Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 21, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 February 1875 — Died Among Strangers. [ARTICLE]

Died Among Strangers.

He sat on the steps of the City Hall, head in his hands, and one could not help but notice him. He wore a coat of wolfskins, and bearskin cap, buckskin breeches, and his grizzly hair hung down on his shoulders in a tangled mass. He had drifted East from the wild frontier, and he had fallen sick. No one knew for a long time what ailed him, as he would not reply to inquiries, but finally, when a policeman shook his arm and repeated the inquiry, the man slowly lifted his head and replied: “I’m played!” His face was pale and haggard, and it was plain that he was going to have an attack of fever. He was sent to the hospital for he making no inquiries and answering no questions. This was a month ago. He had his personal effects in a sort of sack. These were a breech-loading rifle, a hatchet, a knife and several other articles, and when he had been laid on a bed in one of the wards he insisted that the bag be placed under his head. They offered him medicine, but he turned away his face and no argument could induce him to swallow any. “But you are a sick man,” said the doctor, as he held the medicine up. “ Cuss sickness,” replied the old man. “And you may die!” “ Cuss death!” He grew worse as the days went by, and was sometimes out of his head and talking strange talk of Indian fights and buffalo hunts, but not once did he speak of family, friends nor of himself. He would not let them undress him, comb his hair or show him any attention beyond leaving his food on his stand. A raging fever was burning up his system, and when the doctors fbund that the old man would not take their medicine they knew that death was only a matter of days. fie must have had an iron constitution and a heart like a warrior, for he held death at arm’s length until the other day. When it was seen that he could last but a few hours longer the nurse asked him if a clergyman should be called, “ Cuss clergymen!” replied the old man, those being the first words he had spoken for three days. However, two hours after his mind wandered, and he sat up in bed and called out: “ I tell ye, the Lord isn’t going to be hard on a feller who has fit Injuns!” He Was quiet again until an hour before his death, when the nurse made one more effort and asked: “ Will you give me your name?” “ Cuss my name!” replied the old man. “ Haven’t you any friends?” “ Cuss friends!” “Do you wish us to send your things to anyone?” “Cuss anyone!” - “Do you realize.” continued the nurse, “that you are very near the grave?” “ Cuss the grave!” was the monotonous reply. No further questions were asked, and during the next hour the strange old man dropped quietly asleep in death, uttering no word and making no sign. When they came to remove the clothing and prepare the body for the grave, what do you suppose they found, carefully wrapped in oil-skin and lying on his breast? A daguerreotype picture of a little girl! It was taken years and years ago, and when the child was five or six years old. The face of the little one was fair to look upon, and the case which held it had been scarred by bullets. There were a dozen scars on the bid man’s body to prove that he had lived a wild life, but there was not a line among his effects to reveal his name or the name of the child whose picture he had worn on his breast for years and years. Who was she? His own darling, perhaps. He would not have treasured the picture so carefully unless there was love in his heart. No one would* have believed that the wolfskin coat covered a heart which could feel love or tenderness but it did. He migHt have been returning home after years of weary wandering, or he might have left the frontier to be sure of a Christian burial and hoping that no unsympathetic eve would fall upon the picture. Some said keep it, hoping to makfe it identify the old man, but others laid it back on the battle-scarred breast which had preserved it so long, and it was there yesterday when they buried him. —XMroit Free Press.