Part 20

“I have read of a lost continent, which is said to have existed in a prehistoric age,” said the younger brother. “The Indians of the Mandan district have many legends in regard to it. They say the Great Spirit submerged the dry land in a fit of anger, thus separating the so-called Old World from the so-called New, and driving the remnant of the surviving inhabitants to the north as far as the Great Lakes, where they speedily relapsed into the barbarism that ensues from isolation, hardships, and necessity, until at last they perished from the face of the earth.”

“But what of the origin of the Indian race?” asked John.

“Their legends tell us that their ancestors came originally from Russia, by the way of Behring Strait, which in winter was closed by ice; that at one time the ice gorges were suddenly broken up by a tremendous gale and were never closed again. There were natives of the great Northland who were caught on the south side of the gorge, and, being unable to return, remained in what is now Alaska, whence they migrated, multiplied, and spread till they covered what is now the United States of America.”

“When we return to Oregon, you must not fail to start Burns on some of these legends, Joe. The Widow McAlpin, whom he means to marry as soon as she will consent, is as deeply interested in the origin of the Indians as he is.”

“But if we knew all about the immediate origin of the Indians, that wouldn’t settle the question, John. Where did the Russians get their start; and how did every island of the great oceans become inhabited?”

“You are carrying me away beyond my depth, Joe. Burns has a theory that different races of people are indigenous to all countries. He calls the story of Adam and Eve a myth, or a sort of cabalistic tale. That reminds me that Jean once completely nonplussed the Reverend Thomas Rogers by asking who were the daughters of men whom the sons of God took as wives. ‘And where,’ she asked, ‘did Cain get his wife?’”

“These speculations, which are by no means new, are as fruitless as they are perplexing, John. We know no more about them than these donkeys do that are floundering, with us on their backs, across this God-forsaken Isthmus. Will there ever be a canal cut across it, I wonder?”

“Guess we’d better talk about spring. That is something we can understand.”

“No, John. We can no more clearly comprehend the springtime, with its many wondrous revelations, than we can comprehend anything else that is unknowable. We know that sunshine, air, and moisture are necessary for the sustenance of organic life; but we don’t know what life itself is. It is as invisible to us, in all its wonderful activities, as God himself. No; we know no more about the life that animates spring than we know about the Atlantans. But we do know that travel is a great eye-opener; and by showing us how little we know, or can learn, it helps to take away much of our overweening self-conceit.”

There being no delay at Acapulco, and but little at New Orleans, our voyagers were soon aboard one of the palatial steamers that ploughed the waters of the Mississippi in the days when steamboating on the river was in the height of its glory. Floating palaces, with hearts of fire and arteries of steam, were equipped in the most sumptuous style. The cuisine of their tables was never excelled in any land. Trained servants were on duty at every hand in all departments, and such river races as the pen of Mark Twain has made immortal infused an alluring element of danger into the daily life of the adventurous traveller.

St. Louis was passed, and Cairo; and the voyage up the Illinois to Peoria was speedily consummated.

The brothers struck out afoot for the old home, which they came into sight of at sundown. A light snow covered the ground, and a bitter wind was blowing hard.

* * * * *

“Down, Rover, down! Don’t you know your master?” exclaimed the returned wanderer, as the great mastiff sprang at him with a low, savage growl, which changed at once to vehement proclamations of welcome as the faithful creature recognized his friend.

“Bless the dog! But be quiet! We want to surprise the old folks.”

In the cosey sitting-room of the little cottage sat a prematurely aged woman, plying her needle and softly crooning a plaintive lullaby. A couple of tallow candles burned dimly on a little table, and a much-worn work-basket sat at her left. In the opposite corner an old man sat, his head bowed, as if sleeping. An open Bible had fallen from his hand.

“There’s but one pair of stockings to mend to-night,” sighed the woman, as she folded her finished work, her thoughts reverting to scenes long vanished.

The white-bearded man aroused himself at her words and spoke.

“John is forty-three to-night,” he said huskily, his finger pointing to the family record.

“God be with him till we meet again!” was the sighing response as the mother struggled to thread her needle by the flickering light.

