Julian Mortimer

On the banks of the Missouri River, about fifty miles below St. Joseph, was a small clearing, in which stood a dilapidated cabin inhabited by the family of John Bowles. It was a gloomy-looking place, and that was not to be wondered at, for Jack, as he was familiarly called, was not the man to waste any of his time or money in beautifying his home. Both were much too precious for that. His time was spent in hunting and trapping, and his money – what little he earned – was devoted to the purchase of bad whisky, of which he was exceedingly fond. He was a tall, heavy, broad-shouldered man, and looked the very impersonation of laziness. His two boys, Jake and Tom, were chips of the old block, and his wife was a sharp-featured, ill-tempered woman of wonderful strength and daring, and it was said that in a fair rough-and-tumble fight – for things came to that sometimes in the cabin of Mr. Bowles – she was more than a match for her redoubtable husband.

The neighboring settlers had but little to do with Jack. They remarked that his family went clothed in rags from one year’s end to another; that they were sometimes destitute of even the common necessities of life; and that Jack hunted early and late and spent every cent he made at the grocery at “The Corners.” But one stormy night a stranger was seen to ride rapidly away from the cabin, and from that hour things seemed to take a turn for the better with Jack Bowles. He and his family appeared in brand new suits of clothing; the boys sported silver-mounted rifles in place of the rusty single-barreled shot-guns in which they had before taken so much delight; a neighbor, who knew something of the use of carpenters’ tools, was employed to patch up the cabin, and Jack gave up hunting and spent his days and nights in lounging about the grocery, drinking whisky and showing large rolls of bills and handfuls of gold and silver. The settlers noticed, too, that the cabin had an inmate whom they had never seen before – a slender, fair-haired boy about eight years of age, who seemed to be altogether out of his element there. And they told one another also that Jack and his wife had reasons for wishing to keep him out of sight as much as possible, for whenever any one passed the clearing the boy would be summoned into the house by the shrill voice of Mrs. Bowles, and the door closed upon him.

From this they naturally concluded that the boy and the money Jack spent so freely were in some way connected; and, when hard pressed, Jack acknowledged that such was the fact. He said that the boy’s name was Julian Mortimer; that he had been brought to the cabin by a stranger who wished to leave him there for a month or two while he went on a business tour to New Orleans; and that he had paid a few weeks’ board for him in advance. There was one thing, however, that Jack did not see fit to disclose, and that was that the stranger had cautioned him to keep strict watch over the boy, and under no circumstances to allow him far out of his sight. For awhile the settlers wondered greatly at this story; but it soon ceased to be the topic of conversation, and finally even the circumstance of the stranger’s visit was forgotten.

Weeks grew into months, and months into years, and Julian Mortimer was still an inmate of Jack Bowles’ cabin, which he had learned to call home. The money that had been paid for his board had long ago been squandered at The Corners, and Jack had been obliged to overhaul his long-neglected implements of the chase, and resume his old occupation of hunting and trapping.

The cabin was in a worse condition now than it was before it was repaired. It was built of rough, unhewn logs, and contained but one room. It had no floor – the ground, which had been trampled upon until it was as hard as a rock, answering that purpose. The only furniture it could boast of were two miserable beds, and a three-legged pine table that had been pushed against the wall to enable it to retain its upright position. As for chairs, there were none; the places of these useful articles being supplied with boxes and empty nail-kegs. There were no windows in the cabin, all the light and air being admitted through the door, which was allowed to stand open during the coldest days in winter.

A ladder on one side of the room led to the loft where Julian slept. It was the most uncomfortable part of the house, for some of the boards at the gable-end had fallen off, the shingles on the roof were loose, and during a storm the rain and sleet rattled down on his hard pillow. There was nothing inviting about Julian’s bed, for it was simply a pile of husks, with a large gunny sack, a tattered blanket, and one or two ragged coats spread over it. But he always went to that bed aching in every muscle after his hard day’s work, and slept as soundly there, in spite of the cold wind and rattling shingles, as if it had been a couch of down.

