The Darlington news. (Darlington, S.C.) 1875-1909, May 10, 1894, Image 3
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PAST a.
Tkt Country of Uu Hainto.
CHAPTERL
OS THS GREAT ALKALI PLAIN.
In the central portion of the great
North American continent there lies
an arid and repulsive desert which for
many a long year served as a barrier
against the advance of civilization.
From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska
and from the Yellowstone river in the
north to the Colorado upon the south
is a region of desolation and silence.
Nor is nature always in one mood
throughout this grim district. It com
prises snow-capped and lofty moun
tains and dark and gloomy valleys.
There are swift-flowing rivers which
dash through jagged canyons, and
there are enormous plains which in
winter are white with snow and in
summer are gray with the saline ali.ali
dust. They all preserve, however, the
common characteristics of barrenness,
inhospitality and misery.
There are no inhabitants of this land
of despair. A band of I’awnees or of
Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it
In order to reach other hunting
grounds, but the hardiest of the braves
are glad to lose sight of those awesome
plains, and to find themselves once
more upon their prairies. The coyote
skulks among the scrub, the buzzard
flaps heavily through the air, and the
clumsy grizzly bear lumbers throuf
the dark ravines, and picks up such
sustenance as it can among the rocks.
These are the sole dwellers in the wil
derness.
In the whole world there can be no
more dreary view thaln that from the
northern slope of the Sierra Blanca
As far as the eye can reach stretches
the great flat plainland, all dusted over
with patches of alkali, and intersected
by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral
bushes On the extreme verge of the
horizon lies a long chain of mountain
peaks, with their rugged summits
flecked with snow. In this great
stretch of country there is no sign of
life, nor of anything appertaining to
life. There is no bird in the steel-blue
heaven, no movement upon the dull,
gray earth—above all, there is abso
lute silence. Listen as one may, there
Is no shadow of a sound in all that
mighty wilderness; nothing but silence
—complete and heart-subduing silence.
It has been said there is nothing ap
pertaining to life upon the broad
plain. That is hardly true. Looking
down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees
a pathway traced out across the desert,
which winds away and is lost in the
extreme distance. It Is rutted with
wheels and trodden down by the feet
of many adventurers. Here and there
are scattered white objects which
glisten in the sun, and stand out
against the dull deposit of alkali. Ap
proach and examine theml They are
bones; some large and coarse, others
smaller and more delicate. The for
mer have belonged to oxen, and the
latter to men. For fifteen hundred
miles one may trace this ghastly cara
van route by these scattered remains
of those who had fallen by the way-
side.
Looking down on this very scene,
there stood upon the 4th of May, 1847,
A solitary traveler. His appearance
was such that he might have been the
very genius or demon of the region.
An observer would have found it diffi
cult to say whether he was nearer to
forty or to sixty. His face was lean
and haggard, and the brown, parch
ment-like skin was drawn tightly over
the projecting bones; his long, brown
hair and beard were all flecked and
dashed with white; his eyes were
sunken in his head, and burned with
pn unnatural luster, while the hand
Vvhich grasped his rifle was hardly
more fleshy than that qf a skeletiQQ.
As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon
for support, and yet his tall figure and
the massive framework of his bones
suggested a wiry and vigorous consti
tution. His gaunt face, however, and
his clothes, which hung so baggily over
hi* shriveled limbs, proclaimed what
it wap that gave him that senile snd
decrepit appearance. The man was
dying—dying from hunger and from
thirst.
He had toiled painfully down the
ravine and on to this little elevation,
in the vain hope of seeing some signs
of water. Now the great salt plain
stretched before his eyes, and the dis
tant belt of savage mountains, without
pslgn anywhere of planter tree, which
plight Indicate the presence of moist
ure. In all that broad landscape
there was no gleam of hope. North
and east and west he looked with wild
questioning eyes, and then he realized
that his wanderings had come to an
end, and that there, on that barren
crag, he was about to die. “Why not
here, as well as In a feather bed, twenty
years hence,” he muttered, as he seated
himself In the shelter of a bowlder.
' Before sitting down, he had de
posited upon th# ground his useless
rifle, and also a large bundle tied up
in a gray shawl, which he had parried
slung over his right shoulder. It ap
peared to be somewhat too heavy for
his strength, for, in lowering it, it
came down on the ground with some
little violence. Instantly there broke
from the gray parcel * little moaning
pry, and from it there protruded a
junall, »care4 fftCO* with very bright
brown eyes, sn4 two little speckled
dimpled fists.
