A STOLEN COURT-HOUSE.
BY GEORGE MEASON WHICHER.
Father limped across the dirt floor of our sod house, and painfully sat down on the edge of his bunk. "Boys," he said, with a little groan, "I guess you'll have to go after that Durham bull. My rheumatism is so bad I can't stir!"
"To-night?" asked Barney, eagerly, giving his book a shove.
"Who told you where he is?" I asked, hoping for time enough to look up one more word.
"They've sent word from Hermann's that he's been around there ever since that last herd came in from the South. They're going to move on early to-morrow, and I'm afraid we'll never see him if we don't get him to-night. Those drovers don't frighten off cattle that insist on going along."
"Which Hermann's is it?" I asked again. "The ranch south of Alkali?"
"You'd better not be caught calling their town Alkali," interrupted Barney. "They're touchier than ever about it since we got the county-seat away from them last election."
"That's the place," answered father; "and I reckon it doesn't take much of the potash out of their land to quit calling the town Alkali. No more will they get their county-seat back again by calling the place Fairlands."
I thrust my Cæsar under the brush thatch of our house where it joined the sod wall. Barney was rummaging in his bunk and preparing for the trip with unmistakable pleasure. He had not mourned greatly when father's health had compelled us to leave our home in far-off Illinois and settle in western Nebraska. But I had disliked to fall out of my class in the Pana High-school, and now, after working all summer on our claim, I was spending the fall and winter evenings in making up some of the neglected studies, with the secret hope that father would be well enough to spare me the next year.
"You can get Otto to lend you his ponies and go with you," went on father. "Take the lower trail to the ranch, so's not to go through Alkali. They've been feeling pretty ugly toward people from up here anyway since election, and I hear there's been a row about it this week and another of their men killed. And you be careful, Milton, and don't let Barney get into any trouble with the cowboys at the ranch. They're a dare-devil set; I wouldn't let you boys go if I could help it."
We did not hear all of this speech, I am afraid, for Barney was trying to get his revolver into his pocket without attracting father's attention, and I was still struggling with a subjunctive in the speech of Ariovistus. But we were soon ready for our short walk to Otto's claim in the section adjoining ours, and slightly nearer the little town of Garfield. Otto was our nearest neighbor, an honest, hard-working German, who had given us much assistance in the difficult work of settling on our claim, and had now promised father to go with us and recover our precious but troublesome Durham bull.
It must have been ten o'clock when we clattered across the long board bridge over the Platte, and rode on through the short main street in Garfield, the newly chosen capital of Black Ash County. We reached the end of the street and were about to turn west into the wagon-trail leading to Fairlands, or Alkali, as her triumphant rival persisted in calling the town.
"What's that new shanty?" asked Barney, pointing to a small building as we rode past. It could not have been more than twelve feet wide and twenty feet long, but the gable end facing the street was masked by the hideous square front of pioneer architecture, and from the top of the unpainted pine cornice fluttered three or four cheap flags.
"T'at's t'e new court-house," explained Otto, proudly. "T'e sheriff is alreaty yesterday mit his posse to Alkali gone, und pring t'e gounty pooks pack."
"Did he bring back his posse?" asked Barney.
"Mostly," said Otto, with a grin; "some, t'ey ko on weiter."
The county-seat feud was a serious matter to the settlers in the towns concerned, but Otto, like ourselves, could see a ludicrous side to it.
"I'll wager the Alkali gang burn it down," said Barney, as we left the court-house behind us. "They're bound to do something to get even."
Otto did not reply. On we cantered over the long swells of the prairie, the night wind blowing fresh and cold in our faces, while the frost sparkled on the russet and brown grasses along the hard trail. Far off we caught the shimmer of the moonlight on a "blow-out," where the light soil showed at the crumbling edge of a bluff, and nearer at hand, on the lowlands, we could see the straggling line of telegraph poles that marked the line of the railroad.
We had ridden about half of our eight miles when Otto, who was leading, suddenly halted. Before us lay a deep draw, as the dry hollows between the ridges of the prairie are called. At the bottom of the slope, just where the trail to Hermann's ranch joined the main road, stood a group of men and horses. The latter were mostly harnessed to two elongated lumber wagons, while their drivers and one or two horsemen were gathered around a small fire of cattle chips and sage-brush. We could hear their loud talk and laughter as we stood looking down upon them. Suddenly they became silent.
