FATE or THE AUSTINS.
BY GWENDOLEN OVERTON.
“Whose place is this?” I inquired of
a. man who was digging a ditch near the
water trough. ‘
He stopped his work, and looked up
and pushed‘ his sombrero on the back of
his head, giving a sigh and passing his
hand across his brow. “It is the Circle-
A ranch. It belongs to Everette Austin.
Can I be of service to'you ?”
“E-eh—well, uyes; at least the boss
can. I’ve lamed my horse, and gs I’m
a. small matter of 50 'milcs from my
destination, I can’t walk it in this
weather.”
“It is rather warm,” he assented. .
“Slightly. Is Mr. Austin in, or any-
where around ?”
“He’s not in, but he’s around. I’m'
Mr. Austin."
"011! indeed. Well, I am Mr. Brant——
William R. Brant—Mr. Austin, and I
must ask you if you can let me put
up my horse until its foot is rested, or
until I find some way of getting to
Miles City?”
Mr. Austin stepped forward, lifted
the. ragged sombrero, and put out his
grimy hand.
Mr. Brant. I am sorry I can’t call a.
man to take your mount, but if you will
turn him. over to me,‘ I’ll stable him and
attend to his foot, and you can go up to
the house and ask Mrs. Austin to make
you comfortable. The men are all off
on the range.” ..
“I’ll go with you,” I answered, and
. we set off to the barns.
They were beautifully kept, as few
but Englishmen keep their stables, and
I was glad that my weary steed should
be so well installed. I saw in amomeut
that my host was accustomed to being
his own veterinary surgeon. It puz~
zlcd me to reconcile the fact of his man-
ual labor and ragged working clothes
with his large possessions, his perfectly
appointed stable, and his yet more per
feet language, so unmistakably British,
for I was new to Montana and its peo~
ple; though not a tendcrfoot, by many
years of Arizona experience.
The doctoring of my horse finished,
Austin led the way to his house—a. long,
low, unpainted board structure, set up
a foot or so from the ground on posts.
There was a wretched attempt at a bed
05 flowers near the door, but the sun and
wind gave it small chance of success.
A few stunted petunias, a straggling
line of mignonette, and several bushes
of saplcss-red and pink geraniums were
all that rewarded evident patient care.
My host was not communicative, nor
did he expect me to be so. I started to
give him a reference, but he cut me off
by changing the subject. In a moment
more we had gone up the. steps and stood
on the porch, which boasted of neither
roof nor railing. Austin handed me a
feather duster, and we brushed the
white dust from our boots. Then we
went in. ‘ '
“Sit down and I will announce: you to
Mrs. Austin,” he said, with no apparent
perception of the incongruity of the
language and his attire. It was atid y
little drawing-room—sis I did my host
the honor of calling it all through my
visit—with somefwell chosen colored
prints from English papers on the rough
board wall, clean white curtains, a few
cane chairs, and a box covered with
cretonne, which served as a divan.
There. were no new books or papers, but
the old and much-used ones were of the
best. There‘was a pot of “wandering
Jew” in the huge fireplace, which made
a very pretty effect.
I was just looking at my trave1~
stained countenance in a small mirror,
when a door opened, and Austin, hold-
ing it back, stood aside to admit his
wife. '
“We are very glad to see you, Mr.
Brant,” she said, with the mostdelight~
ful of well-bred English accents. “Mr.
Austin told me of your accident. I am
sorry for the horse, of course, and'for
you if you had need to make hastc,,but
for ourselves it cannot be looked upon
as a misfortune.”
“Your husband has treated the poor
animal so skillfully that I fancy I may
promise not to encroachupon your hos-
. pitaiity very long.”
“Please put aside th’e idea that you are
not. or may not be, welcome. “’9. are
most happy to have you.”
“Now, Brant,” said my entertainer,
“Mrs. Austin will give you your room.
We cannot do much for you, but there is
p'hsity of water, both hot and cold, and
that will not be amiss, as I'know by ex-
perience, after a midsummer ride in
this country. I will see you at tea.”
He went back to his digging, and Mrs.
Austin conducted me to my room. The
ceiling and floor were of solid boards,
like the rest of the. house, but the par-
titions were of white mania, and every
'sound in the place was perfectly audi-
ble. However, it was clean and dark-
encd and cool. and there wcrero flies,
which I look as the crowning,r blessing
of Providence. I sat upon the chinlz-
covered potato-box, which served for my
chair, and gazed at myself in the mirror
again, and wondered, profanely, what
the woman must think of me. I sighed
for my calling suit, which was safe in .