One end of the cabin was occupied by an immense fire-place, with a stick chimney, which leaned away from the building as if about to topple over. A fire was burning brightly on the hearth one cold afternoon in March, and before it stood Mrs. Bowles, watching some venison steaks that were broiling on the coals, and smoking a short cob pipe, which was held firmly between her teeth. She was angry – that was plain enough to be seen – and, indeed, it would have been difficult to find her in any other mood. She thought she had good reasons for showing her temper occasionally, for “that Julian,” as she called the household drudge, was the plague of her life. More than half an hour ago she had sent him out after firewood, and although she had called him three times, and promised to dust his jacket for him the moment he came within reach of her arm – a threat that never failed to quicken the pace of her sons – he had not yet returned. She watched the broiling steaks for a few minutes, listening the while for the sound of footsteps, and then went to the door, removed the pipe from her mouth, threw back her head and shrieked:

“You, Julian! Have you gone clear to St. Joe arter that firewood?”

This time her shrill tones reached the ears of a young fellow about sixteen years of age, who was at work in the edge of the woods at a short distance from the house. We ought rather to say that he had been at work, and was resting from his labor, leaning on his ax and gazing thoughtfully at the ground when the woman’s sharp voice broke in upon his reverie.

“There it is again,” said he, with a long-drawn sigh, lifting his ax and resuming his work. “It’s Julian! Julian! from morning until night. Julian has to do everything that is done on the farm. I shouldn’t mind the work so much if they would only give me some warm clothes and say a kind word to me now and then; but they won’t do it. Look at that,” he added, pausing, with his ax suspended in the air, and gazing down at his boots, which were so sadly out of repair that they afforded his feet but very little protection from the mud, and none whatever from the sharp, biting air. “This coat is so thin that the wind blows right through it; and as for this hat – well, perhaps it is better than none at all, but not much. These are the only clothes I have in the world, and they are the best I have owned since I came to this place eight years ago. I have money enough to buy others, but I dare not do it, for fear that they will be taken away from me and given to that lazy Jake or Tom. And as for the treatment I receive – why, there isn’t a dog on the place so badly abused. I suppose I shall get another beating now for keeping Mrs. Bowles waiting for this firewood.”

When Julian had finished his soliloquy and his chopping, he threw down his ax, and shouldering one of the heavy back-logs he had cut, made his way slowly toward the house. Mrs. Bowles was too busily engaged with her preparations for supper to think of the rawhide which she had taken from its accustomed nail behind the door and laid upon the table close at her side, and Julian succeeded in transferring his pile of wood from the edge of the clearing to the cabin without attracting her attention. This done, his work for the night was over, and he was at liberty to attend to a little business of his own.

Drawing on a pair of tattered gloves he left the house, and walking briskly past the corn-cribs, struck into the path that led through the woods to The Corners, turning his head now and then to make sure that there was no one observing his movements. Had he taken pains to look closely at one of the corn-cribs as he went past it, he would have discovered two pairs of eyes peering through an opening over the door; and had he glanced behind him when he reached the cover of the woods, he would have seen the door fly open and two figures spring out and run swiftly along the path in pursuit of him.

Julian had set out to visit his traps. Minks, foxes and raccoons were abundant in the woods about the clearing, and he was very expert in taking them. During the last two winters he had earned a sum of money that was quite a respectable fortune in his eyes; and more than that, he had purchased an excellent rifle, a supply of ammunition and a fine young horse, which he intended should some day carry him miles and miles out of the reach of Mrs. Bowles’ rawhide.

The rifle, together with his money and stock of furs, was concealed where no one would ever think of looking for it; but the horse was claimed by Tom Bowles, Jack’s younger son, who took possession of the animal as soon as Julian brought him home. But that was a matter that did not trouble our hero. Of course he was denied the pleasure of riding the horse – for Jake and Tom followed the example set them by their parents, and tyrannized over Julian in every possible way – but he knew where to find him when he wanted him; and when he was ready to undertake the journey he had been planning and thinking about, he intended to take possession of him without consulting Tom Bowles or any one else.

On the day that Julian first brought the horse home he created quite a commotion in the Bowles family. When he told Jack, in the presence of his wife and sons, that the animal was his own private property, and that he had paid $75 in cash for him, the inquiry very naturally arose, where did the money come from? That was a matter that Julian did not care to talk about. If he replied that he had received it for the furs he had trapped, he knew that Jack and his boys would hunt the woods over until they found his dead-falls, and then rob and destroy them.

He declined to enlighten them on this point, and that created on uproar at once. Jack swore lustily; Mrs. Bowles flourished her rawhide; Tom took charge of the horse and led him off to the stable; and Jake threatened to black his eye for him. But Julian, who was not one of the sort who are easily frightened, remained firm, and Jack and his boys were compelled to change their tactics and resort to strategy.

