The Hunted Outlaw | Page 5

one of the cowboys was Donald
Morrison. He had adopted the free life of the Western prairies. He had
learned to ride with the grace and shoot with the deadly skill of an
Indian.
'Twas a rough life, and he knew it. He mixed but little with the "Boys,"
but the latter respected him for his manly qualities. He was utterly
without fear. Courage is better than gold on the plains of Montana. He
took to the life, partly because it was wild and adventurous, partly
because he found that he could save money at it. The image of Minnie
never grew dim in his heart, and he looked forward to a modest little
home in his native village, graced and sweetened by the presence of a
true woman.
On this night he had yielded to the persuasion of a few of the boys, and

went with them to "Shorty's" saloon for a game of "keerds."
"Shorty" had a pretty daughter, who was as much out of place amid her
coarse surroundings as violets in a coal mine.
She was quite honest, and she served her father's customers with
modesty. Kitty--that was her name--secretly admired the handsome
Donald, who had always treated her with respect upon the infrequent
occasions of his visits.
On this night, while the party were at cards, "Wild Dick" Minton
entered. He was a desperado, and it was said that he had killed at least
two men in his time.
"Wild Dick" swaggered in, roughly greeted the party, called for drink,
and sat down in front of a small table close to the card players.
Kitty served him with the drink.
"Well, Kitty," he said with coarse gallantry, "looking sort o' purty
to-night, eh? Say, gimme a kiss, won't yer?"
Kitty blushed crimson with anger, but said nothing.
"Wild Dick" got up and took her chin in his hand.
"How dare you?" she said, stamping her foot with indignation.
"My! how hoighty-toighty we are! Well, if yer won't give a feller a kiss,
I must take it," and Dick put his arm round her waist, and drew her
towards him.
At that moment Donald, who had been watching his behaviour with
increasing disgust and anger, leaped up, caught him by the throat with
his left hand, and exclaimed: "Let her go, you scoundrel, or I'll thrash
the life out of you."
Without a word Dick whipped out his shooter from his hip pocket;
Donald's companions leaped from the table, concluding at once there

was going to be blood, while "Old Shorty" ducked behind the counter
in terror.
Kitty stood rooted to the spot, expecting to see her defender fall at her
feet with a bullet through his brain or heart.
Donald, the moment that Dick pulled out the pistol, grasped the arm
that held it as with a vice with his right hand, and, letting go his hold,
of his throat, with his left he wrenched the weapon from him.
Then he dealt him a straight blow in the face that felled him like an ox.
Dick rose to his feet with murder in his eyes.
With a cry of rage he rushed upon Donald. The latter had learned to
box as well as shoot. He was quite calm, though very pale. He waited
for the attack, and then, judging his opportunity, let out his left with
terrific force. The blow struck Dick behind the ear, and he fell to the
ground with a heavy thud.
He rose to his feet, muttered something about his time coming, and
slunk out.
Donald's victory over "Wild Dick," who was regarded as a bully, was
hailed in the exclamations which head this chapter.
Donald never provoked a quarrel, but, once engaged, he generally came
out victorious.
His prowess soon became bruited abroad, and he had the goodwill of
all the wild fellows of that wild region.
CHAPTER VIII.
HARD TIMES AT HOME.
Life is hard in the Megantic district. A very small portion of the land is
susceptible of cultivation. The crops are meagre, and when the family is

provided for, there is very little left to sell off the farm. Money is scarce.
There is very little to be made in lumber.
When Donald went away there was a debt against his farm. He sent
from time to time what he could spare to wipe it off. But the times were
bad. Donald's father got deeper into debt. The outlook was not
encouraging.
"I wish Donald would come home," the old man frequently muttered. "I
wish he would," his mother would say, and then she would cry softly to
herself.
Poverty is always unlovely.
Too often it is crime!
CHAPTER IX.
"Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with
miser care."
"DEAREST DONALD,--I received your kind letter. That