,Miles City, and considered my surround-
ings; my hostess, in chief. In‘ absolute ’
regularity of features, she was not a
beauty; but she had the fine gray eyes,
finer brown, soft hair, strong chin, sen-
sitive mouth, and dignified carriage of
the best examples of the women of her
nation, and, above all, an air of grave
sweetness which is peculiarly and dis-
tinctively English. are.
My toilet made, I went back to the
drawing—room and read “Pelham” until
—at'five o’clock—tea was served—tea
as only the English serve it, with slices
of bread and butter, asthin as cloth,
and rich cream, and good tea, none of
the bitter, nerve-shattering, green con-
coction which is dignified by that name
in the average Ameri‘éan. house. -I found
out afterward that this Was the one
meal of the day where there was any ap-
proach to luxury.
Austin came in, after having washed
his hands and brushed, his smooth Brit- ,
“I’m happy to meet you,
'WE
ish head. With the exception of acoat
slipped over his flannel working shirt,
he wore the same clothes in which he
had been digging. So we sat there—we
three—and talked of the doings in the
outer world in quite the same strain as
we would have talked in London. My
host in his boots and work-suit, and my
quecnly hostess in her calico. gown,
might have been seated in a lordly man~
sion.
After a time a bell rang. “The dress-
ing bell,” said Mrs. Austin; “we dine at
half-after six, and it is now six o’clock.”
I retired to dress, asimple operation,
which consisted of running my fingers
. through my hair and retying my neck-
tie. However, I dcvotedas much time
as possible to this, and together with
sitting on the potato box and medi-
tating I su‘cceeded. in consuming 2!)
minutes before I returned to the draw-
ing-room. Mrs. Austin was already
there, looking even sweeter and more
girlish, in an ‘ancient but fr sh white
muslin and white ribbons. Mr. Austin
joined us at the end of five minutes,
fully attired in evening clothes, with a
spray of mignonette in his button—hole.
A great, gruff fellow in a dirty apron
announced dinner in the surliest of
tones. I saw Mrs. Austin wince, and a
frown passed across her - husband’s
brow. “Brant,” he said, “I regret to
say that you will have to eat at the same
table as the ranch hands do. We tried,
long ago, to have a. separate dining
room, but it made too much ill-feeling
among the men.”
‘ That was the one apology he made
during my stay. We sat at an oil-cloth
covered board, on long, wooden benches,
Mrs. Austin at the head, her husband on
her left, and I on the right, as I had
offered her my arm in entering the
dining-room. our dinner was of the
poorest, both as to food and cooking,
and there was no profusion. I realized
now the full poverty of my entertain-
ers, and remembered having heard that
the price of horses was steadily decreas-
ing. I fancied, too, that Mrs. Austin
did not dare to have dainties for herself
and her husband while the democratic
American citizens at her board fared on
plain things. There was an unpleasant
constraint about the meal. I could see.
that there was no love wasted on the
master, and that his dress—suit and aris-
tocratic bearing was a source of annoy-
ance of his free-born employes. They
were sullen and gruff, as was the man
dignified by the name of cook. On
the whole, I was glad to leave the table.
and get back to the drawing-room.
“We breakfast at half-after six, Mr.
Brant,” my hostess informed me
graciously, holding out her hand to say
good-night. It was a rather large hand,
and work-hardened, but firm and beau-
tifully shaped.
I have said that every sound in the
house could be heard, because of the
manta partitions. I had just lain down
on my cot, when I caught the voice of
Austin. “Really, Alexandria, the men
are getting almost unmanageable.
They border on mutiny.”
“I know it, Everett-e. It makes me.
very nervous, too. I’m so afraid they
will do you some harm.”
“Oh, I fancy not.”
“Everette!” 1'
"Well ‘3"
“Suppose you stop wearing your even—
ing-suit. and that we give up our tea
in the afternoon. They think we are
putting on airs, as they call it.”
"No. I will not. I am not going to
change the habits of thirl y years and
throw over all memories of. home.”
"You are only one to twenty, dear.
It might be wiser.”
But the woman’s counsel went un-
hecded. .
There were boutonniercs at our
places at breakfast, and Austin, fresh
from his 111b, in an old but rally cor-
duroy suit, tried, with much cheerful
loud talking, to cover the evident sul—
lcnness of .his “hands.” After break-
fast he donned his working clothes,
and went back to the digging of ditches.
My horse was better, so I left at ten
o'clock, with considerable. reluctance.
Mrs. Austin was so charming. No won-
der Austin was desperate] y in love with
her.