They told one another that they would keep a sharp eye on all Julian’s movements, and follow him wherever he went; and if they did not find out what he did in the woods while he was there, and what it was that took him away from home so regularly every night and morning, they would know the reason why.

But even this plan failed, for Julian was always on the alert and could not be caught napping. His ears, as sharp as an Indian’s, always told him when he was followed. On such occasions he would stroll carelessly about through the woods, as if he had no particular object in view, and finally make his way home again and go to work. Then Tom and Jake would be angrier than ever, and Julian was certain to suffer for his watchfulness.

On this particular evening, however, Julian was not as careful as usual. The plans he had been so long maturing were almost ready to carry into execution, and he was so completely wrapped up in his glorious anticipations concerning the future that he did not hear the light footsteps of Jake and Tom as they dodged through the bushes behind him.

He walked straight to the creek, and from the force of long habit, paused on the bank to look about him. Having satisfied himself that there was no one in sight, he sprung into the bed of the stream, and looking under the overhanging roots of a beech where he had set one of his traps, discovered a large mink caught by one of his hind feet.

A blow on the head with a stick stilled the animal, and after resetting and baiting the trap, Julian picked up his prize, and rejoicing in the thought that the skin of the mink would bring $2 more to be added to his little fortune, hurried on up the creek.

For an hour Julian continued his walk, stopping now and then to bait and set a trap that had been sprung by some animal too cunning to be caught, or to take a fox, mink or raccoon out of another, and finally he stopped at the foot of a precipitous cliff with $13 worth of furs thrown over his shoulder – not a bad afternoon’s work for a trapper of his years.

He now became more cautious than ever in his movements. His first care was to convince himself that there was no one following him; and in order to set his fears on this score at rest, he dropped his game and ran back along the bank of the creek, peering through the trees in every direction, and passing so close to Tom and Jake, who had thrown themselves behind a log to escape discovery, that he could have touched them. But he saw no one, and believing himself to be alone in the woods, he once more shouldered his game and made his way up the cliff until he reached a thicket of bushes that grew near the summit.

Here he paused, and began pulling away the leaves with his hands, presently disclosing to view a small door which had been set into the face of the cliff. The opening of the door revealed what appeared to be the mouth of a cave, extending down into the ground. Julian threw in his foxes and minks one after the other, and then crawled in himself and closed the door after him.

CHAPTER VI

JULIAN MEETS A STRANGER

JULIAN’S first move, after he had shut the door, was to strike a match, and his second to light a candle which he took from a shelf close at hand. As the light blazed up, he held it above his head and took a survey of the cave, or, as he called it, his “store-house.” It was a very small one – not more than six feet square – but it was large enough to contain all Julian’s earthly possessions. All that could be seen was a quantity of furs, some already cured and neatly baled up, and others hanging against the walls stretched upon boards and frames to dry; but there were other valuable articles stowed away there, and as soon as Julian had glanced about the room to see that nothing had been disturbed during his absence, he placed his candle on the floor and proceeded to bring them to light.

The walls, floor and ceiling of the room were composed of small saplings, and two of these saplings concealed treasures that were of more value to Julian than all his furs. One of them was in the floor, and when it had been lifted out of its place by the edge of a hatchet, some of the young trapper’s wealth, which would have made Jake and Tom open their eyes in amazement could they have seen it, was disclosed to view.

It consisted of a silver-mounted rifle, inclosed in a strong canvas bag to protect it from the damp and dirt, a hunting-knife, an ornamented powder-horn and a fawn-skin bullet-pouch, both the latter filled with ammunition.

Julian looked at these articles long and lovingly. He had come by them honestly – they were the first valuables he had ever owned, and he had worked so hard for them! He took the rifle from its case, drew it up to his shoulder and glanced along the clean brown barrel, as if drawing a bead on an imaginary deer’s head, held it in a dozen different positions to allow the light to shine on the silver mountings, and finally returned it, with all the accouterments, to its hiding-place, and went to look after his other treasures. He removed one of the saplings that formed the ceiling, thrust his arm into the opening and drew out a small tin box, which contained money to the amount of $80 – the proceeds of two winters’ work at trapping. Julian ran hastily over the bills to make sure that they were all there, then put back the box, returned the sapling to its place, and drawing his knife from his pocket sat down to remove the skins from the animals he had just captured.