“You've hurt jpet" said a childish
voice, reproachfully.
“Have I though?” the man answered,
penitently; "I didn’t go for to do it.”
At he spoke he unwrapped the gray
shawl and extricated a pretty little girl
of about five years of age, whose
dainty shoes and smart pink frock,
with its little linen apron, all bespok*
a mother’s oars. The child was pals
and wan, but her healthy arms and
legs showed that she had suffered less
than her companion.
“How is It now?” he answered, an*-
lously, for she was still robbing the
towsy golden curls which covered the
bock of her bead.
“Kiss It and make It well,” she said,
with nxaritv. shoving the U-
'' ‘
Jured part up to him. "T nat s wnaz
mother used to da Where’s mother?”
“Mother’s gone. I guess you'll see
her before long.”
‘•Gone, eh!” said the little girl.
i’Fnnny, she didn't say good-by; she
'most always did if she was just goin'
over to auntie's for tea, and now she's
been away for three days Say, it's
awful dry, ain't it? Ain’t there no
water nor nothing to eat?"
“No, there ain't nothing, dearie.
You’ll just need to be patient awhile,
and then yen’ll be all right Put your
head up agin me like that and then
you’ll feel better. It ain’t easy to talk
when your lips is like leather, but I
guess, I’d best let you know how the
cards lie. What’s that you’ve got?"
“Pretty things! fine things!” cried
the little girl enthusiastically, holding
up two glittering fragments of mica.
"When we goes back to home I’ll give
them to Brother Bob.”
“You'll see prettier things than them
soon,” said the man, confidently. “You
just wait a bit I was going to tell
you, though—you remember when we
left the river?"
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, we reckoned we’d strike an
other river soon, d’ye see? But there
was somethin’ wrong; compasses, or
map, or somethin', and It didn't tnrn
np. Water ran out. J ust except a lit
tle drop for the likes of you and—
and—"
, "And you couldn't wash yourself," In
terrupted his companion gravely, star-
! n'r np at his grimy visage.
“No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he
was the first to go, and then Indian
Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and
then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie,
your mother.”
“Then mother's a deader, too," cried
the little girl, dropping her face in her
pinafore and sobbing bitterly.
“Yes, they all went except yon and
me. Then I thought there was some
chance of water in this direction, so 1
heaved you over my shoulder and we
tramped it together. It don’t seem
as though we’ve improved matters.'
There’s an almighty small chance for
us now!”
“Do you mean that we are going to
die, too?” asked the child, checking
her sobs, and raising her tear-stained
face.
“I guess that's about the size of it."
"Why didn't you say so before?” she
said, laughing gleefully. “You gave
me such a fright. Why, of course, now
as long as we die we’U be with mother
again.”
“Yes, you will, dearie.”
"And you, too. I'll tell her how aw
ful good you’ve been. I’ll bet she
meets us at the door of Heaven with a
big pitcher of water, and a lot of buck
wheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both
sides, like Bob and me was fond of.
How long will it be first"
“I don't know—not very long." The
man's eyes were fixed upon the north
ern horizon. In the blue vault of the
heaven there appeared three little
specks which Increased in size every
moment, so rapidly did they approach.
They speedily resolved themselves Into
i three large brown birds, which circled
1 over the heads of the two wanderers,
| and then settled upon some rocks
; which overlooked them. They were
: buzzards, the vultures of the west,
whose coming Is the forerunner of
l death.
“Cocks and hens!” cried the little
girl, gleefully, pointing at their ill-
omened forms, and clapping her hands
to make them rise. “Say, did God
make thiscountry?"
“In course He did,” said her com
panion, rather startled by this unex
pected question.
"He made the country down in I1U-
nois, and He made the Missouri," the
little girl continued. “I guess some
body e)se made the country in these
parts. It's not nearly so well done,
They forgot the water and the trees. ”
“What would ye think of offering up
prayer?" the man asked, diffidently.
“It ain't night yet,” she answered.
“It don’t matter. 11 ain’t quite reg
ular, but He won't mind that, yon bet,
i Ypu SAY pver them ones that you used
to say every night In the wagon when
we was on the plains.”
“Why don’t you say some yourself?”
the child asked, with wondering eyes.
"I disremember them,” he answered.
“I hain't said none since I was half
the height o' that gun. I guess it’s
never too late. You say them out, and
I'll stand by and come in on the
choruses.”