“Mary is a year younger than John; and Joseph came to us two years later than Mary,” said the patriarch, his finger still pointing to the cherished page.

“Oh, father!” cried the wife, “do you think I shall ever hold my Joseph in my arms again?”

“God knows best,” was the sad reply.

A cat purred contentedly at the woman’s feet, and crickets sang upon the hearth. Outside, the wind sighed dolefully.

“Wonder what’s the matter with Rover?” said the old man, rising to his feet, after repeated efforts, and hobbling toward the door. “He’s acting strangely to-night.”

“Don’t open the door, father,” pleaded the wife. “The whole country is infested with tramps and robbers. We’d better be cautious. I’m sure I saw faces at the window a while ago.”

“Rover knows what he’s about, wife. He never speaks like that to an enemy. I will open the door.”

It seemed to the men outside that the door was long in opening. “My fingers are all thumbs!” they heard the old man exclaim, after a fruitless effort to withdraw the bolt.

“Good-evening!” exclaimed Joseph, in a husky voice. “We are a pair of belated travellers, and seek a night’s lodging. Can we be accommodated?”

“We’re not used to keeping travellers,” said the patriarch, “but it is late, and another storm is brewing. Come right in. Wife can fix you a shake-down somewhere, I reckon; and we always have a bite on hand to eat.”

“We have two sons of our own out in the world somewhere, father,” said the wife. “I will trust the Lord to do by them as we will do by these strangers.”

John Ranger threw back his heavy coat and hat and stood before the pair erect and motionless.

“Mother!” he exclaimed, after a moment’s waiting, as he caught her in his arms, “don’t you know your boy?”

“Why, bless my soul, it’s our John,—my firstborn baby boy!” faltered the mother, as she resigned herself to his realistic “bear hug.” “I thought you was in Oregon.”

“So I was a few weeks ago; but I am here now! How are you, mother dear? And you, father? I am so glad to see you again! How goes the world with both of you?”

“All right, son, considering. That is, it’s all right now you are here. We can bear poverty and hardship now. Eh, wife?”

“Yes, father. If the Lord sees fit to afflict us, we can now bear it without complaining. Blessed be His holy name! But how did it happen, John dear? I was thinking about you to-night as being far away on this, your forty-third birthday.”

“We do things in a hurry on the Pacific coast, mother mine. This is an unexpected visit. But you are neglecting somebody.”

“That is so,” exclaimed the old man. “What might your name be, stranger?”

The tall man in the shadow took a faltering step forward and removed his hat.

“Don’t you know me, father?”

“Good God! Can it be possible that this is Joseph?”

“Don’t let him deceive us, John!” pleaded the mother. “I couldn’t live and bear it!”

“Yes, mother dear, it is indeed your Joseph,—your long-lost son,” cried the prodigal. “Don’t you recognize me now?”

John, who had released his mother, stood by in silence; while Joseph, secure in his welcome, gathered his mother in his arms and exclaimed, “It is now my turn to give you a bear hug. Take this, and this!” and he clasped her with half-savage tenderness again and again.

“Yes, mother!” cried the father, who, overcome by his emotions, dropped feebly into his chair. Then, controlling his feelings by a strong effort of the will, he added with a laugh, “Hadn’t we better kill the prodigal, seeing the calf has come home?”

At a late hour a frugal meal was spread, to which the weary home-comers did enforced justice, the mother on one side of the table weeping and laughing by turns, and the father on the other side endeavoring with indifferent success to be dignified and calm.

The brothers eyed each other askance as the supper proceeded, especially noticing the absence of the many little luxuries for which the Ranger tables had formerly been noted throughout the township.

“Father and I don’t have much appetite, so we don’t lay in many extras nowadays,” said the mother.

“We’ve been having a hard time of it since you left us, John,” broke in the father. “The fellow that bought the sawmill didn’t understand the business, and he soon swamped it. So Lije had to take it off his hands, and it left us mighty hard up. Lije has a big family, and the gals want clothes and schoolin’, and Mary is poorly and needs medicines; so mother and I do without lots of things we need. It was lucky for all hands, though, that Annie sent back that deed to the Robinson old folks. They’re independent now, in a small way. They have their own garden and cow and fruit and poultry, and they made enough off of their truck-patch last summer to pay their taxes and buy groceries. They don’t need many new clothes. They have bought a sleigh and a horse, so they can go to meetin’ Sundays; and next summer, Daddie Robinson says, he’ll be able to buy a buggy.”

