BEYOND THE RANGE.

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 108, 27 June 1885, Page 4

BEYOND THE RANGE.

[By Geo. R. Paerish.]

The grey-haired editor of the "Rocky Mountain Weekly Bugle" was very busy that hot summer morning. So likewise were the two compositors, sitting at their high cases over by the dingy window, where the sunlight had Buch hard work to look in. Only the small office boy was idly sleeping upon a pile of blank paper, in the darkest corner of the room where even the redness of his hair was neutralised. The town was sleeping in the sun without, and the office was very still within ; nothing breaking the monotonous quiet save the regular clicking of the type falling rapilly into place, and the heavy breathing of the sleeping boy. Now and then the editor would halt in his swift writing long enough to aim a vicious blow at some fly carrying on mining operation 6 ) more vigorously than usual, but these interruptions were slight, and could scarcely be said to interfere with the rapid manner in which he was preparing a column of personals, worded in the rough wit of the West. The office and publication room of the ••Weekly Bugle" was not large. Neither was it distinguished for arrangement or cleanliness. The two type cases were huddled up together on either side of the only window A large table, next to the great hand press, was groaning beneath the weight of exchanges, and over the littered desk of the editor - as the only ornament to the low, dark room — was hung a gorgeous representa tion of " Sunset in the Arctic Seas." When I first remember seeing it, this was considered a very fine work of art, but at the time of which I write, some disturbance of the elements had knocked the glorious luminary of day clear across the ice-clad waters, until it had found serene repose in the well-stocked waste-basket. The job work to be done in mountain newspaper offices in those early days was not extensive, the circulation of the paper was limited to the few miners and prospectors in the direct neighbourhood, and consequently the "Bugle's" editor and proprietor was hardly waxing wealthy fast enough to cause any feelings of jealousy to spring up in the breasts of the other inhabitants of the Golden City., In the various newspaper directories I think you will find— or would have found — after the " Weekly Bugle's " name, a single mysterious " X," yet still the prospectus of that year had referred to it as the greatest and grandest newspaper enterprise ever undertaken west of the Great Range. The column of personals was at length completed, and the writer stopped and contemplated his work with a smile of satisfaction, and then, after a few dots here and there along the manuscript in correction of minor errors, was about laying aside his pen when the sleeping devil uttered a heartrending groan, rolled off his perch with a loud thump upon the floor, and then sat up, rubbing his half-opened eyes in astonishment. Before the editor could fully recover from his surprise at this phenomenon, the front door swung creaking open, and a boy entered, with evident hesitation. " I wish to pee the editor if he is in," he half asked of the compositor who chanced to be nearest him. " I am the editor," came from the littered desk. '• What cnl do for you, my boy ?" When thus kindly addressed the visitor, who might have seen seventeen years, came quickly forward into the stronger light. He was a remarkably good-looking young fellow, now he had removed his wide-brim-med hat, a bright, intelligent face, a slender figure, with such clear blue eyes smiling out from under his phort-cut, curling hair, such a boy, indeed, as you and I have sometimes met upon the street, and havelonged to speak with as we passed. The boy of our story, however, was distinguished more by his evident bashfulness and present embarrassment, especially as he stood under the searching eyes of the office demon, who, in order to hear the approaching conversation, had suddenly discovered the necessity of cleaning the editor's cuspidore. " Please, sir, I called to see if you would not employ me as a reporter ?" The question was breathed forth so very low that the editor barely caught the words, and the small hands toyed with the hatband nervously. "We wish some one to act as local editor and look over our exchanges," Mark Hopkins answered, looking into the bright young face in some surprise. " What experience have you had in newspaper work, my boy T" " But very little, sir, I am afraid— a few months of reporting in a very small country village to a neighbouring paper, aad some scattered articles in Eastern publications is all." The old editor smiled, not unkindly. "I fear that is hardly the right school for what we would be obliged to require," he baid. "I hardly think you would fill the place." " Oh, please, sir, won't you let me try ? I believe t can do the work if you will only let me try, and— and I need it so much." The soft voice had a quiver of tears in it, and the blue eyes, bent down to the editor's pleasant face so pleadingly, were wet. The devil looked up from his work in purprise, and muttered something to the cuspidore about milk-sop, but his chief looked at the slender form and wet eyes very differently. If Mark Hopkins had one weakness in all his strong nature, it was that of generosity. He could never refuse aid to those asking it, who were willing and anxious to help themselves. Aa an editor, surrounded by a wild and new civilieation, he was absolutely fearless, never consulting his own happiness, but striking blows for whatever he considered as the right. A single man, who had himself passed through much of the hard* ships of life, unaided and alone, he never lost his love for the young, never hesitated when it was in his power to make their life more pleasant than his own had ever been. He was interested now in , both the face and manner of the lad before him ; 9 burst of sympathy came into the great heart and prompted the answer which his head efused,