“Then you’ll need to kneel down,
and me, too,” she said, laying the
shawl out for that purpose. “You'ya
got to put your hands up like this. I|
makes you feel kind of good.”
It was a strange sight, had there
been anything but the buzzards to see
It. Side by side on the narrow shaw)
knelt the two wanderers, the little,
prattling child and the reckless, haplt
ened adventurer. Her chubby face
and his haggard, angular visage were
both turned up to the cloudless
heaven In heartfelt entreaty to th|(
dread being with whom they were face
to face, while the two voices—the one
thin and clear, the other deep and
harsh—united in the entreaty for mercy
and forgiveness. The prayer finished,
they resumed their scat in the shadow
of the bowlder until the child fell
asleep, nestling upon the broad breast
of her protector. He watched over
her slumber for some time, but nature
proved to be too strong for him. Feu
three day* and three nights foe ha<|
allowed himself neither rest nor im
pose. Slowly the eyelids drooped over
the tired eyes, and the heqd sunk
lower upon the breast, until the man’a
grizzled beard was mixed with the
golden tresses of his companion, and
both slept the same deep and dream
less slumber-
Had the wanderer remained awake
for another half-honr a strange sight
would have met his eyes. Far away
on ine extreme verge oi w»e
plain there rose up a little 8 P r ®y
dust, very slight at first, and hardly »•
be distinguished from the mists of the
distance, but gradually growing
higher and broader until It formed a
solid. walMemied oIpwI XM«
continued to increase in sue until it
became evident that It could only be
raised by a great multitude of moving
creatures. In more fertile spots the
observer would have come to the con
clusion that one of those great herds
of bisons which graze upon the prairie
land was approaching him. This was
obviously impossible In there arid
wilds. As the whirl of dost drew
nearer to the solitary bluff upon which
the two castawaye were reposing, the
canvas-covered tilts of wagons and the
figures of armed horsemen began to
show up through the haze, and the
apparition revealed itself as being a
great caravan upon its journey for the
west. But what acaravan! When the
head of it had reached the base of
the mountains, the rear was not yet
visible on the horizon. Right
across the enormous plain stretched
the straggling array, wagons and
TUP. CHILD FELL ASLEEP NESTLING ON
THE BROAD BREAST OP HEB PROTECTOR.
csrts, men on horseback and men on
foot. Innumerable women who stag
gered along under burdens, and chil
dren who toddled beside the wagons
or peeped out from under the white
coverings. This was evidently no or
dinary party of Immigrants, but rather
some nomad people who had been com
pelled from stress of circumstances to
seek themselves a new country. There
rose through the clear air a confused
clattering and rumbling from this
great mass of humanity, with the
creaking of wheels and the neighing
horses. Lond as it was, it was not suf
ficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers
above them.
At the head of the column there rode
a score or more of grave, iron-faced
men, clad in somber, homespun gar
ments and armed with rifles. On reach-
the base of the bluff they halted and
held a short council among themselves.
“The wells are to the right, my
brothers,” said a one, a hard-lipped,
clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.
“To the right of the Sierra Blanco—
so we shall reach the Rio Grande,” said
another.
“Fear not for water,” cried a third.
"He who coaid draw it from the rocks
will not now abandon His own chosen
people.”
“Amen! Amen!" responded the whole
party.
They were abont to resume their
journey when one of the youngest and
keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation
and pointed up at the rugged crag
above them. From its summit there
fluttered a little wisp of pink, showing
up hard and bright against the gray
rocks behind. At the sight there was
a general reining up of horses and nn
slinging of guns, while fresh horsemen
came galloping up to reinforce the
vanguard. The word “redskins” was
on every lip.
“There can’t be any number of In
juns here,” said the elderly man who
appeared to be In command. “We
have passed the Pawnees, and there
are no other tribes until we cross the
great mountains.”
“8hall I go forward and see. Brother
Stangerson?” asked one of the band.
“And I,” “And I," cried a dozen
voicea
“Leave your horses below and we
will wait yon here,” the elder answered.
In a moment the young fellows had
dismounted, fastened their horses, and
were ascending the precipitous slope
which led up to the object which had
excited their curiosity. They advanced
rapidly and noiselessly, with the con
fidence and dexterity of practised
scouts. The watchers from the plain
below could see them flit from rock to
rock until their figures stood out
against the sky-line. The young man
who had first given the alarm was lead
ing them. Suddenly his followers saw
him throw np his hands, at though
overcome with astonishment, and on
joining him they were affected in the
same way by the sight which met their
eyes.