“I meant to let you have that little place, father,” said John, trying in vain to eat his food. “But Annie claimed it as her own; and Mary and Jean insisted that she had a right to deed it to her own parents. If you had such a little home now, could you be contented?”

“Oh, John,” cried his mother, “if we only had a place as good! I never covet what is my neighbor’s, but I do want to be independent.”

“Can’t you pack your little effects and go with us to Oregon?” asked Joseph, a great lump rising in his throat.

The old man looked anxiously at his wife. The wife looked inquiringly at her husband.

“It will be just as father says,” said the wife, submissively.

“An old man is like an old tree,” began the father, bowing his head upon the table. “You can transplant a man or a tree, but you can’t make ’em take root to do much good in new soil after they get old. With the young it’s different. It’s out o’ sight, out o’ mind, with them. They can take root anywhere if the conditions are favorable and they want to change.”

“That’s right, father,” echoed the wife. “We’re too old to make a new start in a new country. Besides, the expense of transplanting us to so great a distance would go a long way toward taking care of us nearer home. I’d like it mighty well if we could live near all our children in our old days; but if it is better for them,—and I reckon it is,—the sacrifices we must make to bear the separation mustn’t count. We ought to be used to privation and poverty by this time.”

“We have all heard of the Irishman’s way of feeding, or not feeding, his horse!” exclaimed Joseph. “The plan seemed successful for a few days, but just when the animal was supposed to be used to the treatment, the ungrateful creature died.”

“I could keep the wolf from the door a few years longer if it wasn’t for my rheumatism,” said the father. “The after-clap of old hardships gets the better of me now and then. I’m only able, much of the time, to potter round the place and help your mother at odd jobs. I reckon she would miss me if I should be called away, however.”

“God grant that we may be called away together when we are wanted in the land o’ the leal,” said the good wife, fervently; and her husband responded with a hearty “Amen.”

“You are not to be allowed to worry any more!” exclaimed Joseph, rising to his feet and straightening himself to his full height. “I am not rich, but I am amply able to place you above want; and, so help me God, I’ll do it. I’ve been the stray sheep. I’ve wandered far from the fold, and I’ve been a long time coming to my senses. But I have put the past behind me, and, come what will, my dear father and mother shall be provided for during the remainder of their lives.”

“But you have a family, my son. Don’t make any promises that will interfere with your obligations to your wife and children.”

“I have some gold mines in Utah, mother dear, and an interest in several trading-posts on the frontier. I will never neglect you again.”

“Jean went away under a promise to assist us as soon as she could earn some money of her own,” said the father; “but we can look for no help from that quarter for some time to come. It isn’t right to expect it of her, either. Oh, boys, if you could only know how it has stung us to be treated as mendicants, after we have worn ourselves out in the service of our children, you would appreciate our joy over this cheering news!”

“Who is treating you as mendicants, mother, I should like to know?” exclaimed the elder son. “Didn’t I leave you provided for when I started for Oregon?”

“You did your best to make provision for our needs, my son. We are blaming nobody. Don’t allow yourself to feel unhappy. We are not complaining of anything but Fate.”

“But you ought to blame me,” cried Joseph. “It was I who brought all these calamities upon my nearest and dearest. But God knows I do repent in sackcloth and ashes.”

“Oh, father, we can never be unhappy now! Our boy that was lost is found. He that we mourned as dead is with us, alive and well. There is no blood-guiltiness upon his head, and no shadow of murder or hatred in his heart. The Lord be praised for all His tender mercies to the children of men!”

“Yes, yes, the Lord be praised!” echoed the father, fervently. “Surely, after all the blessings that have been showered upon us this night, we can take all the balance on trust.”

“We have the promise, father: ‘Trust in the Lord and do good, and verily thou shalt be fed.’”