I sent Mrs. Austin a box of new books
and some. small trinkets, such as a man
believes that a woman likes, when I
reached town. Two days after they had
gone, I met a friend who had come to
the city that morning.
“By the bye, Brant, wasn’t that a
ghostly thing about those Britishers
at the Circle-A ranch?”
“\Vho, the Austins?” I cried, turn-
ing cold with foreboding.
“ch. You’ve heard about it, then?”
“N o. For Heaven’s sake, what is.
it ?”
“Well, the way I heard it was this:
Their men on the ranch didn’t like
them, accused them of being ‘bloody
:ristocrats,’ I believe, and they set fire
to the grass near the stables two or
three nights ago. You know it's been
a dry year, and the grass burned well.
Austin and his wife tried to fight the
flames, and keep them from the stables,
all done; no men to be found until it
was quite over. They kept the barns
safe, all right, but Mrs. Austin—pretty
woman, they say—was so burned that
she died in perfect agony at the end
of an hour. The men had turned up
by that time. Bedn down at Central
City at a. dance, they said. Austin
nearly went crazy while his wife was
suffering; but after she died, he went
outside, drew his gun, and shot the
foreman and another of the ~--—--— ras-
cals.” -
“Thank Heaven!”
“Wait—that’s not all. The one’s he
didn’t kill, it seems. said it was cold-
blooded murder—I believe they were
all half-drunk. Anyway, they held him
and dressed him up in his evening-suit
——-thcy had a special grudge against it—
and then they took him out and strung
him up to the rafters of the barn.
t is supposed that there were about
15 men, but, of ecurse, they can’t be.
found; you know how it is. Did you
say you knew these Austins ?”
“Yes. I knew them,” I answered—-
San Francisco Argonaut. .
The Story Of . _
' .Purltana.
Prof. Dixi Crosby, M. D., LL. D.,
who for thirty-two years was at the
head of Dartmouth Medical College,
belonged to the famous Crosby family
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family in America. Hisfather was
Dr. Asa Crosby, of Dartmouth, who
procured the charter of the State
medical society, of which he was for
L thirty years a. conspicuous member;
one brother, Dr. Josiah Crosby, in-
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The Hawaii F111:w Insurance Cl
Has now Completed ts
32d SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS YEAR,
f And has not. outstanding a dollar of unoai
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Trees
A VALUABLE CLAIM.
BY WILL LISENBEE.
Buck Simmons walked behind the
huge prairie-breaking plow, watching,
with evident satisfaction, the ohoco- .
late-colored ribbons of earth which the
plow was turning over. The two yokes
of oxen that drew the plow were show-
ing no inclination to hurry through
life, Which disposition was in perfect
harmony with Buck’s own feelings on
the subject. He did not believe in phys-
ical precipitation in connection with
common labor. To be in a hurry seemed
to him to be a species of folly that was
totally inexcusable.
On reaching the end nearest the cabin
he brought the team to a halt, and, al-
lowing thc cattle to graze on the lux-
uriant grass, seated himself on the
beam of the plow and lightedhis pipe.
“There ain’t much better land than
this in these parts,” he mused, “an’ as
fer watermelons, it can’t be beat this
side uv the Rockies.”
A covered wagon, drawn by a pair of
shabby sorrel mules, came to a halt in
the road close by, and a bushy-bearded
man got out.
“My name’s Billings—Zeke Billings,”
he said, as he came up to the spot where
Buck was seated. “I’m looking for a
claim to buy. Can you direct me to
where I can find a good one which I
could purchase at a reasonable figure?”
“Ye couldn’t ’a’ struck it better if
Buck, removing his pipe from his mouth
and blowing a. cloud of smoke from his
bearded lips.
“That’s fortunate,” responded the
stranger. “Then I_ may infer that you
can give me the desired information?”
“Ye’ve sed it.”
“Thank you.
near here?” ,
“ ’Bout six inches from where ye’re
standing.”
“Ah, I see. Your own claim is for
sale?”
“It can be bought.”
“How much land is in your claim?
A full quarter section?”
“Ye’ve sed it.”
“Is the land good?”
“Think I’d be a-plowin’ pore. land?
What do ye talus me fer? Must think
[’m powerful fond uv work!”
“No offense, I assure you,” replied
3illings. “What advantages does your
:laim possess besides that mentioned ?”
“ ’Tain’t more 'an four miles ter wa-
er.”
“Why. do you call four miles from
vater close?” ’
“Ye would if ye’d hauled it 26 miles
er one season.”
“But. I wouldn’t live in such acoun-
ry as that. A man wouldn’t get any-
hing but water-hauling done.”