On the little plateau which crowned
the barren hill there stood a single
giant bowlder,and against this bowlder
there lay a tall man, long-bearded and
hard-featured, but of an excessive thin
ness. His placid face and regular
breathing showed that he was fast
asleep. Beside him lay a little child,
with her round white arms encircling
his brown, sinewy neck, and her
golden-haired head resting upon the
breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy
lips were parted, showing the regular
line of snow-white teeth within, and a
playful smile played over her infantile
features. Her plump little white
legs, terminating in white socks, and
neat shoes with shining buckles,
offered a strange contrast jo the long,
shriveled members of her companion.
On the ledge of rook above this strange
couple there stood three solemn bnz-
zArds, who, at the sight of the new
comers, uttered raucous screams of dis
appointment and flapped sullenly
away.
The cries of the foul birds awoke the
two sleepers, who stared about them in
bewilderment. The man staggered jfi
his feet and lodk«d dpwn upon the
plain which had been so desolate when
sleep had overtaken him. and which
was now traversed by this enormous
body of men and of beasts. His face
assumed an expression of Incredulity
as be gazed, and he passed his bony
hand over his eyes. “This is wlmt they
call delirium, I guess,” he mattered.
The child stood beside him, holding on
to the skirt of his coat, and said noth
ing. bnt looked aU round her with the
wondering, questioning gaze of child
hood.
The rescuing party were speedily
able tc convince the two castaway!
that their appearance was no delusion.
One of them seized the little girl and
hoisted her npon his shoulder, while
two others supported her gaunt com
panion and assisted him toward the
wagon*.
“My name Is John Ferrier," the wan
derer exclaimed; “me and the little un
are all that’s left o’ twenty-one people.
The rest Is aU dead o' thirst and hun
ger away down In the south."
“Is she your child?" asked some
one.
“I guest she Is now,” theotiiercried,
defiantly; "she’s mine 'caul* | saved
har. No one vUl Ukfi hw |1TH frlW
me. Khe’a Lucy renter trem to is nay
on. Who are you, though?” he con
tinued, glancing with cariosity at hii
stalwart, sunburned rescuers "There
seems to be a powerful lot of ye.”
“Nigh upon ten thousand," said one
of the young men. “We are the per
secuted children of God—the chosen ol
the angel Herons."
"I never heard teU on him,” said the
wanderer. “He appears to have chosen
a fair crowd of ye.”
“Do not jest at that which is sacred,”
said the other, sternly. “We are ot
those who believe in those sacred writ
ings, drawn In Egyptian lettera on
plates of beaten gold, which were
handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at
Falmyrm. We have come from Nau-
voo, in the state of Illinois, where we
had founded our temple. We have
come to seek a refuge from the violent
man and from the godless, even though
it be the heart of the desert”
The name of Nauvoo evidently re
called recollections to John Ferrier.
“I see,” he said; “you are the Mor
mons.”
“We are the Mormons,” answered his
companions with one voice.
“And where are you going?"
“We do not know. The hand of
God is leading us under the person of
our prophet You must come before
him. He shall say what is to be done
with yon."
They had reached the base of the
hill by this time, and were surrounded
by crowds of the pilgrims—pale-faced,
meek-looking women, strong, laughing
children, and anxious, earnest-eyed
men. Many were the cries of aston
ishment and of commiseration which
arose from them when they perceived
the youth of one of the strangers and
the destitution of the other. Their
escort did not halt, however, but
pushed on, followed by a great crowd
of Mormons, until they reached a wag
on which was conspicnous for 'its great
size, and for the gaudiness and smart
ness of its appearance. Six horses were
yoked to it, whereas the others were
furnished with two, or, at most, four
apiece. Beside the driver there sat a
man who could not have been more
than thirty years of age, but whose
massive head and resolute expression
marked him as a leader. He was lead
ing a brown-backed volume, but as the
crowd approached he laid it aside and
listened attentively to an account of
the episode. Then he turned to the
two castaway*
“If we take you with us," he said. In
solemn words, “it can only be as be
lievers in our own creed. We shall
have no wolves in our fold. Better far
HE TURNED TO IKE TWO CAXTAWATS.
that your bones should bleach In this
wilderness than that yon should prove
to be that little speck of decay which
In time corrupts the whole fruit. WU1
you come with us on these terms?”
“Guess I'll come with you on sny
terms,” ssid Ferrier, with such em
phasis that the grave elders could not
restrain a smile. The leader alone re
tained his stern, Impl-essive expression.
