Far Past the Frontier

by James A. Braden

“He had got started home, he tol’ me, after the fightin’ was over, an’ I don’t know but he might a’ been pretty near there—I don’t just remember—but anyhow, who should he meet up with one day in a tavern, but a cousin o’ his who looked so much like him they would ’a passed for twins anywhere. This here cousin’s name was Ichabod Nesbit, an’ the first thing he did when he saw Art was to shake hands with him like they was at a funeral an’ say as how he had some awful bad news to tell him. An’ then he went on to tell him as how his mother had died months before, an’ his ol’ pap was livin’ on an’ cursin’ the Colonies with pretty nigh every breath—an’ cursin’ his own son. This Nesbit feller told Art, too, as how the ol’ man had run through all his property an’ was livin’ alone an’ actin’ like a crazy man.

“Waal, Art was for goin’ back to see the ol’ man anyhow, to see if he couldn’t do somethin’ to straighten him up some; but this cousin, Ichabod, tol’ him as how he hadn’t better do it, sayin’ as how if he could come home an’ bring a fortune, folks would say it was all right; but if he was comin’ home with only the clothes on his back, why, he had better stay away; because he couldn’t do nothin’ with his father anyhow. An’ somehow this is jist the way Art was brought to look at it, an’ it upset him terrible. For of course the soldiers didn’t have no pocket full o’ money an’ it was pretty true, likewise, as how he didn’t have much more’n the clothes on his back, jist as Ichabod said. Pretty blue, an’ a’ most sick from all his plans o’ goin’ home bein’ spoiled, Art turned back right thar and led a rovin’ life for years. He was quick an’ sharp, an’ picked up a livin’, but that was ’bout all for he couldn’t settle down no place.

“All this an’ a lot more ’bout what he had been doin’, Art tol’ me there in Philadelphia, an’ I was for gettin’ him to go back west with me. But no, he wouldn’t; an’ me bein’ no hand to make out around the towns, I jist went back to the frontier an’ beyond. I was in Kaintucky an’ in this northwest kentry clean to Detroit. I got to know Simon Kenton, the Injun fighter, an’ I made some big huntin’ an’ fightin’ trips with him an’ other fellers.

“An’ so time run along till this last summer a year ago, I takes it into my head one day to go east agin; an’ when I had my mind made up there was no stoppin’ me. I didn’t go to Philadelphia right off, but to New York. I wanted to see the big piles o’ furs that come in thar.

“Now it turned out that one day in New York who should I meet up with but Joel Downs who was with us—Art an’ me—in the army. We was talkin’ away thar, when he asked me did I know what had ever become o’ Art Bridges? An’ it turned out that he went on to tell me then all ’bout how Art’s father was dead, an’ his mother left alone, workin’ hard to manage the farm, though they was well off, because she wanted Art to have a nice place when he come home. For she wouldn’t believe the stories that was told around (by Ichabod Nesbit, I’ve been thinkin’) that Art was dead. So she was waitin’ an’ waitin’ for Art to come an’ never knowin’ how the poor boy had been lied to by his ’ornery cousin, an’ thinkin’ he’d come some day.

“Waal, ye kin jist guess how I felt when I heard all this! For I saw through it quicker’n wink that that ’ornery Ichabod was tryin’ to make folks think Art was dead, an’ schemin’ to get hold of the property that would be Art’s if he ever come home alive. But I never says a word ’bout this to Joel Downs. Not much! I wasn’t goin’ to have him goin’ back to Connecticut tellin’ folks as how Art was leadin’ a wild life an’ goin’ to the dogs.

“No, sir; I jist begun huntin’ for Art Bridges. I went to Philadelphia first, an’ got some track on him, findin’ out as how he had gone off to Kaintucky—lookin’ for me, I guess. I went off to Kaintucky too, jist as fast as I could. I got some track on him again, as how he had gone back to Philadelphia, We must ’a passed on the road somewheres. Back to Philadelphia I went again, an’ found out as how Art had gone west to Duquesne—Fort Pitt, or Pittsburgh they call it now. So I started for Fort Pitt, an’ on the way I met up with you young kittens on your way into this red devils’ own kentry.

“An’ I come on into this kentry because I found out at Fort Pitt that Art had gone on west intendin’ to make his way to Detroit, huntin’ an’ trappin’ an’ tradin’. He expected to go on to Detroit next spring an’ get a place with a big fur company in charge o’ some tradin’ post or other, away off somewheres, he didn’t keer where—he was jist that sick of the kind o’ life he was leadin’, an’ wanted to get ’way off from everybody.

“But that ain’t all! There was a man thar as said Ichabod Nesbit had been seen ’round thar, an’ he was lookin’ for Art Bridges, too. An’ I know that that ’ornery cousin was lookin’ for Art to murder him. I felt it in my bones. He wanted to be sure Art was dead an’ then he would go back an ’pass himself off as Art Bridges an’ have the property anyhow. Then when I heard as how Ichabod had passed himself off as Art in one place, I was sure I was right. But he didn’t need to do no murder ’nless it was him as hired the bloody varmints to do it for him,” and the hunter’s voice grew husky, “for that—that thar scalp—it was Art Bridges’—an’ oh, if I had been jist a day sooner! For the blood on it was hardly more’n dry!”

Tom Fish sunk his face in his hands and a convulsive half-sob, half-sigh shook his body from head to foot, as though with ague.