"T'ey see us alreaty," said Otto. "Kome on, poys."
"Whar you'uns goin' this time o' day?" demanded one of the men, as we rode up and saluted them. We recognized the speaker as Arkansaw Joe, a saloon-keeper in Fairlands of no particular reputation. Most of his companions evidently belonged to the same profession, though not so eminent as their leader; but the horsemen, I felt sure, were cowboys from the ranch to which we were going. Otto briefly explained our errand.
"It's only that Dutchman from beyond Garfield and the two tenderfoot kids," spoke another of the group. "I reckon they're all right."
Any foreigner is a Dutchman to a certain class of Americans. Otto had long since grown tired of explaining that he came from Bavaria, and no longer chafed against the classification. We were not so satisfied, but it did not seem wise to argue about it just then.
"You'll have a dandy time with that critter of yourn," remarked one of the ranchmen. "Hermann's picketed him for you, and he's tearin' mad. It'll be a regular circus to see you git him back."
"Wat you t'ink, Milt?" said Otto. "We ko pack for t'e fat'er—nit?"
"I 'low you'uns'll go straight on," interposed Arkansaw, meaningly. "We'uns are usin' this here trail to the east to-night, and it's all needed. 'Sides, the kids 'ud miss the fun with the Durham."
There was no mistaking this hint, and we took the trail for the ranch, Otto evidently worried, and Barney boiling over with indignation.
"Kids!" he exclaimed, scornfully, as we rode up the other side of the draw. "I'd like to show them—"
The rest remained unsaid, for down the trail came a jingling crowd of cowboys, and looking back as they rode past us, we saw them join the group around the fire.
"What on earth are they up to, Otto?" I asked. He shook his head soberly. Mischief was brewing, and we longed to ride back and see what was about to happen, but Otto and I at least recognized the danger of such a plan after the warning we had received.
Our thoughts were effectually diverted from this topic when we reached the ranch. The bull was not an amiable beast on ordinary occasions, and we found him in one of his wildest moods. His bellowings had attracted a score of stray cattle from the outskirts of the ranch, and they were standing beyond the reach of his horns as he strained on his picket rope, and they were pawing the ground, pretending to gore one another, until the bull was wild with rage. It took Otto a long time to get a second rope around his horns, and meanwhile Barney and I, by the vigorous use of our quirts, scattered the mavericks over the prairie. The end of the picket rope was then fastened to my saddle, and we began our struggle toward home. Again and again the bull would lower his horns and make a desperate charge at one of his captors, only to be jerked to his knees by the other. At times he would stand bellowing and snorting until Barney rode up and plied the lash, when he would plunge ahead like a runaway locomotive. Only the nimble-footed, long-suffering broncos could or would have endured the wild work. To increase our trouble the stray cattle kept close behind us. Many times they came so close that Otto and I were compelled to halt and hold the bull, while Barney, with hoarse shouts and language as abusive as he dared use, drove them back.
It was nearly dawn when we halted for this purpose on the edge of the large draw where we had seen the mysterious gathering. As I watched Barney dispersing our troublesome followers, I heard Otto muttering to himself some polysyllabic imprecation on cattle in general and the Durham bull in particular, and then he stopped short with a gasp of surprise. Over the ridge on the other side of the draw there struggled into sight two parallel columns of puffing horses, and then there slowly climbed against the ruddy eastern sky the outlines of a building. Even in that imperfect light we recognized it at the first glance as the court-house deprived of its flags.
"Ach, du liebe Zeit!" gasped Otto. "T'ey shteal t'e gourt-house!"
It had been an easy task to shift it from its flimsy under-pinning to the lumber wagons, and the horses had dragged it with little difficulty over the smooth prairie. When necessary, the cowboys had helped pull by fastening their lariats to the sill, and the party had probably reached the draw with less exertion than we. I heard the sharp clank of the drag-chains as they prepared to descend the slope.
"Where on earth are the Garfielders?" said I, and as I spoke we heard the crack of a revolver from beyond the ridge. The cowboys unfastened their ropes, and hurried back yelling like fiends and firing their six-shooters into the air. Afar off the solitary church bell at Garfield began to jingle wildly.