“Take him. Brother Stangerson,” he
said, “give him food and drink, and the
chUd likewise. Let It be your task al
so to teach him our holy creed. We
have delayed long enough. Forward!
On, on to ZionI”
“On, on to ZionI” cried the crowd of
Mormons, and the words rippled down
the long caravan, passing from mouth
to mouth untU they died away in a
dull murmur in the far distance. With
a cracking of whips and a creaking of
wheels tha great wagon got Into mo
tion, and soon the whole caravan was
winding along ones more- Tha elder
to whose care the two waifs had been
ooinmitted led them to his wagon,
where a meal was already awaiting
them.
“Yon shall remain here,” he said.
"In a few days yon wiU have recov
ered from your fatigue* In the mean
time, remember that now and forever
C are of our religion. Brighasa Young
said It, and he has spokan with the
voice of Joseph Smith, which la the
voice of God.”
CHAPTER IL
TBS PLOVER OP UTAE.
This Is not the place to commemorate
the trials and privations endured by
the Immigrant Mormons before they
came to their final haveq. From the
shores of the hflssisslppi to the western
slopes qf jlie Rooky mountains they
had struggled on with a constancy
almost unparalleled in history. The
savage man, and the savage beast,
hunger, thirst, fatigue and disease—
every Impediment which nature could
place In tha way, had all been over
come with Anglo-Sason tenacity. Yet
the long journey %nd the accumulated
terrors had shaken the hearts of the
stoutesj among them- There was not
one who did noj sink upon his knees in
heartfelt prayer when they saw the
broed valley of Utah bathed In the
sunlight beneath them, and learned
from the lips of their leader that this
was the promised land, and that these
virgin acres were to'bo theirs forever
more.
Young speedily proved himself to be
a skillful administrator as well %s a
resolute chief. Maps were drawn and
charts prepared, |n which the future
city wss sketched «uV AH around
farm* wore apportioned and allotted in
proportion to the standing of each In
dividual The tradesman was put to
his trade and the artisan to his eaUiag.
It> the town streets and squares sprang
np as if by magic. In the country there
was draining and hedging, planting
and clearing, until the next summer
saw the whole country golden with
the wheat crop Everything pros
pered In the strange settlement.
Above all, the great temple which they
had erected In the* center of the city
grew ever taller and taller. From the
first blush of dawn until the closing
of the twilight, the clatter of the
hammer and the rasp of the saw were
never absent from the monument
which the immigrants erected to Him
who had led them s*fc through many
The two castaway* John remer mio
the little girl who had shared his for
tunes and had been adopted as hla
daughter, accompanied the Mormons
to ths end of their pilgrimage. Little
Lucy Ferrier was borne along pleas
antly enough in Elder Stangerson’s
wagon, a retreat which she shared
with the Mormon’s three wives and
with his son, a headstrong, forward
boy of twelve Having rallied, with
the elasticity of childhood, from the
shock caused by her mother's death,
she soon became a pet with the women,
and reconciled herself to this new Ufa
In her moving canvas-covered home.
In the meantime, Ferrier, having re
covered from his privations, distin
guished himself as a useful guide and
an indefatigable hunter. 8o rapidly
did be gain the esteem of his new
companions that when they reached
the end of their wanderings it was
unanimously agreed that he should be
provided with as large and as fertile a
tract of land as any of the settler*
with the exception of Young himself,
and of Stangerson, Kimball, Johnston
and Drebber, who were the four princi
pal elder*
On the farm thus acquired John Fer
rier buUt himself a substantial log
house, which received so many addi
tions In succeeding years that it grew
into a roomy villa. He was a man of a
practical turn of mind, keen In his
dealings and skillful with his hand*
His iron constitution enabled him to
work morning and evening at improv
ing and tilling his land* Hence it
cams about that his farm and all that
belonged to him prospered exceeding
ly. In three years he was better off
than his neighbors, in six he was well
to do. In nine he was rich, and in
twelve there were not half a dozen men
In the whole of Salt Lake City who
could compare with him. From the
great inland sea to the distant Wah-
satch mountains there was no name
better known than that of John Fer
rier.
There was one way, and only one. in
which he offended the susceptibilities
of his coreligionist* No argument or
persuasion could ever induce him to
set up a female establishment after
the manner of his companion* He
never gave reasons for this persistent
refusal, but contented himself by reso
lutely adhering to his determination.