“Thar warn’t anything else ter do
ihar.”
“Didn't you raise any crops ?”
“Nary crop.” '
“What made you stay in such a. coun-
try?”
“Couldn’t git away.”
“What. made you go there ?”
' “Ter git a claim.”
“Why, what on earth could you want
with a claim in a place like that?”
V “A man‘s got for meck a livin’.”
“Make a living? Ilow did you expect
to make a living in adcsert where noth-
ing would grow?"
“Sell my claim.”
“How did you happen to find abuy-
er ?” ~
“It allus rained oncct a year; then
we hus’led ter sell out ’fore the ground
dried. That was our bizy time.”
“that do you suppose a man would
Is the land in question
' think 'of you for selling him such a
claim?”
“I never stayed ter see.” .
“I suppose not. What did the man
that bought your claim do when he
found out what kind of a place he had
got into?” ‘
“Lived thar till the next rain.”
“\Vhat then ?”
“He sold out ter another feller. The
West is a great edicator. A feller can‘t
stay hyar long an’ be. a tenderfoot. Yc’ll
say so ’forc ye’re hyar a year. Now,
this yere cl aim uv mine—”
“To be sure—ave were talking about
your claim. I can see that’the land is
very good, and I suppose water could
be got by sinking a well. I like the lay
of this piece of land, and if your price
is reasonable, I might strike a bargain
with you.” , '
“Ye’ve sed it.” .
“What would you call a fair price for
your claim?”
“”Bout er thousan’ dollars.”
“A thousand dollars! Why, man, I
can get as good a claim as can be found
in the county for $200. Remember you
can give no deed, but only quit your
claim.”
“I likewise knows all that; but this
yere ain’t no common claim. Say $500 ?"
“No. Two fifty is the most I can
give.”
“Then the claim’s yourn.”
“Very well. I will come back in a
few days and have the papers fixed
up.”
_ “That seems fair-like; but I puts it
like this: Yze’re a stranger ter me, an’
inebby ye comes back, an‘ mebby ye
don’t. If I holds this yere claim for
ye, ye pays me now $25 in hand, the
rest ter be paid in three days, when
ye gits the claim.”
The stranger took out a book, and,
writing the desired documents, gave
them to Buck to sign, while he count-
ed out the required sum of money.
When the amount had been paid and
the papers signed, Billings said:
“That fixes the matter all right. I
will come back in three days and ”pay
the. rest of the money and take pos-
session Of the claim.” ‘
He was about to retrace his steps
,to his wagon when Buck stopped him
with a wave of his hand.
“As I war jist sayin’,” he said, “this
yere is no common claim; but thar aire
féllers that would try. ter meek out
like this—they wouldn’t have the claim
as a gift.”
’J. Beavan. Pres: G. B. ST. .iornv.
l GEo.Il Cowrns. Sec v.
j .
“Why, what do they say is the matter
s
ye’d ’a’ searched fer a week,” replied'
with it?" asked Billings, growing in-
terested. ‘ .
“’Tain’t- hardly worth repeatin’,”
went on Buck, in a careless tone. -“I‘
puts it that it is jealousy uv thein, sele- ‘
in’ I’ve got the best claim in the seri-
tlement. If you seed one uv them fel-
lers it’s likely he’d say that thar can’t '
be no water got on this yere claim.
He’d say that the well-borer war hyar
an’ bored about 000 feet an’ got no wa-
ter. That- would .be a lie, ’cause he only
bored 400 feet, but I’ll allus believe
he’d ’a’ got water if he’d ’a’ bored deep
enough, Then some object ter the
claim ’cause they says I’ve settled on
a school section, which-ain’t open for
settlement, an’ that I’ll haf ter git 0133
soon as a school board is organized.
But how the Sam Hill do they know
who the, school board’s goin’ ter be,
an’ how can they tell what they’re
goin’ for do ’fore they’re elected?
Some people does meek me have that
tired feelin’!” . “’2
“Why, if that is the case,” broke in
Billings, “I don’t know as—"
“I ain’t. through yit," put in Buck.
“Let me tell ye all the enemy skunks
aire doin’ ter ruin the repertashun uv
this yere claim. Some puts it that it
is too close ter the line uv the Injun
territory, an’ that the road agents an’
robbers would kill a. teller 91f as fast
as he could come hyar, an’ that sich
vishus invirunments would . be the
sp’ilin’ uv the society uv the neigh-
borhood; but thar hain’t been but two
men killed on this yere claim since I
come here, which is full six months
ago, an’ them war both strangers who
war campin’ in the road h yar, an’ never
a—standin’ g’ard none. \Vhatever else
could sich chumps expect?”
