The administration of justice, and the peace and safety of the people, demanded the banishment of both these men, though many of worse character and more criminal nature but of less influence were permitted to remain.
CHAPTER XLI
THE STRANGER’S STORY
Late in the Fall of 1872, I spent a few days in Salt Lake City. One evening at the Townsend House, while conversing with Governor Woods and a few friends upon the events which had led to the organization of the Montana Vigilantes, I mentioned the name of Boone Helm.
“Boone Helm! I knew him well,” was the abrupt exclamation of a stranger seated near, who had been quietly listening to our conversation. We were no less attracted by the singular appearance of the speaker, than the suddenness of the remark. Tall, slender, ungainly, awkward in manner, he yet possessed a pleasing, intellectual countenance, and a certain magnetism, which begat an instantaneous desire in all to hear his history.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said he, drawing his chair nearer our circle, “for obtruding myself, but the mere utterance of the name of Boone Helm brings to memory the most thrilling episode of my life’s history.”
Assuring him that no apology was necessary, and that the recital of adventures was the order of the evening, we all united in the request that he should favor us with his narration.
“It’s quite a long story,” he resumed, lighting his meerschaum, “and you may tire of it before I close. Our individual experiences seldom interest listeners, but the subject of your conversation at this time affords a good place to slip in this single feature of a life not entirely void of adventure; and I hope it will not detract from the entertainment of the evening. Truth obliges me to be the hero of my own tale.”
Drawing his chair into the centre of our circle, he began:
“I went to Oregon a mere boy, and grew to manhood there. My early education was neglected for want of opportunity, there being no schools in the country. I mention this to account for a fact which will become apparent hereafter. Our neighbors, in the dialect of the country, thought me a little ‘luny,’ and predicted for me an unhappy future. I certainly was eccentric, and when I recall many acts of my early life, I do not blame them for harshness of judgment.
“As I approached manhood, no text of the sacred volume exercised me more than that which declares it is not good for man to be alone. I set to work to make preparations for domestic life. I entered a quarter section of land, built a house, ploughed fields, planted an orchard, cultivated a garden, which I laid out with walks, adorning them with the choicest shrubs and flowers. My grounds and dwelling were as neat and comfortable as the resources of a new country would permit. I stocked my farm with horses, cattle, sheep, and chickens—in brief, I lacked none of the essentials to a happy farm life.