“I’m rich!” he exclaimed, looking about him with a smile of satisfaction. “Counting in my money and what my horse, hunting rig and hunting furs are worth, I have at least $250. I have purchased everything I need, and some fine, frosty morning, when Mrs. Bowles calls for ‘you, Julian,’ to get up and build the fire, he won’t answer. He’ll be miles away, and be making quick tracks for the Rocky Mountains. I only wish I was there now. There’s where I came from when I was brought to Jack Bowles’ house. I just know it was, because I can remember of hearing people talk of going over the mountains to California, and I know, too, that there were gold diggings on my father’s farm, or rancho, I believe he called it. I’m going to try to find my father when I get there, and if I ever see him I shall know him.”

Julian’s thoughts ran on in this channel while he was busy with his knife, and in half an hour the skins had all been stretched, and the young trapper was ready to return to the miserable hovel he called home. He extinguished his candle, crawled out of the cave, and after concealing the door by piling leaves against it, hurried down the bluff and into the woods, happy in the belief that no one was the wiser for what he had done; but no sooner had he disappeared than Jake and Tom Bowles came out of the bushes in which they had been hidden, and clambered up the cliff toward Julian’s store-house.

It was rapidly growing dark, and Julian, anxious to reach the cabin before his absence was discovered, broke into a rapid run, which he never slackened until he reached the road leading from The Corners to the clearing. There he encountered a stranger, who, as he came out of the bushes, accosted him with:

“Hold on a minute, my lad. I believe I am a little out of my reckoning, and perhaps you can set me right.”

Julian stopped and looked at the man. He could not get so much as even a glimpse of his face, for the broad felt hat he wore was pulled down over his forehead, and his heavy muffler was drawn up so high that nothing but his eyes could be seen; but the boy at once put him down as a gentleman, for he was dressed in broadcloth, and wore fine boots and fur gloves. Julian looked at his neat dress, and then at his own tattered garments, and drew his coat about him and folded his arms over it to hide it from the stranger’s gaze.

“Is there a hotel about here?” continued the gentleman, approaching the place where Julian was standing.

“No, sir,” was the reply; “none nearer than The Corners, and that’s ten miles away.”

“Is there no dwelling-house near?”

“There is a shanty about a mile distant belonging to Jack Bowles, but I wouldn’t advise you to go there.”

“Then I am on the right road after all,” said the stranger, with a sigh of relief. “Jack Bowles! He’s just the man I want to see. I have some important business with him. He can accommodate me with a bed and supper, can he not?”

“He can give you some corn bread and venison, but as for a bed, that’s a thing he doesn’t keep in his house. If you happen to have half a dollar in your pocket, however, he will stow you away somewhere. Jack will do almost anything for half a dollar. Why, what’s the matter, sir?”

It was no wonder that Julian asked this question, for the gentleman, who had now advanced quite near to him, took just one glance at his face, and started back as if he had seen some frightful apparition. He pushed his hat back from his forehead, pulled his muffler down from his face, and stared at Julian as if he meant to look him through. The boy was astonished at his behavior, and he would have been still more astonished if he had been able to look far enough into the future to see all that was to grow out of this meeting.

“Boy!” exclaimed the gentleman, in a voice which his agitation rendered almost indistinct, “who are you? What’s your name?”

“Julian Mortimer,” replied our hero.

“Julian! Julian Mortimer!” repeated the man, as if he could scarcely believe his ears. “It cannot be possible. Why, boy, you’re just – ahem! I mean – what a striking resemblance.”

The stranger spoke these last words hurriedly, and then, as if recollecting himself, hastily pulled his hat down over his forehead again, and once more concealed his face with his muffler – all except his eyes, which he kept fastened upon Julian.

“No doubt you think I act very strangely,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “and perhaps I do, but the truth of the matter is, you look so much like a young friend of mine – a relative, in fact – that for a moment I was almost sure you were he. But, of course, you can’t be, for he is dead – been dead eight years. If you are ready we will go on.”

Julian was forced to be contented with this explanation, but he was not quite satisfied with it. It was made in a bungling, hesitating manner, as if the man were thinking about one thing and talking about another. More than that, the excitement he had exhibited on the first meeting with Julian seemed to increase the longer he looked at him; and now and then he rubbed his gloved hands together as if he were meditating upon something that afforded him infinite pleasure. He continued to watch the boy out of the corner of his eye, and finally inquired:

“Is this man Bowles, of whom you spoke, your father?”

“No, sir,” replied Joe, emphatically. “I live with him, but he is no relative of mine. My father, as I remember him, was a different sort of man altogether.”