"Sound the tocsin!" shouted Barney, abandoning his chase and riding back to see the fun. "What ho! Garfield to the rescue!"
But it was only too apparent that the town had been taken by surprise, and had few champions in the field as yet. The shots grew fainter, and in another minute the cowboys came over the ridge laughing and swearing at the top of their voices, and rode down to help the teams up the slope.
"Good-by court-house, if they once get her past the draw!" I exclaimed.
"Geewilikins!" said Barney, "I'd like to give 'm a shot," and he began tugging at his pocket.
"Shtop t'at!" shrieked Otto. "You fool poy, mint t'em shteers!"
But it was too late. Down the trail behind us thundered the cattle. The bull gave a bellow, and started down into the draw. Taken off our guard, Otto and I were dragged helplessly after him, while Barney, giving an Ogallalla war-whoop, fired his revolver as rapidly as he could. The air fairly quivered with Otto's expostulations, addressed now to the bull and now to the "verfluchte kid." On we swept in a mad race, and yielding to a wild impulse, I gave forth my most blood-curdling yells. I saw, rather than heard, the startled oaths of the teamsters. In the next moment their horses were plunging and kicking as they heard the roar of the angry Durham charging down upon them. There was a snapping of harness and a breaking of axles as the teams swerved sharply apart, and the new court-house rolled majestically over on its side with a crash of broken windows. On we dashed, a tangle of horses and men, in the wake of the bull, with a score of crazy cattle bringing up our rear. Before the cowboys could recover from their surprise we were upon them. With a snort of defiance the bull toppled over every horse he could reach, and ploughed his way through the crowd of squealing broncos, dragging us after him. As the horsemen scattered I saw Arkansaw Joe rolling out of a cactus-bed, while his bronco fled in the direction of Alkali.
"Too bad to spoil our circus!" yelled Barney, as he swept past with a grin. We reached the top of the slope, leaving our cattle train to amuse our dismounted adversaries.
"Cut t'at lariat," shouted Otto, "and git home."
We urged our ponies to their topmost speed, for we knew only too well what to expect when the cowboys should have had an opportunity to load their revolvers. Had they not been empty when we made our charge, we should hardly have escaped so easily. Luckily we were well out of range by the time they reached the top of the draw. They galloped after us about a mile, shouting and firing, until they saw us join a group of horsemen who had ridden out from Garfield. Others were hurrying up, and we were soon surrounded by a crowd of indignant citizens. We quickly told what had happened. In a short time the force was thought large enough to proceed to the rescue of the court-house, and in spite of Otto's remonstrance, Barney and I turned back with them. But long before we reached the scene of our adventure a column of smoke told us the fate of the stolen building. There was nothing left to do when we rode up to the blazing pile but to vow vengeance on the thieves, and resolve to keep a better watch hereafter. When we arrived at our home we found that the bull had preceded us, much to father's surprise. While I got breakfast for the family, Barney gleefully related our adventure, and finished by declaring that the bull ought to be immortalized in history together with the geese that saved the Capitol. Father looked grave, and warned us not to go near Alkali. We did not go, except once; but that, as Mr. Kipling says, is another story.
[THE CARE OF A GUN.]
BY H. H. BENSON.
Aside from the pride and satisfaction which every sportsman should take in keeping his favorite weapon bright and free from spots, inside and out, it pays to keep a gun clean. The residue left in the barrel after firing contains acids, which will soon eat "pits" or spots in the metal, and when once started, it is almost impossible to prevent them increasing in size and number. When badly pitted, the recoil is increased by the roughness in the barrel. A gun can be cleaned by the following directions. The cleaning-rod should have at least three tools—a wool swab, a wire scratch-brush, and a wiper to run rags through. Have plenty of water at hand—warm if you have it, if not cold will do nicely. Put the swab on the rod, and some water in a tin basin or wooden pail. By placing one end of the barrel in the water, you can pump it up and down the barrel with the swab. When it is discolored take fresh water, squeeze out the swab in it, and repeat the operation, until the water comes from the barrel as clear as it went in. If the gun has stood overnight, or longer, since using, it is best to put on the scratch-brush after the first swabbing, and a few passes with this will remove any hardened powder or leading. The next step is to fill the wiper with woollen or cotton rags, and dry the barrel thoroughly. When one set becomes wet take another, until they come from the barrel perfectly dry. Then stand the barrel on end on a heated stove, changing it from end to end, taking care that it does not become overheated. By the time it is well warmed up, the hot air from the stove will have dried out every particle of moisture left in the barrel. If no stove is at hand, the last set of drying rags used must be plied vigorously up and down the barrel until it becomes quite warm from the friction. Drying is the most important part of cleaning, and if the least particle of moisture is left in the barrel it will be a rust spot the next time the gun is taken from its case. The gun may now be oiled, inside and out, with sewing-machine oil or gun grease, which can be had in any gun-store. The woollen rags used for greasing soak up a great deal of oil, and should be dropped into the gun cover for future use.
