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[Illustration: The Figure Springs into the Air--See page 129.]




[Illustration: THE BOYS OWN BOOKSHELF]

OUR HOME IN THE SILVER WEST

A Story of Struggle and Adventure

BY

GORDON STABLES, C.M., M.D., R.N.

AUTHOR OF 'THE CRUISE OF THE SNOWBIRD,' 'WILD ADVENTURES ROUND THE POLE,'
ETC., ETC.

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, Paternoster Row; 65, St. Paul's Churchyard and 164 Piccadilly




Richard Clay and Sons, Limited,
London and Bungay.




CONTENTS.

CHAPTER                                           PAGE
     I.  The Highland Feud.                         11
    II.  Our Boyhood's Life.                        23
   III.  A Terrible Ride.                           30
    IV.  The Ring and the Book.                     44
     V.  A New Home in the West.                    54
    VI.  The Promised Land at Last.                 64
   VII.  On Shore at Rio.                           77
  VIII.  Moncrieff Relates His Experiences.         86
    IX.  Shopping and Shooting.                     96
     X.  A Journey That Seems Like a Dream.        106
    XI.  The Tragedy at the Fonda.                 115
   XII.  Attack by Pampa Indians.                  125
  XIII.  The Flight and the Chase.                 134
   XIV.  Life on an Argentine Estancia.            146
    XV.  We Build our House and Lay Out Gardens.   155
   XVI.  Summer in the Silver West.                165
  XVII.  The Earthquake.                           175
 XVIII.  Our Hunting Expedition.                   185
   XIX.  In the Wilderness.                        197
    XX.  The Mountain Crusoe.                      209
   XXI.  Wild Adventures on Prairie and Pampas.    221
  XXII.  Adventure With a Tiger.                   231
 XXIII.  A Ride for Life.                          244
  XXIV.  The Attack on the Estancia.               255
   XXV.  The Last Assault.                         266
    XXV  Farewell to the Silver West.              279




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                    PAGE
The Figure Springs into the Air             Frontispiece
Orla thrusts his Muzzle into my Hand                  10
Ray lay Stark and Stiff                               18
'Look! He is Over!'                                   33
He pointed his Gun at me                              41
'I'll teach ye!'                                      74
Fairly Noosed                                         99
'Ye can Claw the Pat'                                138
Comical in the Extreme                               195
Tries to steady himself to catch the Lasso           203
Interview with the Orang-outang                      214
On the same Limb of the Tree                         236
The Indians advanced with a Wild Shout               268




[Illustration: Orla thrusts his Muzzle into my Hand]




OUR HOME IN THE SILVER WEST


CHAPTER I.

THE HIGHLAND FEUD.


Why should I, Murdoch M'Crimman of Coila, be condemned for a period of
indefinite length to the drudgery of the desk's dull wood? That is the
question I have just been asking myself. Am I emulous of the honour and
glory that, they say, float halo-like round the brow of the author? Have I
the desire to awake and find myself famous? The fame, alas! that authors
chase is but too often an _ignis fatuus_. No; honour like theirs I crave
not, such toil is not incumbent on me. Genius in a garret! To some the
words may sound romantic enough, but--ah me!--the position seems a sad
one. Genius munching bread and cheese in a lonely attic, with nothing
betwixt the said genius and the sky and the cats but rafters and tiles! I
shudder to think of it. If my will were omnipotent, Genius should never
shiver beneath the tiles, never languish in an attic. Genius should be
clothed in purple and fine linen, Genius should---- 'Yes, aunt, come in;
I'm not very busy yet.'

My aunt sails into my beautiful room in the eastern tower of Castle
Coila.

'I was afraid,' she says, almost solemnly, 'I might be disturbing your
meditations. Do I find you really at work?'

'I've hardly arrived at that point yet, dear aunt. Indeed, if the truth
will not displease you, I greatly fear serious concentration is not very
much in my line. But as you desire me to write our strange story, and as
mother also thinks the duty devolves on me, behold me seated at my table
in this charming turret chamber, which owes its all of comfort to your
most excellent taste, auntie mine.'

As I speak I look around me. The evening sunshine is streaming into my
room, which occupies the whole of one story of the tower. Glance where I
please, nothing is here that fails to delight the eye. The carpet beneath
my feet is soft as moss, the tall mullioned windows are bedraped with the
richest curtains. Pictures and mirrors hang here and there, and seem part
and parcel of the place. So does that dark lofty oak bookcase, the great
harp in the west corner, the violin that leans against it, the
_jardiniere_, the works of art, the arms from every land--the shields, the
claymores, the spears and helmets, everything is in keeping. This is my
garret. If I want to meditate, I have but to draw aside a curtain in
yonder nook, and lo! a little baize-covered door slides aside and admits
me to one of the tower-turrets, a tiny room in which fairies might live,
with a window on each side giving glimpses of landscape--and landscape
unsurpassed for beauty in all broad Scotland.

But it was by the main doorway of my chamber that auntie entered, drawing
aside the curtains and pausing a moment till she should receive my
cheering invitation. And this door leads on to the roof, and this roof
itself is a sight to see. Loftily domed over with glass, it is at once a
conservatory, a vinery, and tropical aviary. Room here for trees even, for
miniature palms, while birds of the rarest plumage flit silently from
bough to bough among the oranges, or lisp out the sweet lilts that have
descended to them from sires that sang in foreign lands. Yonder a
fountain plays and casts its spray over the most lovely feathery ferns.
The roof is very spacious, and the conservatory occupies the greater part
of it, leaving room outside, however, for a delightful promenade. After
sunset  lamps are often lit here, and the place then looks even
more lovely than before. All this, I need hardly say, was my aunt's
doing.

I wave my hand, and the lady sinks half languidly into a fauteuil.

'And so,' I say, laughingly, 'you have come to visit Genius in his
garret.'

My aunt smiles too, but I can see it is only out of politeness.

I throw down my pen; I leave my chair and seat myself on the bearskin
beside the ample fireplace and begin toying with Orla, my deerhound.

'Aunt, play and sing a little; it will inspire me.'

She needs no second bidding. She bends over the great harp and lightly
touches a few chords.

'What shall I play or sing?'

'Play and sing as you feel, aunt.'

'I feel thus,' my aunt says, and her fingers fly over the strings,
bringing forth music so inspiriting and wild that as I listen, entranced,
some words of Ossian come rushing into my memory:

'The moon rose in the East. Fingal returned in the gleam of his arms. The
joy of his youth was great, their souls settled as a sea from a storm.
Ullin raised the song of gladness. The hills of Inistore rejoiced. The
flame of the oak arose, and the tales of heroes were told.'

Aunt is not young, but she looks very noble now--looks the very
incarnation of the music that fills the room. In it I can hear the
battle-cry of heroes, the wild slogan of clan after clan rushing to the
fight, the clang of claymore on shield, the shout of victory, the wail for
the dead. There are tears in my eyes as the music ceases, and my aunt
turns once more towards me.

'Aunt, your music has made me ashamed of myself. Before you came I
recoiled from the task you had set before me; I longed to be out and away,
marching