Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 21, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 June 1894 — A CHANGE OF PURPOSE. [ARTICLE]

A CHANGE OF PURPOSE.

BY THOMAS P. MONTFORT.

Two horsemen, broad hatted and heavily armed, rode swiftly along a dim trail that threaded a level stretch of wild Western prairie. It was night, but the moon shone- round and full from a clear sky, giving to .the plain, with its tall, breeze-swept grass, the appearance of a calm summer sea. ‘•Jim,” spoke one of the men, breaking a long silence, ‘‘are you sure it's all right about that money?” “All right how?” the other questioned. “Are you sure the man has got it!” “Sure as I am that we are here, Joe. He sold his claim yesterday an’ got the cash in hand for it. There’s no mistake this time, sure. ’ ’ “Well, that’s all right, Jim. If he’s got three hundred dollars, that means a hundred and fifty for each of us. Pretty good pay for one night’s work, provided there ain’t too much risk.” “Just about as much risk as there would be in robbin' a prairie-lark’s nest. Why. there's nobody but a man and a child there, an’ the man don’t look like he had life enough to kill a flea. Guess he’s about dead with consumption or something.” “He won t be apt to give us much trouble then,” Joe replied. “An’ even if he shows fight we can soon quiet him. ” “Yes; but he won’t show any fight Joe. All well have to do will be to ask for the money, an’ give the chap to understand that we are in earnest, an’ it’ll be yurs. It is the softest snap I ever struck, an’ it’s almost like pickin’ that much money out of the road.” There was a short silence, broken only by the clattering of the horses’ feet on the hard, dry ground as the horsemen galloped on. Away across the prairie, at the foot of a lonely mound, a dim speck of light came into view. “That’s the place,” Jim announced. “That’s a light in the cabin where the settler lives, and he’s still there. I was a little afraid he might have gone away, though I knew it wasn’t his intention to go before tomorrow.”

“An’ to-morrow he won’t have much to go away with,” Joe added. “Not mueh,” Jim agreed. They rode on in silence, and a few | minutes later halted in front of a j little desolate-looking cabin. There i was a saddled horse standing tied to ! a post near the door. They waited a moment, listening breathlessly, but no sound reached them from the cabin. “ I don’t know what that horse means here,” Jim finally remarked in a low tone. “It’s queer that anybody would be here at this time o’ night.” “ It is,” Joe assented; “more especially as it ain’t a neighbor.” “ How do you know it ain’t a neighbor?” Jim asked. “ Know it by the horse. There ain’t a settler in this section that owns a horse like that.” “That’s a fact,” Jim agreed. “That’s a fine animal, an’, whoever he belongs to, I guess it would be a good idea for him to change owners. Don’t it strike you so, Joe?” “I reckon,” Joe replied. “But the first thing to be attended to is that three hundred dollars.” Jim nodded his assent to this proposal, and the two robbers stole cautiously forward to the one window of the cabin. There was a pane broken out, and they found that they could not only see all that was being done within, bpt could hear all that was being said. In one corner of the room, on a small bed, lay a child with thin, sharp features and great hollow eyes. On a chair near by sat a great, rugged, burly man, with black hair and beard, who had buckled about his waist a pair of huge, villainous-look-ing pistols. ‘ ‘Are you dead shore your pap took that money with him?” the man was heard to say.

“Yes, sir;” the child replied in a weak, piping voice. “Wal, it would ’a’ been an accommodation to me if he’d left it here, but since he didn’t, it can’t be helped, I reckon. All I can do is to wait till he comes back.” There was a momentary pause, after which the man went on: “How long you reckon your pap 'll be gone?” he asked. “Not long now, I guess,” the child replied. “He was just goin’ to git some medicine an’ come right back.” The man made no answer and a long silence followed. After a while the child looked timidly up into the rough, bearded face, and speaking in eager though trembling tones, said: “Please, mister, you won’t take all of pa’s money, will you?” “I reckon I will,” the man answered, unfeelingly. “That’s jest whjLt I come here for, an’ I calc’late I’ll not leave a dollar that I can git my fingers on. ’Taint my way o’ doin’ business.” “If you take it all we can’t go away from here,” the child said, sadly, “ an’ -the doctor says if we don’t go pa an’ me will.both die, ’cause pa’s got the consumption an’ I’ve got the fever.” “That ain’t nothing to me,” the man replied with cold indifference. The child nut its thin hand over its