Cartridges can be bought ready loaded, by hand or machinery, but most sportsmen prefer to load their own, for several reasons. They find it much cheaper, and the shells can be loaded to suit each one's individual notion.
In regard to the safe handling of guns, almost all rules centre in that of always carrying the gun in such a way that if it should be accidentally discharged it would do no harm. If this rule is borne in mind, and strictly obeyed in the beginning, it becomes a habit, and is followed intuitively. The gun may be carried safely on either shoulder, or in the hollow of either arm, with a sharp upward slant. When momentarily expecting a bird to rise, and obliged to have the gun cocked, it should be carried across the breast with a sharp upward slope to the left. This is the only way the gun should be carried cocked. A breech-loader is so easily unloaded that there is no excuse for getting into a wagon or boat, or going around a house, without unloading. Never hand a loaded gun to any one who asks to look at it. Whenever you pick up any kind of a gun to examine it, always open it and see if it is loaded, and the habit will grow so that you will do this almost without knowing it. It seems needless to say never pull a gun toward you by the muzzle through a fence or out of a boat or wagon, yet the violation of this rule is the cause of more accidents than anything else. Never climb a fence with your gun cocked.
In learning the art of shooting on the wing—and this is the only way in which a shot-gun should be used—the following suggestions may be of some help, but no amount of printed directions can teach you to shoot. Practice is the best teacher. Nine out of ten young sportsmen shoot too quickly. A game bird rises with a startling whir of the wing (and sometimes when least expected), which gives the idea that he is making much greater speed than he really is. Beginners are apt to become excited, and throw up the gun anywhere in that direction, and blaze away with no definite aim. For this reason it is best to begin with blackbirds, ricebirds, and rails.
In almost every shot it is necessary to hold ahead of the bird, to allow for the time it takes to explode the cartridge and throw the shot to the bird. Even in this short space of time a cross-flying bird would be safely out of the shot circle if you aimed right at him. If a bird flies straight away from you, neither rising nor dropping, you should aim right at it. If flying straight across, you should hold well ahead of it. If quartering, still hold ahead, but less.
Many will ask how far to hold ahead, and this is a difficult question to answer accurately, as we have no means of knowing just how far ahead we do hold. One might say six feet and another six inches. What might appear to be an inch at the muzzle of the gun might really be a foot in front of a bird forty yards away. It must be learned by experience, and when accustomed to it the aim will be taken almost instantly, governed by the direction of flight, the speed of the bird, and the distance from the shooter.
It is best to ask permission of the owner to shoot over his land. You will seldom be refused, and will frequently be given permission to shoot over land which is posted "No Shooting." The land-owners know that it is the lawless hoodlums who do them damage.
Every true sportsman strictly obeys the game laws, and it is to his advantage to do so, although in many States the laws are practically a dead letter. Shooting out of season has nearly killed the game in many localities, when it would still be abundant if the game laws had been observed.
[THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.]
THE KITE MASQUERADE.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
March had come in like a lion, but, contrary to the old prediction, was going out in the same fashion. At least, so thought Dick Atwater as he violently pulled his friend Joe Jacobs's door bell. Only a second or two, and the door opened, when, rapidly passing through, he bounded up two staircases, and in response to a hasty knock, was joyfully welcomed in Joe's den, room, sanctum, or whatever the third-floor front might be denominated.
"Hello, old chap!" was the cheery, familiar greeting. "What's up now? for that some scheme's afloat I know"; and immediately Joe commenced to laugh, though, had any one inquired what at, he could not have told, unless it was the merry twinkle in Dick's eyes—enough to make a judge laugh, much less a rollicking, good-natured boy—the hale-fellow sort—and Dick's boon companion and greatest friend.
