observed Richards.

Bunco said nothing, but he grinned from ear to ear.

At that moment, as if it were aware of the climax at which the party had arrived, the baby, without a single note of warning, set up a hideous howl, in the midst of which the bell rang, and Maryann rose to answer it.

“Master Will wants to speak to you, Mr Hale, and to Mr Bunco, too,” she said on returning.

“Come along, Mister Bunco,” said Larry, “that’ll be the order to trip our anchors.”

“My friends,” said Will Osten, when the two were seated on the corners of their respective chairs in the drawing-room, “I sent for you to say that circumstances have occurred which render it necessary that I should visit California. Do you feel inclined to join me in this trip, or do you prefer to remain in England?”

“I’m yer man,” said Larry.

“So’s me,” added Bunco.

“I thought so,” said Will, smiling; “we have been comrades together too long to part yet. But I must start without delay, and mean to go by the plains and across the Rocky Mountains. Are you ready to set off on short notice?”

“In half an hour av ye plaze, sur,” said Larry.

Bunco grinned and nodded his head.

“The end of the week will do,” said Will, laughing; “so be off and make your preparations for a long and rough trip.”

In pursuance of this plan, Will Osten and his two staunch followers, soon after the date of the above conversation, crossed the Atlantic, traversed the great Lakes of Canada to the centre of North America, purchased, at the town of Saint Pauls, horses, guns, provisions, powder, shot, etcetera, for a long journey, and found themselves, one beautiful summer evening, galloping gaily over those wide prairies that roll beyond the last of the backwood settlements, away into the wild recesses of the Western Wilderness.

Chapter Two

Wandering Will and his companions laid the reins on the necks of their half-tamed horses and galloped wildly away over the western prairie. Perhaps it was the feeling of absolute freedom from human restraints that excited them to the galloping and shouting condition of maniacs; perhaps it was the idea of sweeping over unbounded space in these interminable plains, or the influence of the fresh air around, the sunny blue sky overhead, and the flower-speckled sward underfoot—perhaps it was all these put together, but, whatever the cause, our three travellers commenced their journey at a pace that would have rendered them incapable of further progress in a few hours had they kept it up. Their state of mind was aptly expressed, at the end of one of these wild flights, by Larry, who exclaimed, as he reined in—

“Ah, then, it’s flyin’ I’ll be in a minit. Sure av I only had a pair o’ wings no bigger than a sparrow’s, I cud do it aisy.”

“Yoo’s a goose, Larry,” observed Bunco.

“Faix if I was it’s mesilf as would fly away an’ lave you to waller on the dirty earth ye belongs to,” retorted the other.

“Dirty earth!” echoed Will Osten, gazing round on the plains of bright green grass that waved in the soft air with something like the gentle heavings of the sea. “Come, let’s have another!”

They stretched out again at full gallop and swept away like the wind itself.

“Hooroo!” shouted Larry O’Hale, wildly throwing out both arms and rising in his stirrups; “look here, Bunco, I’m goin’ to fly, boy!”

Larry didn’t mean to do so, but he did fly! His horse put its foot in a badger-hole at that moment and fell. The rider, flying over its head, alighted on his back, and remained in that position quite motionless, while his alarmed comrades reined up hastily and dismounted.

“Not hurt, I hope,” said Will, anxiously.

“Och! ha! gintly, doctor, take me up tinderly,” gasped the poor man as they raised him to the perpendicular position, in which he stood for nearly a minute making very wry faces and slowly moving his shoulders and limbs to ascertain whether any bones were fractured.

“I do belave I’m all right,” he said at length with a sigh of relief; “have a care, Bunco, kape yer paws off, but take a squint at the nape o’ me neck an’ see if me back-bone is stickin’ up through me shirt-collar.”

“Me no can see him,” said the sympathetic Bunco.