face and something like a sob came from it. It was almost a minute before it looked up at the man again, both eyes full of tears and lips trembling with suppressed emotions. “ I do want to go back to our old home so bad,” it said, plaintively; “ cause I was always well .there an’ it was so pleasant. Every night I dream about it, an’ I see tire big, shady bluegrass pasture an’ the red elover meadow an’ the clear spring branch that runs down through the orchard an’ under the big elm-trees, where I used to have a swing. I dream it all over every night, an’ I’m so happy till I wake up an’ find it’s just a dream.” The child’s words and tone were pathetic, but they had no effect on the man to whom they were addressed. He appeared oblivious to it all. “It is so lonely out here on the prairie with nobody but pa an’ me,” the little voice went on, “an I ain’t never happy like I used to be back at the old home. I used to cry every day till pa sold the claim an’ got the money so we could go away, ’cause I didn’t want to die an’ be buried out here, where there ain’t nothin’ but prairie, an’ where the crickets in the grass make me feel so lonesome with their cries. It ain’t nice like it is back at the old home, where the birds sing, an’ where there are flowers an’ trees an’ little branches of clear water.” The child paused for a moment and looked anxiously into the face of the man, who sat immovable. Then pleadingly it continued: “You won’t take all of pa’s money, will you? It won’t take much to take us back home, an' if you knew how much I wanted to go, and how I grieve to think of my dying here, you’d let us have that much. You will let us keep a. little, won’t you?” "It ain’t likely that I will,” the man replied with an oath. “It don’t make any difference to me whether you go back to your home or whether you die here. It’s money I want, and I ain't apt to let a chance to git it slip through my fingers on account of any pitiful stories.” At that moment there came the sound of a horse's feet beating on the hard earth. The man in the cabin arose and placed his hand on his pistol.

“It is pa,” said the child fearfully. The man waited with his eye fixed on the door. The horseman rode up, dismounted and approached the cabin. There was the click of a pistol at the window, and the man in the cabin looked around to see a head thrust through the broken sash and a pistol leveled at his breast. The head and the pistol were Joe’s. “Throw up your hands!” the latter said, and the man could only obey, for he was in Joe’s power. “Jim.” said Joe, “go in an’ relieve the chap of his guns while I hold him quiet. He’s made a mistake in supposin’ that that three hundred dollars was intended for him.” Jim acted on Joe’s instructions, and a moment later the man was driven from the house and allowed to depart. The settler had entered, and watched the proceedings in silent wonder. At last he managed to ask : ' “What does this mean?” Joe and Jim exchanged a look, but both hesited to speak. The child’s voice broke the silence. “The man had come to steal the money,” it said; “and he was waitin’ for you to come back when these men come and drove him away.” There was a momentary pause, then the settler turned to the strangers and said: “You have rendered me a great service, gentlemen, and placed me under lasting obligations to you. You have saved my little possessions, which, though small, is a great deal to me, since it affords me the means of saving my child’s life. The doctor says the little one must have a change of climate and the care of friends, in order to recover from this dreadful malaria. If you had not saved my money from the robber we conld never have been able to leave here for our old home back east.” Jim looked at Joe and nodded toward the door. Joe understood, and remarking something about their horses, followed Jim out. They walked a little distance from the cabin and stopped. “Joe,” Jim said, “ that man and child don’t dream that we’re robbers, do they?” “Of course not,” Joe replied. “If they did, an’ knew what we come here for, they wouldn’t feel so thankful to us, I reckon.” “ Hardly,” Jim answered.

There was an awkward silence, durwhich Jim shifted about in an uneasy manner. Finally he spoke again, saying: “Joe, that little one is purty bad off, ain’t it?” “ Reckon it is,” Joe replied. “ Guess the doctor is right, an’ if it don’t get away from here it won’t live long.” “That’s so,” agreed Jim. “An’ it can’t git away from here without that money, can it?” “ 'Pears like it can’t,” Joe said. “An awful pity,” Jim said, musingly. “But,” he added, “I reckon it can’t be helped, because if we take the money ” “Jim,” Joe interrupted, “what’s the use o’ talkin’ all over creation? Why don’t you come square out an’ say you’re opposed to takin’ the money?” “I ain’t said I was opposed to takin’ it, Joe.” “No; but if you got a speck of heart in you yon are opposed to it.” “Are you opposed to it, Joe?” “Of course I am. I’ve been opposed to it ever since, I see that little one an' heer’d it’s weak voice a-beg-gin’ that onery rascal not to take all the money. That sneakin’ scamp looked so cussed mean settin’ there waitin’ to rob that sick child that I jest wanted to kick him out o’ the country. I made up my mind then an’ there that nobody -wasn’t goin’ to touch that money if I could help it-” Jim made no reply, but took Joe’s hand in his and gave it a hearty pressure. They stood for some time in silence, then Joe resumed in a softened tone: “Jim,” he said, ‘T~never felt so cussed onery in all my life as I did when I stood tharby that winder an’ watched that sneakin’ thief hn’ that

