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THE MISSOURI OUTLAWS

by

GUSTAVE AIMARD

Author of "Prairie Flower," "Indian Scout," etc., etc.

Translated by Percy B. St. John







London
John And Robert Maxwell
Milton House, Shoe Lane, Fleet Street
and
35, St. Bride Street, Ludgate Circus.
1877




NOTICE.

Gustave Aimard was the adopted son of one of the most powerful Indian
tribes, with whom he lived for more than fifteen years in the heart of
the prairies, sharing their dangers and their combats, and accompanying
them everywhere, rifle in one hand and tomahawk in the other. In turn
squatter, hunter, trapper, warrior, and miner, Gustave Aimard has
traversed America from the highest peaks of the Cordilleras to the
ocean shores, living from hand to mouth, happy for the day, careless
of the morrow. Hence it is that Gustave Aimard only describes his
own life. The Indians of whom he speaks he has known--the manners he
depicts are his own.




PREFACE


Very few of the soul-stirring narratives written by GUSTAVE AIMARD
are equal in freshness and vigour to "The Missouri Outlaws," hitherto
unpublished in this country. The characters of the Squatter, the real,
restless, unconquerable American, who is always going ahead, and of
his wife and daughter, are admirably depicted, while his eccentric
brother is a perfect gem of description. The great interest, however,
of the narrative is centred in Tom Mitchell, the mysterious outlaw,
whose fortunes excite the readers' imagination to the utmost. There
can be no doubt he is one of the most original characters depicted by
the versatile pen of the great French novelist. In addition to being
a story of adventure, "The Missouri Outlaws" is also a love tale, and
abounds in tender pathos, the interest of which is well sustained in
"The Prairie Flower" and in its sequel, "The Indian Scout."

PERCY B. ST. JOHN.

London: _February, 1877._




CONTENTS


       I. THE GOOD SHIP PATRIOT
      II. SAMUEL DICKSON GIVES ADVICE TO HIS BROTHER
     III. A QUEER CUSTOMER
      IV. AN ALLIANCE OFFENSIVE AND DEFENSIVE
       V. A GREAT MEDICINE COUNCIL
      VI. SAMUEL DICKSON HUNTS A MOOSE DEER
     VII. JOSHUA DICKSON BECOMES MASTER OF THE VALLEY
    VIII. DIANA DICKSON AND HER FOE
      IX. THEY MAKE AN ACQUAINTANCE
       X. WHO THE STRANGER WAS
      XI. EXPLANATIONS
     XII. HOW THE THREE TRAVELLERS WENT TO GEORGE CLINTON'S
    XIII. TOM MITCHELL
     XIV. SAMUEL AND JOSHUA
      XV. NEW CHARACTERS
     XVI. TOM MITCHELL AS REDRESSER OF WRONGS
    XVII. A DIPLOMATIC CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO RASCALS
   XVIII. THE PRISONER
     XIX. IN WHICH TOM MITCHELL DISCOVERS THAT HONESTY
          IS A GOOD SPECULATION
      XX. A STRANGE CHASE
     XXI. CAPTAIN TOM MITCHELL, THE AVENGER
    XXII. A DESPERATE STRUGGLE



THE MISSOURI OUTLAWS




CHAPTER I.

THE GOOD SHIP PATRIOT.


On the 4th of August, 1801, a little after eight o'clock at night, just
as the last rays of the setting sun disappeared behind the heights
of Dorchester, gilding as they did so the summits of certain islands
scattered at the entrance to Boston Bay, some idlers of both sexes,
collected on Beacon Hill, at the foot of the lighthouse, saw a large
vessel making for the harbour.

At first it seemed as if the ship would be compelled to desist from her
design, as the wind was slightly contrary; but, by a series of skilful
manoeuvres, it at last passed by the danger which threatened, the sails
were one by one taken in and furled, and finally the anchor was cast
beside one of the many vessels in port.

A few minutes later nothing was to be seen on deck save one man walking
up and down doing duty as watch for the time being.

The vessel had, under cover of a dense fog, escaped from Brest, slipped
past the English cruisers, and finally, after many dangers, reached its
destination.

Descending into the cabin, we find two men seated at a table upon which
were glasses, bottles, pipes, and tobacco, conversing and smoking.

These were Captain Pierre Durand, a young man, with regular but rather
effeminate features, and yet a look of frank honesty, to which his
sparkling eyes, his broad forehead, his long waving hair, gave an
appearance of singular energy. Though every inch a sailor, there was a
refinement about him not generally found in his class.

His companion was a handsome and haughty young man, of about
two-and-twenty, of moderate height, but with very broad shoulders; he
was evidently of powerful make, with nerves of steel. His complexion
was olive; his hair long wavy black; his eyes were large and bold; the
expression of his countenance sombre and thoughtful, while at this
early age many a wrinkle caused by thought or suffering was to be
observed.

