The Hunted Outlaw | Page 7

life here. But even license fatigues; the new
becomes the old; and where there is no standard there is but feeble
achievement. I became a cowboy because that phase of life offered at a
moment when employment was a necessity. I remained at it because I
could make money. But I never meant this should be permanent. The
wild life became dull to me, and I soon longed for the quiet scenes
from which I had been so glad to escape. I learned to shoot and ride,
and picked up a few things which may be useful to me here. And now,
father, let us discuss your affairs."
CHAPTER XI.
"THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE."
It was Saturday night in the village of Lake Megantic. The work of the
week is done. There is a brief respite from labor which, severe and
unremitting, dulls the mind and chokes the fountains of geniality and
wit. The young men,--indeed, there was a sprinkling of grey hairs,
too,--had gathered in the one hotel the village boasts of. There was a
group in the little room off the bar, and another group in the bar-room
itself. It was well for the host that the palates of his guests had not been
corrupted by the "mixed drinks" of the cities. He steadily dispensed one
article,--that was whiskey. It was quite superfluous to ask your
neighbor what he would take. The whiskey was going round, and the
lads were a little flushed. At the head of the room off the bar a piper
was skirling with great energy, while in the centre of the room a
strapping young fellow was keeping time to the music.
The piper paused, and drew a long breath. The dancer resumed his seat.
"I say, boys," said one of the party, "have you seen Donald Morrison
since he came home?"
Oh, yes, they had all seen him.
"What do you think of him?" the first speaker asked.

"Well," said a second speaker, "I think he is greatly changed. He's too
free with his pistols. He seems to have taken to the habits of the West. I
don't think we want them in Megantic."
"I saw him riding down the road to-day," said a third speaker, "and he
was using the cowboy stirrups and saddle. Talking of his pistols, he's
the most surprising shot I ever saw. I saw him the other day in the
village snuffing a candle, and cutting a fine cord at twenty paces."
"He'd be an ugly customer in a row," remarked a fourth speaker.
"No doubt," said the first young fellow, "but Donald never was a
disorderly fellow, and I think his pistol shooting and defiant air are a bit
of harmless bravado."
The previous speaker appeared to be a bit of a pessimist. "I only hope,"
he said, significantly, as it seemed, "that nothing will come of this
carrying arms, and riding up and down the country like a page of
Fenimore Cooper."
"By the way," interposed the first speaker, "did you hear that Donald
and his father had a dispute about the money which Donald advanced
when he was away, and that legal proceedings are threatened?"
No, none of the party had heard about it, but the pessimist remarked: "I
hope there won't be any trouble. Donald, I think, is a man with decent
instincts, but passion could carry him to great lengths. Once aroused, he
might prove a dangerous enemy."
The young man said these words earnestly enough, no doubt. He had
no idea he was uttering a prophecy.
How surprised we are sometimes to find that our commonplaces have
been verified by fate, with all the added emphasis of tragedy!
CHAPTER XII.
MODEST, SIMPLE, SWEET.

Minnie is in her new home in Springfield.
Springfield is a village set at the base of a series of hills, which it is an
article of faith to call mountains. They are not on the map, but that
matters little. We ought to be thankful that the dullness of the
guide-book makers and topographists has still left us here and there
serene bits of nature.
Springfield had a church, and a school, and a post office, and a tavern.
It was a scattered sort of place, and a week of it would have proved the
death of a city lady, accustomed to life only as it glows with color, or
sparkles with the champagne of passion. Minnie had never seen a city.
She was content that her days should be spent close to the calm heart of
nature. She felt the parting with old friends at Lake Megantic keenly.
She murmured "farewell" to the woods in accents choked with tears.
All the associations of childhood, and the more vivid and precious
associations of her early womanhood, crowded upon her