Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 October 1883 — A LESSON FROM A WOLF CHASE. [ARTICLE]

A LESSON FROM A WOLF CHASE.

Rube Wexford ought to have been a happy fellow. He was certainly considered one on the day when Kate Wilde became hi 3 bride. He was the envy of every young man in the rude Western hamlet where the ceremony took place, and many were the good wishes showered on the heads of the newlywedded pair for their future happiness and prosperity. Still there were those who not only insinuated, hut boasted that the helpmate of her choice was unworthy the woman he had won. Kate’s father and mother were particularly opposed to the match, and did all in their power to prevent it, but the girl, beside her unwavering love, possessed a determined will which, when once aroused, carried much before it. Rube Wexford was never accounted a strictly-temperate man. Indeed, there had been times before marriage when he was for days under the influence of liquor, and Kate had seen him in this state, and therefore knew fully the extent his weakness. But the wqman loved the man, and within herself resolved that his reclamation should be her duty. That success must crown her efforts she little doubted. Autumn drifted away, the crops had (been gathered in, and all the indications pointed to an early and severe winter. Rube’s sprees continued. No wind was too cold, no snow too deep to /keep liinf from Washburn’s, a not disitant tavern. One evening in the latter .part of December, he took down his leggings and gun from the pegs where they hung and was preparing to go out. Kate went to him and said: “Rube, you must not leave me tonight. Give in to me this time and etay at home.” “I ain only going for a jaunt,” he replied, “I’ll be back soon.” ‘‘No, you are going to Washburn’s. "To-night you will, you must gratify me. I am afraid to remain here alone.” “Afraid?” he answered. Such a thing as fear was almost unknown to Kate Wilde. She clasped her arms around his neck, whispered into his ear, her cheeks flushing brightly, then sank down into the rocker and cried as if her heart jwould break. Rube stood the gun in a icorner, threw aside the leggings, and oried, too. The next morning, when the winter sun beamed upon the cabin, the little log shelter held three souls, instead of two. A wee stranger had come in the night, a bright-eyed baby girl. Her weak cry seemed to move all the better part of the husband’s nature, and his wife looked on with a new-born confidence in her face. After a week, when Kate was able to sit up, Rube went to relate the happy event to his grand-pa-rents. It was the first time he had visited them for some months. Very early in the morning he started, and when the afternoon shadows began to lengthen Kate looked up eagerly for his return. It was toward daybreak when he appeared, his hands and feet almost frozen, and his senses stupefied by liquor. The wife’s new hopes were destined to be sliort-lived. Freshly-made promises marked the sorrow, hut days went by only to see them unfulfilled. Now there was a new torture. Rube 3iad forsaken Washburn’s and made his visits to Pineville instead, where Kate’s father and mother lived. It was almost more than the woman’s nature could bear to know that her parents were the frequent witnesses of her .husband’s disgrace. This was a sort of thing which ehe could not and, would not long broolc. Little Kate, the baby, was a month .old to a day when Rube made prepara-

tion* one morning for a trip to Pineville. Kate looked on silently for a few moments, and then said : “Where are you going?” “Only to Pineville.” “What for?” “To see about some powder and stnff. ” “That is untrue. You are going to spend the day with worthless companions, and you will come back stupid with liquor. Rube, listen to me. I have stood all which it is possible for me to endure. I have prayed and entreated you to abandon a habit which has disgraced us both. My pleadings have brought nothing. I cannot and will not have our child grow up to know a father who is a drunkard. If you refuse to stay at home, I have said my last say. Go to Pineville if you insist on doing so, but if yon are not here sober by sunset, I shall go with the baby to father’s, and in this house I will never set foot again.” “That’s all talk,” Rube answered in a rough, joking and half serious fashion. “Why, it’s fifteen miles to Pineville.” “No matter,” was the firm rejoinder. “I will make the start if the child and I freeze to death on the way.” “Look out for wolves,’’Rube laughed again. “There has been half a dozen soon lately. It has been a hard winter for them, and they’re almost starved,” “Wolves or no wolves,” muttered Kate. “I’ll go.” Rube hung about the