THE IRON HORSE

New Zealand Times, Volume LII, Issue 12315, 9 December 1925, Page 12

THE IRON HORSE

“TIMES” I ATEST SERIA

A Romance of East and West

The “Time*” he* *ecured the exclusive rights to the stirring romance, ‘The Iron 1! r.e,” which ha* been novelised by Edwin C. Hill, from W Ham F x’s picture romance of that name.

CHAPTER 111. A RAINBOW GLOWS IN THE WEST. It was a wintry, sunlit morning in late February when Big Pave and Little Davy turned their backs upon Springfield to seek the gateway of the West. Their going made no stir, provoked scarcely a ripple. They had few friends to wish them well, few. indeed, whose hearts would follow them out upon the long trail. In the mouth that had drifted by after the talk with Lincoln and Marsh the talk that fired him to decision, Brandon had sold or traded his few Eossessions, the cabin which had been nine lor him and Davy, its poor furnishings, and the “paten” of a dozen acres which went with it. Marsh saw to it that Brandon was not cheated—the surveyor had the worst possible head for business —but the proceeds were hardly enough to capitalise even a dreamer.

After all their necessaries had been bought, riding horses, a pack mare, a Sharpe's rifle, throwing a bullet heavy enough to down an elephant in its tiacks; an ample supply of powder and ball ammunition, an axe and a few other tools, and their stores of extra food and clothing. Big Dave was not conscious of the weight of gold he tucked in his money belt. “Won’t have much use for hard'eash. anyway,” he told Higgins, the general storekeeper. “Guess you think you’re hittin’ the Hallelujy Trial,” grunted Higgins, n sharp-nosed “down-Easter” who took small pains to conceal his contempt for Brandon. “Possonly, I never heer tell of any country where a man didn’t have good use for money.” The loungers who made Higgins’s store their club for the resolvent of all questions social, political and religious, cackled their appreciation. “Better keep tight, hold outer yer head,” advised Higgins’s sallow-faced clerk, a youth hard-bitten by fever, ague nud a mean disposition.* “Why so. Hank?” inquired Brandon incautiously. “Bekase the Injnns ’ll sure jerk yer skelp loose.” said Hank with a stuttering titter “Well,” replied Big Dave, goodhumouredly hut pointedlv, “if they do, Hank, the'v’ll let daylight in on something your head never held.” “You think you’re durned smart, don’t ye?” snarled the discomfited clck'. as the loungers haw-hawed. An Brandon and his son rode away from the store, # their final purchases securely packed on the mare, the idlers did not trouble to wave good-bye. Big Dave felt a contraction of the heart. After all. these people had been neighbours. They might have given him a heartier, more human farewell. ‘Tt shows what they think of me,” he reflected, with bitterness unusual to hid. “Time I was getting out, suic enough!” At the western edge of the town, where the main street ended and the road to St. Louis began, a little group awaited their coming—and going—Mr Lincoln, Thomas Marsh, and Miriam. The lawyer showed a cheerful, encouraging face to the Brandons, as one who felt the need of lifting their spirits and supporting their hopes. Marsh was solemn-faced, still irritable over Big Dave's obstinacy, but realising, in his good heart, the friendliness of these homeless pilgrims. Miriam’s blue eyes were drowned in grief, and. though she bit hard upon her lips and thrust forward her rounded chin, the tears kept welling down in glistening rivulets of sorrow. “This is good of you,” said Brandon, as he got off his horse and shook hands with Mr Lincoln and Marsh. “I won’t forget it ” He stopped, wordless. Marsh thumped him on the back. “That’s all right, Dave. I think you’re doing a fool thing, but you’ve made your bed, and I’m not the mau to hope you’ll find it hard to lie on. The Lord bless you and keep you safe, you and Davy. Now if there’s anything you’ll let me do for you—a little loan, maybe?” “No, We’ve got enough to go on with,” said Brandon quietly. “But I thank you, Tom, for the offer. I reckon we’d better just say good-bye and hit the road. Good-bye, Abe. I’m not forgetting what you told me about the Black Hills.”

“Just a minute, Dave, just a minute,” said Lincoln. He turned away a few yards to where Davy and Miriam were standing in inarticulate farewell. They were very close to gether. but they bad found nothing to say. The grief which paralysed their young hearts kept them silent. Mr Lincoln put his great arms around them both and gathered them to him in a “bear hug.” “Don’t feel so bad,” he comforted.