* * * * *

“I’d give the world, if I had it, for the simple, child-like faith of our father and mother,” said John, as soon as the brothers were alone.

“And I’d give the world, if I had it, for a chance to live my life over, that I might have an opportunity to atone for the suffering I have caused you all.”

“Dear Joe, you have suffered too.”

He turned his face to the wall and relapsed into silence. And as he secretly invoked the presence of his beloved dead, he saw himself in an emigrant’s camp far away in the Black Hills. Again the tethered Flossie lowed plaintively at the wagon-wheel, bemoaning the death of her calf; again the still, white-robed form of his Annie appeared before his mental vision. And the sorrowing husband fell asleep.

XXXIX

_THE OLD HOMESTEAD_

The gray dawn of a bleak December morning found the Ranger brothers alternately stamping the snow from their feet on the front veranda of the old homestead, and listening for the first sounds of awakening within. The same denuded locust-boughs swept the lattice as of yore; and it seemed but yesterday to John Ranger as he recalled the time he had caught his gentle Annie in his arms on that momentous and well-remembered evening, and made the startling announcement, “It’s all settled, mother. Brother Lije has bought the farm, and we’ll be off in less than a month for Oregon.”

He turned to his brother, whose face was like marble as he stood in the shadow of the wall, as silent as the Sphinx.

“Who in thunder is coming here to rout a fellow out o’ bed at this time of a Sunday morning?” growled Lije Robinson, as he opened the door an inch or so and peeped out into the biting air.

“It is I and another,” cried John Ranger, pushing the door wide open. For a moment the brothers-in-law faced each other in silence. One was dumb with many conflicting emotions, the other with simple wonder.

“Your conscience must have troubled you,” said Lije, after an awkward pause, “or you wouldn’t have come back. But come in! I’ll start up the fire. Who’s this?” looking hard at Joseph, whose bronzed and bearded face was more than half concealed by the upturned collar of his fur-lined overcoat.

“Don’t you know him, Lije?”

“Naw, nor I don’t want to.”

Meanwhile Mrs. Robinson had emerged from her room after a hurried toilet.

“Sister Mollie!”

“Brother John!”

For half a minute not another word was spoken.

“I never expected to set eyes on you again,” cried the sister at last, as, half crying and half laughing, she held him at arm’s length for a better view. “It seemed as if you had left the world when you went to Oregon; and now you are back again,—the same old John.”

“This is an age of progress, Mollie. The planet doesn’t seem so very big, if you know how to get around it.”

“Will you introduce the stranger, John?” asked his sister, in a welcoming tone.

“I’ve been waiting to see if he would be recognized. There is another surprise in store for you, Mollie. Did you ever see this man before?”

“Can it be possible,” she asked, her face deathly pale, “that this is my brother Joseph?”

“Yes, Mollie,” he cried, as he caught her in his arms, “I’m your long-lost brother.”

“Then I hope you’ve come prepared to pay your honest debts,” growled the brother-in-law. “I’ve wrestled with that old mortgage till I’m demnition tired!”

“I hope you’ll permit me to atone as best I can, Lije. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Don’t be too hard on him, Lije!” pleaded the sister, as she helped the prodigal to remove his overcoat. “You’re all right now, brother, aren’t you?”

“I will be as soon as I have settled some old scores with your bear of a husband.”

“Don’t mind Lije!” said his sister, aside. “His losses and obligations have made him discouraged and cross. It wasn’t natural that he should endure our hardships resignedly, as we did. Blood is thicker than water, you know. Oh, Joseph, if I only could buy for our parents a nice little farm, such as Annie deeded to her father and mother! There’s a ten-acre farm adjoining theirs; I cannot sleep for thinking about it. But my whole lifework has been devoted to Lije, and must count for nothing, so far as father and mother are concerned. Father gave me a cow and calf for a wedding present, as you will remember. They would have made me comfortable long ago if I could have kept them and one-half of their increase as mine.”

