The Hunted Outlaw, or, Donald Morrison, the Canadian Rob Roy. UnknownЧитать онлайн книгу.
grace and shoot with the deadly skill of an Indian.
'Twas a rough life, and he knew it. He mixed but little with the "Boys," but the latter respected him for his manly qualities. He was utterly without fear. Courage is better than gold on the plains of Montana. He took to the life, partly because it was wild and adventurous, partly because he found that he could save money at it. The image of Minnie never grew dim in his heart, and he looked forward to a modest little home in his native village, graced and sweetened by the presence of a true woman.
On this night he had yielded to the persuasion of a few of the boys, and went with them to "Shorty's" saloon for a game of "keerds."
"Shorty" had a pretty daughter, who was as much out of place amid her coarse surroundings as violets in a coal mine.
She was quite honest, and she served her father's customers with modesty. Kitty—that was her name—secretly admired the handsome Donald, who had always treated her with respect upon the infrequent occasions of his visits.
On this night, while the party were at cards, "Wild Dick" Minton entered. He was a desperado, and it was said that he had killed at least two men in his time.
"Wild Dick" swaggered in, roughly greeted the party, called for drink, and sat down in front of a small table close to the card players.
Kitty served him with the drink.
"Well, Kitty," he said with coarse gallantry, "looking sort o' purty to-night, eh? Say, gimme a kiss, won't yer?"
Kitty blushed crimson with anger, but said nothing.
"Wild Dick" got up and took her chin in his hand.
"How dare you?" she said, stamping her foot with indignation.
"My! how hoighty-toighty we are! Well, if yer won't give a feller a kiss, I must take it," and Dick put his arm round her waist, and drew her towards him.
At that moment Donald, who had been watching his behaviour with increasing disgust and anger, leaped up, caught him by the throat with his left hand, and exclaimed: "Let her go, you scoundrel, or I'll thrash the life out of you."
Without a word Dick whipped out his shooter from his hip pocket; Donald's companions leaped from the table, concluding at once there was going to be blood, while "Old Shorty" ducked behind the counter in terror.
Kitty stood rooted to the spot, expecting to see her defender fall at her feet with a bullet through his brain or heart.
Donald, the moment that Dick pulled out the pistol, grasped the arm that held it as with a vice with his right hand, and, letting go his hold, of his throat, with his left he wrenched the weapon from him.
Then he dealt him a straight blow in the face that felled him like an ox.
Dick rose to his feet with murder in his eyes.
With a cry of rage he rushed upon Donald. The latter had learned to box as well as shoot. He was quite calm, though very pale. He waited for the attack, and then, judging his opportunity, let out his left with terrific force. The blow struck Dick behind the ear, and he fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
He rose to his feet, muttered something about his time coming, and slunk out.
Donald's victory over "Wild Dick," who was regarded as a bully, was hailed in the exclamations which head this chapter.
Donald never provoked a quarrel, but, once engaged, he generally came out victorious.
His prowess soon became bruited abroad, and he had the goodwill of all the wild fellows of that wild region.
CHAPTER VIII. HARD TIMES AT HOME
Life is hard in the Megantic district. A very small portion of the land is susceptible of cultivation. The crops are meagre, and when the family is provided for, there is very little left to sell off the farm. Money is scarce. There is very little to be made in lumber.
When Donald went away there was a debt against his farm. He sent from time to time what he could spare to wipe it off. But the times were bad. Donald's father got deeper into debt. The outlook was not encouraging.
"I wish Donald would come home," the old man frequently muttered. "I wish he would," his mother would say, and then she would cry softly to herself.
Poverty is always unlovely.
Too often it is crime!
CHAPTER IX
"Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care."
"DEAREST DONALD,—I received your kind letter. That you are doing well, and saving money for the purpose you speak of, it is pleasant to hear. That you still love me is what is dearest to my heart. I may confess in this letter what I could scarcely ever say in your presence, that I think of you always. All our old walks are eloquent of the calm and happy past. When I sit beneath the tree where I first learned that you cared for me, my thoughts go back, and I can almost hear the tones of your voice. I feel lonely sometimes. Your letters are a great solace. If I feel a little sad I go to my room, and unburden my heart to Him who is not indifferent even to the sparrow's fall. Sometimes the woods seem mournful, and when the wind, in these autumn evenings, wails through the pines, I don't know how it is, but I feel tears in my eyes.
"And now, Donald, what I am going to tell you will surprise you. We are going away to Springfield, in Massachusetts. A little property has been left father there, and he is going to live upon it. Location does not affect feeling. My heart is yours wherever I may be.
"God bless you, dearest.
"Your own
"MINNIE."
Donald read this letter thoughtfully.
"My father going to the bad, and Minnie going away," he muttered.
He rose from his seat, and walked the narrow room in which he lodged.
"I will go home," he said.
CHAPTER X. "BE IT EVER SO HUMBLE, THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME."
Donald Morrison is back to the simple life of Marsden again. Five years had changed him enormously. His figure had always promise of athletic suppleness. It was now splendidly compact. He left the type of the conventional farmer. He returned the picturesque embodiment of the far West. Perhaps, in his long locks, wide sombrero, undressed leggings, and prodigal display of shooting irons, there may have been a theatrical suggestion of Buffalo Bill.
The village folk accepted him with intense admiration. Here was something new to study. Had Donald not been to the great and wonderful Far West, so much the more fascinating because nobody knew anything about it? Had he not shot the buffalo roaming the plains? Had he not mingled in that wild life which, without moral lamp-posts, allures all the more because of a certain flavoring spice of deviltry? Every farmer's son in Marsden, Gould, Stornaway, and Lake Megantic, envied Donald that easy swaggering air, that frank, perhaps defiant outlook, which the girls secretly adored. Is it the village maiden alone who confesses to a secret charm in dare-devilism? Let the social life of every garrison city answer. The delicately nurtured lady's heart throbs beneath lace and silk, and that of the village girl beneath cotton, but the character of the emotion is the same.
"Oh, Donald, Donald, my dear son!"
Withered arms were round his neck, and loving lips pressed his cheek.
Donald's home-coming had been a surprise. He had sent no word to his parents. His mother was sitting in the kitchen, when he entered unannounced. For a moment she did not know him, but a mother's love is seldom at fault. A second glance was enough. It passed over Donald the bronzed and weather-beaten man, and reached to Donald the curly-headed lad, whose sunny locks she had brushed softly when preparing him for school.
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