“It won’t be long maybe. Now, I have brought along somethng for each of you, something to remember me by, a keepsake. If they make good their threat of sending me to Congress, and you ever come to Washington, you can always show those to the doorkeepers and they*i! let you walk right in ” He produced two medals, cast in bronze, exactly alike, each bearing the haughty head of an Indian chief, a ilate, and some lettering in long words. “Medals of the Black Hawk War,” ho explained. “You know ” he smiled drily “They made a captg'n of me in that little rumpus. I wasn’t much of a captain, but then it wasn’t much of a war. I collected a few of these souvenirs after it was ah over. Perhaps they’ll make you think of Abr’am Lincoln and each other quite a lob. Keep them with you for luck pieces.” Miriam gripped his arm and sobbed, her little woman’s heart wrung unbearably ; while Davy, for all his effort at manly fortitude, showed wet eyes and a quivering chin, and gave his “thank you” in a shaking voice. “Aren’t you ever coming hack, Davy?” said Miriam, between sobs. “Please, please come back soon! I ■ an't bear it without you. Nothing will be the same.” She threw her arms about his neck and Davy always the protector, held her close to his heart, murmuring a boy’s words of comfort. Mr Lincoln slowly drew them toward Brandon and Marsh and lifted Davy to the saddle. Big Davq mounted. There were no more words. A wave of the hand, a despairing sob from Miriam and they were gone toward the sunset. They made slow progress. There was no need for haste. Brandon planned to

go on to St. Louis, taking his time, collecting there whatever information might be of value, and then, if posto find some means of making his way up the great water road, the Missouri river, with other West-farers. For days they rode, gradually throwing off the depression of uprooted home ties, their spirits unlifted as they felt the call of the new—of adventure. They spent a week along the road to the Mississippi, and were ferried across its broad, yellow flood tc tl*a levee where up-river and down-river steamboats lay in orderly array, the sun glistening on their ornamental brasswork, their white paint and on the great paddle wheels which could conquer the swiftest of currents. Steamboats before the coming of the railroad were the luxurious couriers of a rich and splendid business. The fine, fast boats that met the eyes of the Brandons formed an absorbing spectacle-for boy and man. It was the middle of the day and the levee, the long, sloping embankment which descended from the waterfront to the city to the wharves, was thronged with heavy waggons and one-horse drays bearing freight to and from big and little boats that had - ploughed triumphantly all the way from New Orleans in the far south to St. Paul in the far north, carrying the cotton, tobacco and molasses of the land _of sunshine in exchange for the Fabrics, furs, grain and machinery in the land of snow.

“Oh, Daddy I” Davy cried, as his enchanted gaze identified a particularly graceful and famous river flyer of the times. “There’s the General Pike. Daddy, that we’ve read- about. You remember when heri engineer told the cap’n he’d bust the record or bust her bilers!”

