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    The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories
    The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories
    The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories
    Ebook111 pages1 hour

    The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories

    By W. H. H. (William Henry Harrison) Murray

    ()

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories

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      The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories - W. H. H. (William Henry Harrison) Murray

      Project Gutenberg's The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories, by W. H. H. Murray

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: The Busted Ex-Texan and Other Stories

      Author: W. H. H. Murray

      Release Date: April 5, 2009 [EBook #28502]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BUSTED EX-TEXAN ***

      Produced by David Edwards, Woodie4 and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This

      file was produced from images generously made available

      by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

      Transcriber note:

      A list of contents was not in the original book and has been added.

      THE BUSTED EX-TEXAN AND OTHER STORIES

      BY

      W. H. H. MURRAY

      W.H.H. Murray

      THE

      BUSTED EX-TEXAN

      AND

      OTHER STORIES

      BY

      W. H. H. MURRAY

      AUTHOR OF DAYLIGHT LAND, THE STORY THE KEG TOLD ME,

      ADIRONDACK ADVENTURES, ETC.

      PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAIT AND EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

      BY THOS. WORTH.

      BOSTON

      DE WOLFE, FISKE & CO., PUBLISHERS

      1890

      Copyright 1889 by W. H. H. Murray.

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

      ILLUSTRATIONS.

      THE BUSTED EX-TEXAN.

      were camped amid the foot-hills on the trail which led up to the Kicking Horse Pass. The sun had already passed from sight, beyond the white summits above us, and the shadow of the monstrous mountain range darkened the prairie to the east, to the horizon's rim. Our bivouac was made in a grove of lofty firs, six or eight in number; and a little rivulet, trickling from the upper slopes, fell, with soft, lapsing sound, within a few feet of our camp-fire. We did not even pitch a tent, for the sky was mild, and above us the monstrous trees lifted their protecting canopy of stems. The hammocks were swung for the ladies, and each gentleman preëmpted the claim that suited him best, by depositing his blanket and rifle upon it. The entire party were in the best of spirits, and nature responded to our happiness in its kindest mood. Laughter sounded pleasantly at intervals from the busy groups, each working at some self-appointed industry. The hum of cheerful conversation mingled with the murmurs of the brook; and now and then the snatch of some sweet song would break from tuneful lips, brief, spirited, melodious as a bobolink's, dashing upward from the clover-heads. And before the mighty shadow lying gloomily on the great prairie plain, which stretched eastward for a thousand miles, had grown to darkness, the active, happy workers had given to the bivouac that look of designed orderliness which a trained party always give to any spot they select in which to make a camp or pass a night. An hour before, there was nothing to distinguish that grove of trees, or the ground beneath them, from any other spot or hill within the reach of eye. But now it commanded the landscape; and, had you been trailing over the vast plain, the bright firelight, the group of men and women moving to and fro, the picketed horses, the fluttering bits of color here and there, would have caught your gaze ten miles away; and were you tired or hungry, or even lonesome, you would have naturally turned your horse's head toward that camp as toward a cheerful reception and a home; for wherever is happy human life, to it all lonely life is drawn as by a magnet.

      And this was demonstrated by our experience then and there. For, scarcely had we done with supper,—and by this time the gloom had grown to darkness, and the half-light of evening held the landscape,—when out of the semi-gloom there came a call,—the call of a man hailing a camp. Indeed, we were not sure he had not hailed several times before we heard him; for, to tell the truth, we were a very merry crowd, and as light of heart as if there was not a worry or care in all the world,—at least for us,—and the smallest spark of a joke exploded us like a battery. Indeed, so rollicking was our mood that our laughter was nearly continuous, and it is quite possible that the stranger may have hailed us more than once without our hearing him. And this was the more likely because the man's voice was not of the loudest, nor was it positive in the energy of its appeal.

      Indeed, there was a certain feebleness or timidity in the stranger's hail, as if he was mistrustful that any good fortune could respond to him, and, hence, deprecated the necessity of the resort. But hear him we did at last, and he was greeted with a chorus of voices to Come in! Come in! You're welcome! And partly because we had finished our repast, and partly from courtesy and the natural promptings of gentlefolk to give a visitor courteous greeting, we all arose and received him standing. And, certainly, had the kindly act been unusual with us, not one of our group would have regretted the extra condescension bestowed upon him at his coming, after he had entered the circle of our firelight, and we saw the expression of his features.

      What a mirror the human face is! Looking into it, how we behold the soul, the accidents that have befallen it and the disappointments it has borne! Are not the faces of men as carved tablets on which we read the records of their lives? The face of childhood is smoothly beautiful, like a white page on which neither with ink of red or black has any pen drawn character. But, as the years go on, the pen begins to move and the fatal tracery to grow,—that tracery which means and tells so much. And the face of this man,—this waif, so to speak,—this waif that had come to us from the stretch of the prairie, whose southern line is the

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