So, without further parley, the two boys sat down opposite to each other, one face all expectancy, knowing he was to hear something awfully jolly; the other all animation, for so sure he was that he was about to unfold a really taking scheme.
And this is what Joe heard: "You know April-fool's day will soon be here, and as it's blowing great guns now, I don't imagine that all the wind will die down by that time. So my plan is to give a kite masquerade on the afternoon of that day."
"Fine!" and Joe Jacobs immediately jumped up to get out his new "sky-scraper," as he called it, though it was altogether perfect; kite, tail, string, everything was there, and his friend Dick had seen it possibly fifty times before. But the simple thought of anything novel in the kite line seemed too much for Joe's excitable temperament; besides, he was very proud of this kite; it was brand-new, and none of the fellows, if we will except Dick, knew that he had it.
So Joe, having gotten out his kite, again sat down, and with his treasure in hand, holding it scrutinizingly up, looking at it most attentively—indeed, surveying it backwards, forwards, every sort of a way, even to an occasional unwinding and winding again of the string, and unfastening of the tail—he yet was full of inquiry to discover more. And as for Dick, he talked as excitedly, rapidly, and earnestly as if Joe was as still as the Sphinx. He was not in the very least nervous or ruffled, so entirely does one boy understand another. The scheme was to give the exhibition in the lot in which they played baseball, and, as Dick said, "Wear costumes, with masks, and we'll have lots of fun fooling one another—just the sport for the 1st of April." And then he added, "We'll tell the fellows to-morrow; I'm not afraid but what they'll join us, and they can do as they like about their clothes, but we'll dress each other up, Joe. What do you say to that for a fool trick?" and a quick slap on the shoulder added emphasis to the boy's enthusiasm.
"It's immense, that's what I think, and our kites are boss too. I wonder if they'll suspect who we are?"
"Not if I can help it."
"I say, what will we wear, though, Dick? I don't care how ridiculous I make myself."
"I know you don't; and I've thought you might go as an old soldier. There is your father's cast-off suit—how would that do?"
"But there's some difference in our size."
"Well," laughed his friend, "about a hundred or so pounds. But that will go for nothing when I get hold of the wadding. What fun I'll have stuffing you! Fortunately your height's about right. I say, though, Joe, you'd better wear a mask with a big gray beard, Santa Claus fashion, and that will cover over any wrinkles there might be about the neck. And don't forget the sabre. Go as a sure-enough soldier, or don't go as a soldier at all. And for myself, there is always so much talk about my leanness, gaunt, hungry-looking style, that I shall wear the costume of a real down-East Yankee; and in order to make myself look taller than ever I shall ask my sister to sew several red cloth stripes down my trouser legs, long-tailed coat, and vest."
"You'll be a sight for mortal eye," complimented Joe, laughing so heartily that he lost his balance and rolled off his chair full length onto the new kite, which, however, was not in the least hurt by this fantastic antic.
"I hope I will. I want to be a sight. And say, Joe, where do you suppose I can borrow a tall gray beaver hat and a big"—and he held his hands at arms'-length apart—"red cotton handkerchief?"
"I can get you the bandanna right enough, but the hat's a poser." And Joe screwed up his mouth thoughtfully awhile; then, with a triumphant nod, said: "I've got it. Go to Dr. Worth; he always wears 'em, and keeps 'em, too, for centuries almost. I once saw a whole stock of them on the top shelf in his store-room. He'll let us have one all right enough, I'll wager."
"That's good, and I'll get the dudest style of false face too, for I mean to be a dandy; and our fun—well, it will beat a house afire."
After a little more laughter, comment, and explanation, the boys began to talk about a game that Joe had learned the year before while in Germany, and that both the boys thought would be a good thing to follow the masquerade.
"What did you say it was called?"
"Schlaglaufen."
"My jaw is broken," and Dick rapidly raised his left hand, laying it with a piteous cry across his lower jaw.