poor little sick gal, an’ remembered what we had come thar for. I jest loaked at that feller settin’ thar an’ I imagined he was me, an’ felt like a bloody wolf ready to spring down on a pore leetle helpless lamb.” “Them was jest my feelin’s, Joe,” Jim replied. “Somehow the way that leetle gal pleaded with that scamp teched my heart awful deep, an’her talk ’bout her old home took me right back to my boyhood days, when I was as young an’ innocent as her. I could jest see my old home with its shady, blue-grass pasture, an’ its red clover meaders, an’ the little branches of clear water, an’ all that. But, plainer than all, Joe, I could see an’old couple settin’ on the long porch in the shade of the big locust trees, one of ’em a gray-haired man, and the other a gray-haired woman, but both of ’em as kind an’ lovin’ as a father an’ mother could be. An, Joe, when I see my old mother’s face, jest as*it used to look, an’ remembered what I came here for, ’peared like I jest wanted to sink right slap down into the ground an’ never see daylight ag’in. I had a good mother, if thar ever was one, an’ she never dreamed that I’d ever come to be a thief.” Joe was silent save for the sound that was like a long, low sigh. He drew his hand across his eyes and turned his head away, and for almost a minute stood perfectly still. Finally he said: “Jim, I’ve got a long way from my home an’ its early teachin’s, but I ain’t got away from my mother. Xow I’m goin’ to lead a different life. We ain’t stole nothing yet, an’ it ain’t too late to turn hack. I’m goin’ to be an honest man, an’ that little gal has saved me. God bless her!”

A moment later they entered the cabin and asked permission to remain till morning. “ You see,” Jim said to the settler, “the robber might come back, an’ if he does you’ll need somebody to protect you.” “Yes,” the settler replied, “an’ I’m glad to have two honest men like you in the house.” Jim and Joe exchanged a sheepish glance, but ventured to make no reply. At an early hour the next morning the settler harnessed his team and prepared to begin the long eastward journey. Jim and Joe helped him to arrange a bed in the wagon, and when all was ready Jim brought the little girl in his arms and placed her on it. He handled her almost as tenderly as a mother would, and after laying her down saw that she was perfectly comfortable. Then he stood for a moment, hesitating and undecided, casting yearning looks at the child’s face. Finally he said, a little pleadingly: “Sissy, if you don’t mind it too much I wish you would kiss me jest once. ” “I don’t mind it at all,” the child said,” putting up her arms and lips, “ ’cause I like you. You saved the money for us so we can go home, an’ you’re honest an’ good too, ain’t you?” Jim flushed scarlet, and for an instant cast his eyes down. But directly he looked boldly up, and with his eyes on the girl’s face, replied: “Yes, sissy, I am an’ honest man, thanks to you, an’ I’ll always be one, too.”

Joe stepped forward, and without a word stooped for a kiss. There were tears in his eyes when he raised his head and, turning about, walked back and stood leaning against the cabin door. A few minutes later the wagon rolled away across the broad, level prairie. From the rear of the wagon, where there was a small opening in the cover, a childish face, thin and sharp, peered out at the lonely mound, the old cabin and the two men who stood there with their eyes to the east. After a while the face faded away in the distance; and then a little white handkerchief fluttered in the soft, balmy breeze of the beautiful autumn morning. At last that, too, passed out of view, aud only the old wagon, like a speck on the horizon, could be seen. With a sigh Jim turned to his companion. “Joe,” he said, “I thank God that she never knew what we come here for.” “Me, too,” Joe agreed. “But she’s saved us, Jim.” “ Yes, she’s saved us.”—[Leslie’s Weekly.