“I remember,” said Brandon, hardly less interested than his boy. “They’re wonderful, these boats. They sav that inside they’re all silks and veL vets and fine paintings. Maybe we’ll have a chance to see ’em, son. But we must push on to find a place to stay.” ' From the ferry landing that Jim Bridger had established nearly forty years previously, they slowly made their way through a bustling throng. Hundreds of river travellers were hurrying up or down the levee, embarking upon or debarking from a dozen steamboats: Rich planters from the South, wearing black, broad-brimmed hats, broadcloth coats and breeches and high boots of fine leather, gallant, masterful-looking men, with faces browned by a hotter sun than the Missouri knew, and sP e aking with a soft, liquid drawl; fur trappers from the rorth-west, rangy, bearded giants, garbed in buckskin shirts or heavy woollen jackets, wearing round caps of beaver or marten, booted, too striding along with a free, swing that took Davy’s eye as their strange oaths took his ear; bosses from the great trains of Santa Fe waggons awaiting their burdens for the South-west and West, hairy, heavy-shouldered fellows, redfaced and noisy from the, potent whisky of the levee bar-rooms; Easterners in what Davy thought was fancy garb, indeed: here and there an Indian in fringed buckskins and mocassins (Government scouts. Big Dave guessed); army officers m darkblue. very alert and straight-backed, on their way to or from the far-scat-tered posts of the Indian country ; lordly steamboat captains, treading the levee like the monnrebs they were; steamboat mates, hard* men, who carried black-snake whips or loaded billies as the symbols of their mandriving trade; here and there a fine ladv, mincing along under a ridiculous parasol, not much larger than a pancake; wearing a tiny hat, trimmed with close-curled feathers, a tight "basque,” and very wide, voluminous skirts, falling to low-heeled shoes of dainty kid—very wonderful ladies, they seemed to Jdsnd sional river gambers, high-hatted and dressed with the rigid severity ot a minister of the gospel; hundreds of negro slaves, staggering under burdens. tugging at great waggons mired in the mud, or passing m squads under the rough command of cargo mates black faces glistening with sweat, the whites of their rolling eyes showing, and, under their toil, laughing and Binging with the inextinguishable merriment of a child-like race-these and others passed before the K aze of father and son, magnetised by the fascinating St. Louis of the fifties. It was late afternoon oeiure tuey found a tavern which suited Brandon a purse, one that promised simple, homely fare and decent shelter for them and a stable for their beasts: It carried a high-sounding name 'on its dingy signhoard. The Independence Hotel, and it was crowded with men whose feet were trail-bent —towards Texas, nr Santa Fe, toward Kansas, toward the Oregon or the Salt Lake Trail and the upper Missouri—men whose restless spirits and fortune’s call were leading into the magical West. As the days slipped by, wonderful, exciting days for Davy, Brandon made the acquaintance of many of these wayfarers, a rough, good-natured crew, but a hard-sweanng, hard-drinking lot, neither understanding nor expecting to be understood, unless talk bristled with profanity. At night they jammed the bar, deep, boisterous laughter roaring to the ceiling as they shouted their jokes, told wild tales and “set up” drinks, round after round of raw liquor. Their talk was of the upper Missouri, the new settlements in Kansas where farms were being taken up and where towns were springing from the prairie; of the declining fur trade, of the Indian troubles, of the strange new folk that were making an empire upon the edge of the great Salt Lake; gossip of a score of trails. Brandon listened keenly, hoping to pick op news of value.

His pntience was rewarded. One night, after a day of sight-seeing that had sent Davy early to the Land of Nod, lie joined a group in the bar and found them idly discussing an expedition which was being organised for the new territory of Washington. It came out that Governor Stever.y, who had just been appointed as the first ruler of the territory, was expected to lead up the Missouri and over the Oregon Trail a big outfit of surveyors, scouts ami soldiers, with horses and mules. Brandon !ien r 'l that agents of the Governor were dickering with the American Fur Company to transport men and

equipment up the Missouri to St. Paul. He inquired of a raw-boned Missourian, who nodded to him once or twice, if it would he possible for him to find a job with the Governor Stevens outfit. The Missourian looked Big Dave over from head to foot, apprasingly, downed half a tin-cupful of whisky and spoke his mind. “By th’ heft of ye, stranger, I reckon y’ ain’t afeerd uv work, but by the etarnall you’ll need every —— ounce uv yer grit ’f ye trail with that outfit! I kinda cotten to ye. What’s yer name? Brandon, eh? Well, Brandon, I happen to be part of that outfit myself. Haddon’s my name and Bill’s £he handle my old man sawdered outer it. Now, here’s the layout. Stevens is takin’ with him nigh omter two hundred up the d—est, meanest mules that ever kicked a man loose from his appetite. They’re regular wild cats, these Irish canaries. Handlin’ them is jest like hanlin’ eels thet hey swallowed dynamite. The outfit needs good men, and if yer sot on talcin’ a chance, why hv -, Bill Haddon ’ll put in a word for ye where it’ll ring the bell.”

Mr Haddon, a competent muleskinner, proved to be a man of his word, whose recommendation carried weight. Three days later Brandon was regularly enlisted ns a member of the party. But 'there was weary waiting before Governor' Stevens arrived and the expedition got under way. Big Dave’s patience was sorely tried before the light-draught steamboat backed away from the levee and breasted the tide of the Mississippi, pushing ahead of it the flatboate which carried livestock and piled-up stores. (To be continued.)