There were some who accused him of
lukewarmness In his adopted religion,
and others who put It down to greed of
wealth and reluctance to incur ex
pense. Others, again, spoke of some
early love affair, and of a fair-haired
girl who had pined away on the shores
of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason,
Ferrier remained strictly celibate. In
every other respect he conformed to
the religion of the young settlement,
and gained the name of being an or
thodox and straight-walking man.
Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log
house, and assisted her adopted father
In all his undertaking* The keen air
of the mountains and the balsamic
odor of the pine trees took the place of
nurse and mother to the young girl
As year succeeded to year she grew
taller and stronger, her cheek more
ruddy and her step more elastic. Many
a wayfarer upon the high-road which
ran by Perrier’s farm felt long-forgot
ten thoughts revive in his mind as he
watched her lithe, girlish figure trip
ping through the wheat field* or met
her mounted upon her father's mus
tang, and managing it with all the
ease and grace of a true child of the
west. So the bud blossomed Into a
flower, and the years which saw her
father the richest of farmers left her
as fair a specimen of American girl
hood as could be found on the whole
Pacific slope.
It was not the father, however, who
first discovered that the child had de
veloped into the woman. It seldom Is
In such case* That mysterious change
Is too subtle and too gradual to be
measured by date* Least of all does
the maiden herself know It until the
tone of a voice or the touch of a hand
sets her heart thrilling within her, and
she learn* with a mixture of prids
and of fear, that a new and larger na
ture has awakened within her. There
are few who cannot recall that day and
remember the one little incident which
heralded the dawn of a new life. In
the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion
was serions enough in Itself, apart from
ita future Influence on her destiny and
that of many beside*
It was a warm Jnne morning, and
the Latterday Saints were as busy as
the bees whose hive they have chosen
for their emblem. In the fields and in
the streets rose the same hum of human
Industry. Down the dusty highroads
defiled long streams of heavily laden
mule* all heading to the west, for the
gold fever had broken out In Cali
fornia, and the overland route
lay throngh the city of the elect.
There, too, were droves of sheep
and bullocks coming in from the out-
I* AN INSTANT IT REARED UPON ITS
RIND LEG*
lying pasture land* and trains of tired
Immigrant* men and horses equally
weary of their interminable journey.
Through all this motley assemblage,
threading her way with the skill of an
accomplished rider, there galloped
Lucy Ferrier, her fair faoe flushed with
the exercise and her long chestnut
hair floating ont behind her. She had
a commission from her father In the
city and was dashing in. as she had
done many a time before, with all the
fearlessness of youth, thinking only of
her task and how it was to be per
formed. The travel-stained adven
turers gazed after her in astonish
ment, and even the unemotional In
dian* journeying In with their peltry,
relaxed their accustomed stoicism as
they marveled at the beauty of the
pale-faced maiden.
She had reached the outskirts of the
city, when she found the road blocked
by a great drove of cattle, driven by a
half-dozen wild-Woking herdsmen from
the plain* |n her Impatience the en
deavored to pas* this obstacle by push-
jog her horse Into what appeared to be
a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly In
to It, however, before the beasts closed
tm behind her, and the found berslf
ot nense-eyeo,
bullock* Accustomed aa she was to
deal with cattle, she was net alarmed
at her situation, but took ad
vantage of every opportunity to nrge
her horse on in the hope of pushing
her way through ths cavalcade. Un
fortunately, the horns of one of the
beast* either by accident or design,
came In violent contact with ths flank
of the mastsng, and excited it to mad
ness. In an Instant it reared up on its
hind legs with a snort of rage, and
pranced and tossed in a way that
would have unseated any bat a most
skillful rides. The situatloa was full
of peril Every plunge of the ex
cited horse brought it against the
horns again, and goaded it to
fresh tnadnes* It was all that
the girl could do to keep herself in the
saddle, yet a slip would mean a
terrible death under the hoofs of the
unwieldy and terrified animal* UK-
accustomed to sudden emergenele*
her head began to swim, and her grip
upon the bridle to relax. Choked by
the rising cloud of dust and by the
steam from the struggling creature*
she might have abandoned her efforta
In despair, but for a kindly voles at
“I AH OPP, LUCT," HE SAID.
her elbow which assured her of asslsV
ance. At the sam-- moment a sinewy
brown hand caught the frightened
horse by^the curb, and, forcing a way
through the drove, soon brought her to
the outskirt*
“You're not hurt, I hope, mis*” said
her preserver respectfully.