There had evidently been a warm discussion, for the captain was walking
up and down, a frown upon his brow. Suddenly, however, he reseated
himself and held out his hand across the table.

"I was wrong. Do not be vexed," he said.

"I am not angry, my good Pierre," he answered.

"Then why sulk with your friend?"

"I do not sulk, heaven knows; I am simply sad. You have reopened a
wound I thought forever closed," the other added with a sigh.

"Well, then, in heaven's name, if it be so," cried the captain, "let us
talk about something else--and above all, let us drink. This old rum is
a sovereign remedy for the blues. Your health, my friend."

Both drank after touching glasses, and then silence again ensued.

"Now, my dear Oliver," resumed the captain, "at last we are safe in
Boston. We leave tomorrow. What do you intend to do?"

"You remember our conversation at Brest?"

"I have not forgotten it, but I never seriously entertained the idea.
We had dined rather copiously."

"We were very sober. There were two bottles on the table, one empty
and the other nearly full. I then told you that though I had only just
returned to France after an absence of ten years, I was compelled to
leave at a moment's notice, and to leave without raising any suspicion.
I wanted to depart without anyone being able to obtain the slightest
clue; you remember," he added.

"I do, and I told you that I would run the blockade that very night, if
the weather turned out as bad as I expected. Did I keep my promise?"

"With all the loyalty of your honest heart. I also told you I intended
remaining in America."

"It is to that madcap resolution I object," said the captain
emphatically. "Why not stay with me? You are an excellent sailor--you
shall be my chief officer."

"No, my friend. I can accept nothing which can ever tempt me to return
to France," he answered.

"How you suffer!" sighed his friend.

"Horribly. Come, my friend, as we shall part for ever tomorrow, I will
tell you my history."

"Not if it makes you suffer."

"I will be brief. Sad as my story is, it is not very long."

"Go on," replied Captain Durand, filling up two more glasses of rum,
and lighting a fresh cigar for himself.

"I will not sermonise, but begin at the beginning. I was born in Paris,
but might be English, German, or even Russian, for all I know. I am
simply aware that my birthplace was Paris, in the house of a doctor,
where my mother took refuge. It was in the Rue St. Honore I first
saw the light but, as soon as I could be removed, was sent to the
Foundling. There I remained four years, until a loving young couple,
who had lost their only child, adopted me. They were poor, and lived on
the third floor of a wretched old house, in the Rue Plumet, where, I
must own, I had enough, but of very coarse, food."

"One day, however, fortune knocked at the door. My adopted mother was,
and still is, one of the handsomest women in Paris. By accident an old
friend, a distant relation, a man of high position, found her out. He
at once procured a lucrative appointment for my supposed parent, and
we moved to a splendid residence in the Faubourg du Roule. The friend,
who lived close by, at once began to visit us every evening, and, by a
curious coincidence, the husband always found business which required
his absence. He never returned until a quarter of an hour after the
other had left."

"Accommodating husband," sneered Durand.

"Just so. But, unfortunately for me, I became older, curious, was
always turning up when not wanted, and saying things which were not
required. It was decided that I was an incorrigible scamp, and must be
sent away."

"My adopted mother had relations at Dunkirk, and I was packed off to
them to be sent to sea as cabin boy. Then only did I discover that
these people were not my parents. My supposed mother coldly kissed me,
told me to be a good boy and gave me ten sous; my father, who escorted
me to the ramshackle vehicle which traded between Paris and Calais,
told me to remember this, that society never having done anything for
me, I was to do nothing for society; the only virtues to which men ever
owed success were, he said, selfishness and ingratitude. He further
added, 'Good-bye, we shall never meet again.'"

"He turned his back and left me. This was my first young sorrow, and I
felt it very much."

"I feel for you," said the captain; "your story is very much like my
own."

"These people, knowing me then to be very delicate, hoped that the
hardy profession they had selected for me would kill me. They were
mistaken."

"As I see," answered Durand.

"I was first boy on board a herring boat, where I had to endure the
brutality and insolence of a low drunkard, who never spoke except with
an oath from his mouth, accompanying it with a blow from his cane. My
apprenticeship was one long terror. Sometimes a whaler, sometimes a cod
fisher, sometimes a slaver. I have been five or six times round the
world; abandoned on the wildest coast of America, I was a long time
prisoner; shipwrecked on an island in the Pacific, I wonder I did not
die of misery and despair."

"Poor Oliver!"

"But bad as was my life, I everywhere in savage lands found some
friend; but in France, from which I was ignominiously expelled eleven
years ago, I found on my return two implacable foes--Calumny and
Hatred. I was a very sharp boy, and trusted wholly to strangers.
I could not help hearing many things I should not have heard. I
discovered the secret of my birth, who were my father and mother,
their exact names, and their position in society. One day, in a moment
of frenzy--and you know I am extremely violent--I was foolish enough
to let out the fact that I knew all. From that day a vow was made to
accomplish my ruin; the most calumnious reports pursued me; I was
accused behind my back and in the dark of the most horrible crimes. It
is to me still a wonder how I have escaped all the ambushes laid for
me. My foes hesitated at nothing. They tried to assassinate me. Is it
not horrible? Well, having failed in the ordinary way, they bribed the
captain of a ship I had joined to maroon me on the coast of New Mexico,
where dwell the most ferocious Indian tribes."