house uneasily for an hour or so, then rigged himself out, leggings, buffalo coat, gun and all. Kate worked away and said never a word. He opened the door, and without looking back, remarked: “11l be here by sunset.” “See that'*you are,” was the reply. “If you come here later, the house wul , he empty.” The wife watched his form across the clearing and saw it disappear in the heavy timber which circled the cabin. She turned to her household duties, but had no heart for them. Well she knew Rube Wexford would break his last promise, as he had broken others before it. If so he must abide by the result. She was determined. The day went by at a snail’s pace,and the afternoon seemed never ending. Kate fondled the baby, listened to her erow and cry, and fed her a dozen times. Then she prepared supper, and sunset came when it was completed. But it brought no Rube. Another hour and still he was absent. So the moments passed until the clock struck 10. The baby was fast asleep. Kate rose from a chair at the cradle’s side, a look of firm determination on her face, and opening the cabin door, peered across the clearing. Nojb a soul was visible. She closed the door, went to the chest, and took from it a pair of old-fashioned skates whose steel runners gleamed in the fire-light. She laid them ready for use and proceeded to wrap herself as warmly as possible. Then she bundled the baby in the same manner, lifted her tenderly in her arms, and with the skates slung over her shoulder, started across the clearing. After reaching the timber she left the beaten path and made for the river. It was coated heavily with ice, and the strong winds had blown it almost free from snow, leaving a nearly naked surface. Kate laid the baby down for a few moments while she fastened on her skates. Then sho lifted her baby once more and started for Pineville, fifteen miles away. -The moon shone brightly, she was a wonderfully-rapid skater, and she knew not the slightest suspicion of fear. Rube Wexford sat near the warm fire which was surrounded by a dozen men besides himself. He had been there for hours listening to anecdotes of hunters’ lives, even adding to the general fund with some of his own experiences, but, though his companions coaxed and, persuaded him, they could not prevail upon him tb taste liquor. This was something so entirely new that many a laugh and joke was had at his expense. He answered all persuasions to imbibe in the same way, saying only, “Not today, hoys; not to day. ” When sunset came he was still in his seat. He wanted to be home, he wanted to keep his promise, but he thought he would wait a while and start later, so as it would not look to Kate too much as if he giving in. So thinking he went to a quiet corner by himself, and had not been there long before he fell asleep. It was 11 o’clock when' he awoke with a start, and said hurriedly: “What is it, Kate?” A loud roar of laughter brought him to his senses, and a rough voice cried: “Rube, guess you have been dreaming.” “Yes,” he replied, foolishly; “I thought my wife was calling me. He glanced at4he clock and said: “Boys, I must go. ” “Have something before you leave,” was the general cry. “No, no; not to-night. ” Then lie was gone. His conscience smote him as he trndged through the snow. It would he after 2 o’clock when he reached home. One thing consoled him somewhat—he was sober. But would Kate he in the cabin when he returned? Of course, she must he. Notkiug short of madness cduld tempt her to keep the rash vow she made in the morning. So thought Rube. This was because he was incapable of estimating the great suffering which he had caused his wife. On he went until through the stillness of the night was borne to his ears the sound of falling waters. It proceeded from a spot which marked the half-way between Pineville and his own home, and was caused by the river tumbling down a deep descent of fifteen or twenty feet of rugged rocks. His road at this point lay close to the river hank, and soon he was in full view of the cascade. As lie passed it he noticed, with a sort of shudder, how cold and dark the water looked as it tumbleddown. For thirty feet above the falls there was no ice. Ii broke off abruptly and the current rushed from beneath with terrible velocity. Beyond, in the moonlight, glistened an unbroken surface of elear ice for fully half a mile before thete was a bend in the river’s bank. The sight was an old one to Rube, and he paid little heed to it, bnt stalked on silently, still thinking of Kate and wondering if the cabin would be tenuntless. Suddenly he stood stock