She looked up at his dark, fierce
face, and laughed saucily. “I'm awful
frightened,” she said naively; “whoever
would have thought that Poncho would
have been so scared by a lot of cows?"
"Thank God yor. keptyonr seat,” the
other said earnestly. He waa a tall,
savage-looking young fellow, mounted
on a powerful roan horse, and clad In
the rough dress of a hunter, with a
long rifle slung over his shoulder* "1
guess you are the daughter of John
Ferrier,” he remarked. "I taw you
ride down from his house. When you
see him, ask him If he remembers the
Jefferson Hopes, of St Lout* If he's
the same Ferrier,* my father and he
were pretty thick."
“Hadn't you better come and ask
yourself?” she asked, demurely.
The young fellow seemed pleased at
the suggestion, and his dark eyas
sparkled with pleasure. ’T'U do so,"
he said; “we've been in the mountains
for two months, and are not over and
above in visiting condition. He must
take us as he finds us."
“He has a good deal to thank you
for, and so have I,” she answered; “he'i
awful fond of me. If thoee cows had
jumped on me he'd have never got
over It”
“Neither would I,” said her com
panion.
"You? Well, I don’t see that It would
make much matter to you, anyhow.
You ain’t even a friend of ours.”
[TO BB CONTINUED.]
CHARLESTON. SUMTER AND
V HORTHKRN RAILROAD
CHARLES E. KIMBALL Receiver
In Effect Jan. 16, 1804
NORTH. SOUTH.
1 2
A.M. F.M.
Lv 7.80 Charleston 8.45 At*
8.40 Pregnali’a 7.27
10.47 Snmter 5.27
12.05 Darlington 4.12
19 56 Bennettsville 8.21
1.90 Gibeon 2.57
1.47 Hamlet 2.80
Ar 6.00 Raleigh 10.15 Lv
P.M F.M.
No. 1 eonnnects with Seaboard
Air Line at Hamlet for Raleigh
Wilmington, Charlotte, Shel
by, Routberfordton ; and at Charlotte
with R. A D. Vestibule Limited for
Washington and New Y’ork. Passen
gers can take sleepers at Charlotte at
8 89 p. m.
No. 2 passengers by this train have
through Sleeper* New York to Char
lotte, connects with 8. A. L. at Ham
let from Charlotte, Raleigh and
North, and from Wilmington, con
nects with 8. C. Ry. at PregnalU for
Charleston, Columbia, Augusta and
the West. Dinner at Hamlet.
C. MILLARD, Superintendent.
C k D. and C. A 8. RAILROADS.
• In effect Dec 8, 1893.
Through Passenger Train.
Leave Wadesboro 4.30 a m
Bennett’s 4.51 a if
Morven’s 5.04 a m
McFarland 5 17 a m
Cheraw 6.00 am
Cash's 6.12 am
Society Hill 6.26 am
Dove's 6.44 c. m
Floyd’s 6.49 a m
Darlington 7.00 a u%
Palmetto 7.11 a m
Arrive Florence 7.25 a m
Leave Florence 7.15 p m
Palmetto 7.28 p m
Darlington 7.88 p m
Floyd’s 7.50 p m
Dove’s 7 55 p m
Society Hill 8 13pm
Cash’s 8.27 p m
Cheraw 8.50 p m
McFarland 8.13 pm
Morven's 9.89 p m
Bennett’s 9.54 p m
Arrive Wadesboro 10.15 p m
Freight Train.
Leave Florence 7.30 a m
Darlington 8.40 a m
Arrive I'heiaw 11.20 a m
Leave Cheraw 1.00 p m
Darlington 4.00 p m
Arrive Florence 5.00 p m
A. F. RAVENEL, President.
N ortheastern railroad.
In effect Jan. 11, 1894.
SOUTH BOUND.
Bucklsn's Arnica Salvs.
The Best Salve in the world
for Cuts, Bruises, Bores. Ulcers,
Salt Rheum, Fever Sores, Tetter,
Chapped Hands Chilblains,
Corns, and all Skin Eruptions,
and positively cures Piles, or no
pay required. It is guaranteed
to give perfect satisfaction, or
money refunded. Price 25 cents
ir box. For sale at Willcox &
’s drugstore.
No. 61
Leave Florence
Klngstree.-.
8.58 a w
I janes
Arrive Charleston
No. 85.
Leave Florence
Lanes
Arrive Charleston
No. 23.