"And the captain did this?"

"Pardieu!" cried Oliver; "He was a poor man, and the father of a
family. I was cast on shore stupefied by laudanum. When I recovered the
ship was already out of sight. I expected to be killed by the savages
or to die of hunger. How neither happened is too long a story to tell
now. But the end of all is, I have determined on an eternal exile.
Never again will I place myself in the power of my foes, who live rich,
happy, and respected in France."

"You will establish yourself in Boston?"

"No! I have done with civilised life; I shall now try that of the
desert. It is my intention to bury myself in the wilds until I find
an Indian tribe that will welcome me. I will ask them to receive me
as a warrior. I thoroughly understand the manners and customs of the
aborigines, and shall easily make friends."

"I believe," observed the captain, "that you are right in this
particular. You are young, brave, and intelligent; therefore you will
succeed even in this mad project. But mark my word, you may live five,
perhaps ten years with the Indians; but at last you will weary of this
existence--what will you do then?"

"Who knows? Experience will have ripened my reason, perhaps killed my
grief, even deadened the hatred which burns within my heart. I may even
learn to forgive those who have made me suffer. That in itself is a
sort of vengeance."

"But you will never come to that," said his friend.

The young man rose without making any reply, and went on deck.

Next day, as soon as the usual formalities had been gone through, the
captain landed in his boat with his young friend. Both were silent
before the sailors. Very soon they were threading their way along the
crowded quays. Boston was by no means the really magnificent town which
now excite universal admiration, but it was already a very busy and
important commercial emporium.

The Americans, with their restless activity, had hastened to clear away
all signs of the War of Independence; the town had grown quite young
again, and assumed that gay and lively physiognomy which belongs to
great commercial centres, where almost everybody can find the means of
living.

As soon as they were alone the captain spoke.

"When, my friend, do you propose to start?" he said.

"Tonight, two hours before the setting of the sun. I burn with a fierce
desire to breathe the air of the great savannahs, to feel free from the
trammels of civilisation," he answered.

"Well, my friend, I must leave you now, but promise to wait breakfast
for me, and to do nothing until you have seen me again," insisted the
captain.

"I was about to ask you to join me. Where shall we breakfast?"

The captain indicated a hotel at no great distance, after which he
hurried away to wait on the consignees.

"What on earth can Pierre mean," muttered Oliver to himself, "by my
doing nothing until we meet again? Probably he will try once more to
change my resolution. He ought to know that once I make up my mind I
never falter. He is a good fellow, the only man who has ever been my
sincere and devoted friend--the only being in the world I am sorry to
part from."

Musing thus Oliver strolled about, looking listlessly at the streets,
the shops, and particularly selecting those which, by-and-by, he would
have to visit for the purpose of his outfit, which he would have to
purchase after breakfast.

An hour later the two men met in front of the hotel. Both were exact to
a minute. They ordered breakfast in a private room. As soon as they had
finished the captain opened the ball.

"Now let us chat," he said.

"With the greatest of pleasure," replied Oliver. "Nothing is more
agreeable after a meal than to enjoy a cigar, a cup of coffee, and a
friend's company."

"And yet you have determined to deprive yourself of these luxuries
forever," replied Durand.

"Man is ever insatiable. The unknown always did and always will attract
him. He will ever quit the substance for the shadow. The fable is
right. But let us talk of something else. Serious conversation after
eating is folly," observed Oliver.

"You are quite right--some more rum in your coffee? It is an excellent
thing. What do you think I have been doing since I saw you?"

"It is impossible for me to guess," cried Oliver.

The captain rose, went to the window, and gave a short whistle. After
this, he returned to his seat, Oliver staring at him while he sipped
his coffee.

Five minutes elapsed, and then in came several men, carrying various
packets, which they placed on a side table, and went out without
speaking.

"What does it mean?" cried Oliver, in comic astonishment.

"Then something can rouse you?" cried Durand, smiling.

"No, only I wondered."

"Never mind. You still intend going off tonight?" asked the captain.

"Certainly," said Oliver rising; "that reminds me--"

"One moment. We are old friends, and there should be no secrets between
us," urged Durand.

"There shall be none," answered Oliver.

"Have you much money?" asked Durand.

"Do you want to lend me any?" cried Oliver.

"No matter if I did. But still I want an answer," urged Durand.

"I have eleven thousand francs in gold sewn in my belt, and in a bag
fastened round my neck diamonds worth a hundred and twenty thousand
more. Besides this I have about eighty guineas in English money for
immediate expenses. Are you satisfied?"

"