Read Ebook: The Warden of the Plains and Other Stories of Life in the Canadian North-west by MacLean John Laughlin J E Illustrator

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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.

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.

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