At this action Joe gave him a sharp look; and then came the words. "You needn't be so gay," and again the boys laughed merrily, Joe afterwards adding, "Well, another name for the game, and a much more pronounceable one, is 'Running for the Cap,' because a post is fixed in the ground, and on it a cap is placed and run for. The boys must be equally divided; one set is called catchers, the other runners, and these sets must stand fifty yards apart. The catchers' position is thirty yards from the post, and the runners' twenty. The call, one, two, three, is given, and on the second three is spoken one boy from each party runs to the post. The runner will naturally get there first, and he has to put the cap on his head, and then replace it. He must do this with the utmost rapidity, as, should the catcher overtake him on his way back to the position which he held before starting to run, the boy becomes the catcher's prisoner, and can no longer play."
The rest of the time Dick spent in Joe's room was given to marble-playing. Both boys were experts, and it was oftener than otherwise a tie game rather than that either boy could honestly be counted as being ahead of the other. Indeed, so evenly they played, it was a great delight to play without other boys being in the game, and, therefore, whenever there was opportunity, they, so to speak, challenged each other. Joe's floor was carpeted in a square pattern measuring six inches each way. Having selected a convenient square, an agate was placed in each of three angles, counting the nearest one ten, the middle twenty, and the other thirty. Two marbles were then rolled from the fourth angle, the inside marble being on the angle, the other immediately back of it, the object being to hit each agate with both marbles. For this five shots were allowed. When done the numbers were counted and the agates replaced for the next player. This amusement was succeeded by the three following games:
The Bagatelle-board Count Game.—Chalk a floor or mark a space in exact copy of a bagatelle board ten feet long by three wide. In the enclosure, at correct distances, mark the numbers; this may be done with chalk, or the numbers may be painted on thin wooden blocks and laid in position. Each player must start his marble at the extreme left-hand corner, and state before starting the number he wishes to roll to. Should the marble go to that number, and not roll on so as to touch another, the player counts the number selected, and can then state another number and play for that, and can so continue for seven minutes, provided his marble always hits the number selected, and though rolling on, does not touch or stop at any other. When his time is up his count is scored, and the next player follows, subject to the same rules. Should the marble stop on the number selected, it is counted double in favor of the player. Again, should the marble, having reached the selected number, still roll on and touch another, no count is allowed, and the player must stop until his turn comes again.
Five-arch Discount Game.—A strip of wood two inches thick, five inches wide, and one yard long will be required. In this cut five arches, making the centre one four inches in width, the others three inches each; stand it up on the floor or on a table, and make the starting-point six feet away. Four marbles may be rolled by each player. When a marble goes through the centre arch it counts sixty, but if, instead, it goes through either of the small arches, thirty is counted off. If a marble fails to pass through either, it is counted out of the game, and must be removed. The next turn around the player will use only three instead of four marbles. The boy who has the highest tally has won; should there be a tie they must roll again.
This game requires practice, or some players will find that they have lost more than they have made.
Circle Game.—Make a target of brown wrapping-paper, and put the number 100 on the bull's eye. Outside of this mark five rings, making the largest one two feet in diameter, the others proportionately smaller. Inside of these rings put the numbers 10, 20, 30, 40, 50, the centre as stated, being 100. Mark out a space on the ground for a base five feet away; place the target on the ground, blindfold a player, lead him to the base, turn him around twice, and leave him facing the target. He is now entitled to roll three marbles, and then remove the blindfold. His count will be the added numbers in the rings at which his marbles have stopped. Should any of them stop on a line, he is entitled to the largest number adjoining. No marbles must be moved, and each boy has the privilege of trying the ground once with each marble, before being blindfolded.
At the Zoological Garden Railway Station, in Berlin, a restaurant has been opened where rolls of bread and various kinds of eatables, etc., are dispensed automatically. On depositing in the slots ten-pfennig pieces or fifty-pfennig pieces—according to the kind of refreshment required—the apparatus delivers either rolls of bread or glasses filled with drinkables—cups of coffee, tea, cocoa, etc. The bread rolls are of different kinds, each kind being in a separate glass machine. In front of them is a marble counter, and before each machine is a plate. When a ten-pfennig piece is dropped into the slot the plate sinks below the surface of the counter, and a roll of bread glides into it. The restaurant has lately been thronged with customers. On one single Sunday 20,000 glasses and cups were paid for and emptied by the public, and 8000 penny rolls were demanded, and for the most part eaten.