“That is horrible!” said Billings,
with a shiver. “As I were going to say,
in that case—”
“I ain’t through yit,” continued Buck.
“I’s an honest man, an’ b’lieves in tell-
in’ the whole story which them slan‘
derers aire so fond uv exaggeratin’.
Some puts it that the snaiks on this
yere claim is its greatest drawback,
an’ ter hear ’em talk ye’d think that
a fellcr couldn’t stay hyar 15 minnets
without bcin’ swallered by them; but
wait till I tells ye the true facts. Now.
these yere snaiks aire perty had, ’less
ye know how ter take ’em. A fellcr
must wear high boots an’ keep his eyes
peeled. Then I wears er bus'kskin suit
under my other clothes, which has saved
my life more ’an once. Now, thar was"
luggy Jones, who lived over thar on
the next claim. He comes over ter see
me one day, ’lowin he ain't afeared
of no snaik livin’. He warn’t the man
ter‘ listen ter no reason; he comes
a-wearin’ of them 10w dude 'gaiters,
an’ the first thing he knows he’s bit
with one uv them snaiks. lVell, he
slobbcrs ’round a. little, takes a fit, try-
in’ tcr kill everybody, then curls up an‘
dies deadcr ’an Moses. ’Twarn’t my
fault, se-cin’ as how he had been warned;
but some folks will be fools. Uv course,
accidents will sometimes happen, even
with the most kcerful. Thar’s my wife,
Mandy, now. You couldn’t find, a
keerfuler woman ’an her, but it all
happened like this: One night one uv
them dad blamed snaiks gits an’ hides
itself in the bed, an’ the first thing
we knows Mandy is bit. It warn’t hcr
fault, for who’d think uv wearin’ snaik
pcrtcctcrs in the bed? life“, she pumps
a gallun uv my best whisky down her
throat, an’ it kinder ncwtcralizes that
yere pizen, so instead uv dyin’ she only
has some fits. Mandy ain’t no slouch
in a skirmosh, an’ when them fits comes
on ye’d be safe in ’lowin’ that I had
my hands full. She git-s the corn-knife,
’lowin’ that everybody is after her, an’
out she goes, slashin’ at everything,
dangerus like. It’s about daylight by
this time, an’ she meets Sol Miller, who
is out carly lookin’ for his mules. She
mecks for him, an’ ’fore he gits on ter
what she’s drivin’ at, she has sliced Off
one ov his years, an’ he only ’scapcs by
bein’ one 0v the best runners in thr-
settlement. She next slashes the head
uv my best dog off, an’ after she had
sliced the tail off‘onc uv my bosses, I
finally ropes her. She gets quiet like
after awhile, but them fits will come
back on her—”
“That is enough,” interrupted the
stranger. “I wouldn’t live on this claim
for all the land in the county. Give me .
back my money, and we will call the
trade off.”
“No, we don’t,” replied Buck. “I reck-
on the contract don’t say nothin’ about
givin’ the money back. If ye want the
claim, pay the rest an’ it‘s you; 1:. hut
if not, the \25 is mine. That’s the ct..-
tract.” ‘
He was interrupted by a shriek which
issued from the cabin, and the next mo-
ment the figure of a woman emerged
from the door and camerunning wildly
across the prairie, flourishing a corn
knife about her head. ’
“Blame my cats, that’s Mandy havin’
one uv them fits!” cried Buck. “Look
out fer yerself an’ team, stranger, while
I runs fer a rope!”
But‘ Billings, did not wait to listen.
With one bound -he was in his wagon,.
and a moment later had lashed the
mules into a gallop and was disappear-
ing down the trail in a cloud of dust.
-Buck darted around the cabin, the
woman in hot pursuit, and this was
kept up tillthe stranger was well out
of sight. Then the two went into the
house. '
“I reckon he’s gone for good,” said
Mandy, laying the corn knife on the
table.
“Ye’ve sed it. That snaik story fixed
him._ It allus does.”
“How much did you get out of this
bargain?” asked the wife.
“Twenty-five. That’s the fourth this
week. A hundred a week ain’t so bad.
I reckon I’ll knock off work for the
day.”
And he sat down and began to ex-
amine the money he had received, as-
sUring himself that it was genuine.
“I’ll tell ye, Mandy,” he said, “a? fel-
ler can’t be too kecrful indealing with
them eastern sharpers. They are a in:
up ter some swin’lin tricks ter beat
honest peOple."—N. Y. Ledger.
Norwalk Chronicler