Leave Florence
Klngstree
I sines
Arrive Charleston
No. 53.
Leave Lanes -
7.05 p m
Arrive Charleston
8.45 p m
|Are
lYou
— m
■ ■
| out of employment, or in s
: a position that you do not:
s like ? Possibly the solic-;
siting of Life Insurance isf
£ your special forte. Many £
speople have, after trial,*
sheen surprised at theirs
• fitness for it To all such {
£ it has proved a most con- £
; genial and profitable occu- •
£ pat ion. The Managements
:of the \ J
| Equitable Life j
£ in the Department of the £
• Carolinas, desires to adds
£ to Its force, some agents f
• of character and ability.]
£ Write for information.
£ W. J. Roddey,
| Rock Hill, 5. C.
XT A RTS VILLK RAILROAD.
’ CL In effect Dec 8,1898.
DAILY MIX CD TRAIN
Leave Hartsvillv' G.00 a m
Jovann ..6.80 a m
Floyd’* - ..... ASS a m
ArriveDarllngton....a — 7.90 a m
Leave Darlington....^ 6.80 p m
Floyd’s..... 8.00 p m
Jovann i 8.2'.' p m
Arrrive Hartaville 8.40 p R>
Train on O. A D. R. R. connect* at
Florence with No. 61 Train.
NORTH BOUND.
No. 78.
Leave Charleston 3.85 a m
Lanes 5.30 a m
Kingatree 5 52 a m
Arrive Florence 7.10 a m
No. 60
Leave Charleston 5.00 p m
Lanes 7.05 p m
Kingatree 7.25 p m
Arrive Florence 8.50 p m
No. 14.
Leave Charleston 8.80 p m
Lanes 5.29 p m
Klngstree 5.45 p m
Arrive Florence 6.45 p m
No. 52.
Leave Charleston 7.00 a m
Arrive Lane* 8.35 a m
No. 59 runs through to Columbia
via Central R. R. of S. C.
No. 78 runs solid to Wilming
ton, N. C., making close connection
with W. A W. R. R. for ail points
North.
Train No. 14 rnns via Wilson
and Fayetteville—Short Line—and
makes close connection for all points
North.
J. F. DIVINE. Gen. Sopt.
w
ILMINGTON, COLUMBIA A
AUGUSTA RALROAD.
In effect Dec. 3, 1898.
SOUTH BOUND.
No. 55.
Leave Wilmington. 8.20 p m
Marion 611 p m
Arrive Florence 6 50 p m
No. 60.
Leave Florence 7.10 pm
Snmter 8.28 p m
Arrive Columbia 10.00 p m
No. 58.
Leave Florence...-. 7.45 a m
Arrive Snmter 9 20 a m
No. 52.
Leave Snmter 9.53 am
Arrive Colombia 11.05 am
No. 59 runs throngh from Charles
ton vin Central Railroad; leaving
Lanes 8-40 a m. Manning 9 18 a m.
NORTH ROUND.
Leavs Columbia ......
Snmter -
Arrive Florence
Leave Florence ...
Marion
Arrive Wilmington
Leave Colombia..
Arrive Snmter
Leave Colombia .
Bomter
Arrive Florence—
No. 51.
. 4.30a i
.. 5-57 a i
. 7.16 a i
No. 60.
.. 7.40 a i
... 8.23 a i
...11.10 a ]
No. 53.
. 4.20 p:
. 5.85 p i
No. 59.
. 5.45 p in
. 6.55 p m
Ji F. DIVIDE, Gso. I
No. 88 runs thiougu w> weariest on
via central Railroad, arriving Man
ning A18 p m Lanes 7.00 p m,
charleston8.45 pas.
Trains on Manchester and Augusta
B. R-, leave Snmter dally except Son-
day, 10.50 a. m., arrive Rimini 11:59 a.
m. Returning leave Rimini 1.00 p.
m.. arrive Snmter 9:10 p. m.
Trains on Wilmington, Chadbonrm
and Conway Railroad leave Chad-
bourn at 10.10 a m, arrive at Conway
12.80 p m, returning leave Conway at
9:00 p. m., arrive Chadbonrn 4:50p.
m. Leave Chadbonrn 7.00 a m and
5.18 pm, arrive at Hnb7 45atu and
A60 p m. Returning leave Hub S 15 a
m and A80 p m, arrive at Chad ixui > ■
A00 a m ana 7.18 p u. Daily extipi
* u, $S*f,arna«.«|A’i Bapt.
Z2ET
-1