still and listened. Many an ear would hare keard nothing but the sound of rushing waters. Rube’s acute and practiced hearing detected something more, and he fel| instinctively for his ammunition and looked to the priming of his rifle. Then from a distance the sonnd eame again—a peculiar cry, followed by another and another, until they ended in a chorus of unearthly yells. Rube muttered to himself one word—wolves —and strained his eyes in the direction of the curve to. the river’s edge. The cry proceeded from that direction and grew louder every instant. Before he could decide on a plan of action there shot out from the bend in the river what looked to him like a woman carrying a bundle and skating for dear life. She strained every nerve, hut never oncß cried out. Next came a wolf, followed rapidly by others, which swelled the pack to a dozen, all ravenous, yelping, snarling and gaining closely on their prey. Rube raised his rifle, fired and began to load as he had never loaded before. The cry came nearer and nearer. Great God! the wolves were upon the woman ! It seemed os if no earthly hope could save her, when, quick as an arrpw from the bow, she swerved to one side, the maddened brutes slid forward on their hind legs, and she had gained a few steps. Again she flew onwaid, and again she tried the ruse of swerving aside, the man on the bank in the mean-, time firing rapidly, and picking off wolf after wolf. A fresh danger arose. The woman evidently did not see the abrupt break in the fails, and the dark, swift current which lay beyond. Perhaps she was too frightened to hear the rushing waters. On she went, making straight for the falls, the wolv.es almost on her heels, and the mania voice crying in terrified accents, as he dropped on his knees in the snow: “Kate! Kate! My God save her!” The woman was on the brink of the ice, when she made a sudden sweep to one side. Nearly the entire pack, Unable to' check their mad flight, plunged into the water, which carried them swiftly over the rocks, and Kate Wexford was flying toward the river bank, where she fell helpless in the snow, her bajby in her arms, while Rube’s rifl& frightened the remainder of her pursuers away. It was some time before she could answer her husband’s voice. When strength enabled her to do so she arose feebly in the snow, her resolution to go to her father as strong as ever, but Rube took her hand, knelt down and said: “Kate, bear me for the last time. As God is my judge, I shall never again taste liquor. This night has taught me a lesson which I cannot forget. ” Kate believed him and accepted his promise. Then they started for Pine* ville, Rube carrying the baby and more than half carrying his wife. When they arrived there Kate told her parents she had been dying to show them the baby, and, taking advantage of the moonlight night, had made the journey on skates. Rube kept his vow, the roses bloomed again on Kate’s cheeks, and to-day a happy family of boys and girls feel no touch of shame as they look up with pride to their father. The Camel. The expression of his soft, dreamy, heavy eye tells its own tale of meek submission and patient endurance ever since traveling began in the deserts. The camel appears to be wholly passive—without doubt or fear, emotions or opinions of any kind—to be in all things a willing slave to destiny. He has none of the dash and brilliancy of the horse; that looking about with erect neck, fiery eye, cocked ears, and inflated nostrils; that readiness to dash along a racecourse, follow the hounds across country, or charge the enemy; none of that decision of will and self-conscious pride, which demand, as a right, to he stroked, patted, pampered, by lords and ladies. The poor camel bends his neck, and ■with a halter round his long nose, and several hundred weight on his hack, paces patiently along from the Nile to the Euphrates. Where on earth, or rather on sea, can we find a ship so adapted for such a voyage as his over those boundless oceans ot' desert sand ? Is the camel thirsty—he lias recourse to his gutta-percha cistern, which holds as much water as will last a week, or, as some say, ten days, if necessary. Is he hungry—give him a few handfuls of dried beans, it is enough; chopped straw is a luxury. He will gladly crunch with his sharp grinders the prickly t thorns and shrubs in his path, to which hard Scotch thistles are as as soft as down. And when ' ill fails, the poor fellow will absorb his own fat hump. If the land storm blows with furnace heat, he will close his small nostrils, pack up his ears, and then his long, defleshed legs will stride after his swanlike neck through suffocating dust; and, having done his duty, he will mumble his guttural, and leave, perhaps, his bleached skeleton to be a land-mark in the waste for the guidance of future travelers.— Harper* x Young People.