“Yes, Mollie; and I acted the brute beast over that gift. I was a bumptious boy then; and I encouraged Lije in the idea that he mustn’t allow his wife to own property. I waxed eloquent, as I thought, over coverture, and such other archaic injustice as merges the existence of a wife into that of her husband. Men are more appreciative of women on the Pacific coast than they are here; but there are laws and usages out there yet that call loudly for a change, the Lord knows.”

“I am not complaining of Lije, Joe. He has never offered me any bodily injury in his life, and I’ve learned not to mind the explosions from his mouth. I have everything I need for my own simple wants; but, no matter how hard I struggle, I can never help my parents to a penny unless I steal it”; and she laid her head on her brother’s shoulder and sobbed aloud.

“What’s the matter now?” growled her husband. “Can’t you stop your bawling when you have company?”

“Breakfast is ready,” said Annie Robinson, a tall and handsome girl, who had been busy in the lean-to kitchen.

“Annie, this is Uncle Joseph,” said her mother, smiling through her tears.

“I don’t want to see him,” retorted the girl, rudely, turning to Uncle John with extended hands and a smile of welcome, and saying in a half-whisper, “What did you bring him here for?”

“The hair of the dog is good for the bite sometimes, my girl. Your Uncle Joseph is all right. He’ll atone for everything if we’ll give him half a chance.”

“You owe Joseph an apology for your rudeness, Annie; I am surprised at you!” said her mother. Then, turning to Joseph: “Don’t mind Annie. She is unhappy and cross because she could not go to boarding-school this winter.”

“If I didn’t deserve what I’m getting I wouldn’t stand it, sister; but I’ve come to atone, and I must take my punishment.”

The room was severely cold, and the hot breakfast filled the air with a vapor that obscured the window-panes. The lighted candles, in their tall receivers, reflected translucent halos, and lit the lithe figure of Annie Robinson, who flitted silently between the table and the great black stove, serving the food, and looking like a weird, uncanny shade.

“The way of the transgressor is hard,” thought Joseph. “We must be ready to take the back track to-morrow, John,” he said, rising from his chair, and leaving his food almost untasted. “Whatever business you and Lije may have between you must be agreed upon to-day. Where can I hire a horse and sleigh?”

“I’ve a cutter in the barn,” said Lije, beginning to relax a little as his breakfast stirred his heart and warmed his spirits. “You’ll find half-a-dozen old sawmill horses in the big shed back of the barn. They’re spavined and ringboned, and one of ’em is knock-kneed; but you can take your pick of the lot.”

“Won’t you let me go along, Joe?” asked his brother, as they left the house together. “Where are you going, anyhow?”

“Of course you can go along if you are not needed here. I am going to see about buying that ten-acre tract that Mollie told me about. If it is suitable for the needs of our parents, I will see them installed in a home of their own before another week passes. Why, John, I’d rather murder our dear old father and mother in cold blood than leave them under the heel of that parsimonious—”

“Don’t be too hard on Lije, Joe. He’s had a whole lot to contend with since the sawmill, the debts, and other double loads have been left on his hands.”

“And no wonder,” was the significant rejoinder. “He deserves his fate.”

The sun arose in splendor, warming the air, and making the drive of three or four miles keenly invigorating and enjoyable. They found the little farm they had come to inspect in fair condition, though in need of some modern improvements, of which the brothers took note. The land had originally belonged to the senior Ranger, who had secured a title to the half-section of which it was a part, directly from the government.

“If father had been content with smaller land holdings, it might have been better for him and all the rest of us,” said John.

“There is danger that we may make the same mistake in Oregon,” replied Joseph.

“What a wealthy man father might have been, though, if he had held on to all the land he acquired in this country in an early day!” added John.

“But he’d be a happier man to-day on this ten-acre plat, with prosperous small farmers all around him and all the improvements and conveniences on the plat that it can be made to carry, than he would be with a whole township on his shoulders under the burdens of taxation and a careless tenantry.”

“I don’t know but you are right,” echoed John; “it isn’t what we own, or imagine that we own, in this world, but what we can utilize, that makes up our real possessions. Oregon will surely suffer, in years to come, as a result of the present system of land-grabbing. Most of the unhappiness of the farmers’ wives results from isolation, which small farms would remedy. This little home is a perfect gem. Mother will be delighted.”