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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 over the moors gun in hand and dogs ahead. Now I--I--yes, aunt,
this music inspires me.'

Aunt rises as I speak, and together we leave the turret chamber, and,
passing through the great conservatory, we reach the promenade. We lean on
the battlement, long since dismantled, and gaze beneath us. Close to the
castle walls below is a well-kept lawn trending downwards with slight
incline to meet the loch which laps over its borders. This loch, or lake,
stretches for miles and miles on every side, bounded here and there by
bare, black, beetling cliffs, and in other places

               'O'erhung by wild woods thickening green,

a very cloudland of foliage. The easternmost horizon of this lake is a
chain of rugged mountains, one glance at which would tell you the season
was autumn, for they are crimsoned over with blooming heather. The season
is autumn, and the time is sunset; the shadow of the great tower falls
darkling far over the loch, and already crimson streaks of cloud are
ranged along the hill-tops. So silent and still is it that we can hear the
bleating of sheep a good mile off, and the throb of the oars of a boat far
away on the water, although the boat itself is but a little dark speck.
There is another dark speck, high, high above the crimson clouds. It comes
nearer and nearer; it gets bigger and bigger; and presently a huge eagle
floats over the castle, making homeward to his eyrie in the cliffs of Ben
Coila.

The air gets cooler as the shadows fall; I draw the shawl closer round my
aunt's shoulders. She lifts a hand as if to deprecate the attention.

'Listen, Murdoch,' she says. 'Listen, Murdoch M'Crimman.'

She seldom calls me by my name complete.

'I may leave you now, may I not?'

'I know what you mean, aunt,' I reply. 'Yes; to the best of my ability I
will write our strange story.'

'Who else would but you, Murdoch M'Crimman, chief of the house of Crimman,
chief of the clan?'

I bow my head in silent sorrow.

'Yes, aunt; I know. Poor father is gone, and I _am_ chief.'

She touches my hand lightly--it is her way of taking farewell. Next moment
I am alone. Orla thrusts his great muzzle into my hand; I pat his head,
then go back with him to my turret chamber, and once more take up my pen.

                   *       *       *       *       *

A blood feud! Has the reader ever heard of such a thing? Happily it is
unknown in our day. A blood feud--a quarrel 'twixt kith and kin, a feud
oftentimes bequeathed from bleeding sire to son, handed down from
generation to generation, getting more bitter in each; a feud that not
even death itself seems enough to obliterate; an enmity never to be
forgotten while hills raise high their heads to meet the clouds.

Such a feud is surely cruel. It is more, it is sinful--it is madness. Yet
just such a feud had existed for far more than a hundred years between our
family of M'Crimman and the Raes of Strathtoul.

There is but little pleasure in referring back to such a family quarrel,
but to do so is necessary. Vast indeed is the fire that a small spark may
sometimes kindle. Two small dead branches rubbing together as the wind
blows may fire a forest, and cause a conflagration that shall sweep from
end to end of a continent.

It was a hundred years ago, and forty years to that; the head of the house
of Stuart--Prince Charles Edward, whom his enemies called the
Pretender--had not yet set foot on Scottish shore, though there were
rumours almost daily that he had indeed come at last. The Raes were
cousins of the M'Crimmans; the Raes were head of the clan M'Rae, and their
country lay to the south of our estates. It was an ill-fated day for both
clans when one morning a stalwart Highlander, flying from glen to glen
with the fiery cross waving aloft, brought a missive to the chief of
Coila. The Raes had been summoned to meet their prince; the M'Crimman had
been _solicited_. In two hours' time the straths were all astir with
preparations for the march. No boy or man who could carry arms, 'twixt the
ages of sixteen and sixty, but buckled his claymore to his side and made
ready to leave. Listen to the wild shout of the men, the shrill notes of
bagpipes, the wailing of weeping women and children! Oh, it was a stirring
time; my Scotch blood leaps in all my veins as I think of it even now.
Right on our side; might on our side! We meant to do or die!

        'Rise! rise! lowland and highland men!
           Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early.
        Rise! rise! mainland and island men,
           Belt on your claymores and fight for Prince Charlie.
                Down from the mountain steep--
                Up from the valley deep--
        Out from the clachan, the bothy and shieling;
                Bugle and battle-drum,
                Bid chief and vassal come,
        Loudly our bagpipes the pibroch are pealing.'

M'Crimman of Coila that evening met the Raes hastening towards the lake.

'Ah, kinsman,' cried M'Crimman, 'this is indeed a glorious day! I have
been summoned by letter from the royal hands of our bold young prince
himself.'

'And I, chief of the Raes, have been summoned by cross. A letter was none
too good for Coila. Strathtoul must be content to follow the pibroch and
drum.'

'It was an oversight. My brother must neither fret nor fume. If our prince
but asked me, I'd fight in the ranks for him, and carry musket or pike or
pistol.'

[Illustration: Ray lay Stark and Stiff]

'It's good being you, with your letter and all that. Kinsman though you
be, I'd have you know, and I'd have our prince understand, that the Raes
and Crimmans are one and the same family, and equal where they stand or
fall.'

'Of that,' said the proud Coila, drawing himself up and lowering his
brows, 'our prince is the best judge.'

'These are pretty airs to give yourself, M'Crimman! One would think your
claymore drank blood every morning!'

'Brother,' said M'Crimman, 'do not let us quarrel. I have orders to see
your people on the march. They are to come with us. I must do my duty.'

'Never!' shouted Rae. 'Never shall my clan obey your commands!'

'You refuse to fight for Charlie?'

'Under your banner--yes!'

'Then draw, dog! Were you ten times more closely related to me, you should
eat your words or drown them in your blood!'

Half an hour afterwards the M'Crimmans were on the march southwards, their
bold young chief at their head, banners streaming and pibroch ringing!
but, alas! their kinsman Rae lay stark and stiff on the bare hillside.

There and then was established the feud that lasted so long and so
bitterly. Surrounded by her vassals and retainers, loud in their wailing
for their departed chief, the widowed wife had thrown herself on the body
of her husband in a paroxysm of wild, uncontrollable grief.

But nought could restore life and animation to that lowly form. The dead
chief lay on his back, with face up-turned to the sky's blue, which his
eyes seemed to pierce. His bonnet had fallen off, his long yellow hair
floated on the grass, his hand yet grasped the great claymore, but his
tartans were dyed with blood.

Then a brother of the Rae approached and led the weeping woman gently
away. Almost immediately the warriors gathered and knelt around the
corpse and swore the terrible feud--swore eternal enmity to the house of
Coila--'to fight the clan wherever found, to wrestle, to rackle and rive
with them, and never to make peace

                   'While there's leaf on the forest
                      Or foam on the river.'

We all know the story of Prince Charlie's expedition, and how, after
victories innumerable, all was lost to his cause through disunions in his
own camps; how his sun went down on the red field of Culloden Moor; how
true and steadfast, even after defeat, the peasant Highlanders were to
their chief; and how the glens and straths were devastated by fire and
sword; and how the streams ran red with the innocent blood of old men and
children, spilled by the brutal soldiery of the ruthless duke.

The M'Crimmans lost their estates. The Raes had never fought for Charlie.
Their glen was spared, but the hopes of M'Rae--the young chief--were
blighted, for after years of exile the M'Crimman was pardoned, and fires
were once more lit in the halls of Castle Coila.

Long years went by, many of the Raes went abroad to fight in foreign lands
wherever good swords were needed and lusty arms to wield them withal; but
those who remained in or near Strathtoul still kept up the feud with as
great fierceness as though it had been sworn but yesterday.

Towards the beginning of the present century, however, a strange thing
happened. A young officer of French dragoons came to reside for a time in
Glen Coila. His name was Le Roi. Though of Scotch extraction, he had never
been before to our country. Now hospitality is part and parcel of the
religion of Scotland; it is not surprising, therefore, that