"Well, well, we'll see. Don't cry, my boy, I'll put you at work, but only on trial, remember." "Oh sir, Xffiank you." What happiness had crept into the boy's voice. There was a moment's pause, the white fingers, toying still with the hatband, nerrously ; then he asked, " Please, sir, may I not begin without delay?" Pleased at the evident desire for immediate employment, yet without a word, the old editor turned to examine the papers upon one of the files beside his desk, while the lad's eyes followed his deliberate motions with great anxiety. " Do you know where the Sea- Bird mine is ?" was finally asked. "Yes,.sir; the second claim beyond the tunnel." ♦' Very well, my lad, you may go there and write it up -the whole property of the compatiy, remember. We are short of matter this week, so give them at least a column." '*YeB, sir, 1 will go at once." The boy turned quickly as if in a hurry to commence his new labours, perhaps equally anxious to escape the searching eyes of the devil, who, forgetting his ostensible work, now sat, rag in hand, upon the floor. " By the way," the editor called after him, as the door swung open, " what did you give as your name ?" "Jul-ius Platt." If there was any hesitancy in the reply, it passed unnoticed. "Platt— Platt; not any relation to Poker Platt, I should hope?" with some curiosity. " Slightly connected, sir. lam stopping with him " And, as it to escape furtner questioning, the boy passed quickly out, and the low hallway was too dark for the flush which sprangover his face to be noticed. " The connection, judging from appear ances, must be slight indeed," mused the old man, as he turned back to his interrupted work once more § Probably he hoped so, as well, for old Poker Platt had developed into one of the celebrities of Golden City, but not a celebrity which the inhabitants were at all proud of exhibiting to strangers as a product of the place One of the first comers into the narrow valley, among the foot-hills* he rapidly sank what money be had in the mines, and soon drifted in prospecting for others on a grub-stake. Saloon- keeping was the next step in the downward scale, and gambling rapidly followed, untill finally he sank to the social status of loafer and vagabond, flow he managed to live now that his fingers had lost their cunning, the good people of Golden City never knew, and though they may at times have enterI tamed grave suspicions, yet they never made it their business to inquire into it j at all closely. For the past few months, at least, he had given them bo caupe for complaint, as he had been lying in his little cabin high up in the gulch. "Cut with an axe," he said, but Sam Blood, who attended him, as the nearest approach to a physician in camp — he being once a janitor in a medical school— said that he considered it a gunshot wound. But so long as he must keep quiet the people cared not to inquire closely into the cause. And so the old gambler was left to end his miserable life as best he could — alone. If he had in the far East relatives or friends, they were unknown, and his lips had never opened to their names, and now, as his life had been passed in the darkness, so was it left to flicker out without a dawn. At his desk Mark Hopkins toiled on, and the morning passed slowly away into the sultry air of noon. It was hot, stifling hot, in that long, low room, in spite of the light mountain atmosphere and the picture of Arctic seas. The editor was overworked, the compositors clamored for copy, and several intelligent citizens dropped in without previous invitation and proceeded to make themselves at home, and relieve their overburdened minds, and amid all these diversions the long morning passed quickly. In themultitude of otheraffairsthenewreporter had been entirely forgotten— as the editor no doubt would have expressed it, the boy had been crowded out to make room for more interesting matter— and the chief was just drawing on his well-worn coat preparatory to going for his noonday lunch when the door opened and, flushed by his long tramp in the hot sun, the lad entered. As he only expressed a desire to complete his work, he was assigned a table where he might write, and then left alone, deeply busied with his report. I have not the space, though I confess I have the inclination, to dwell at length upon the days that followed. There was something about the clean, neat manuscript presented to the editor on his return that pleased the professional eye, and there was something pleading in the boy's anxious face as he stood silently by during the reading that touched the old man's heart, and as a result he was retained — retained to run here and there over the hills during the dry, hot summer days, to write through the long nights in the little cabin high up in the gulch, with an old man, feeble and childish, sleeping heavily beside him, to do odd jobs and s&in the exchanges in tbe little office, exposed to all the tricks and werry of the mischievous urchin who made his first visit so unpleasant ; retained for this, and doing it all quietly without a murmur or a word of complaint. The rosy face grew paler and more careworn as the months slipped by, and the chief noticed it, and tried in vain to lighten the work the young shoulders bore so uncomplainingly. But the lad's ambition and the face of pain ever waiting for him in the little cabin where Poker Platt drew out the lingering breath of his weary life, urged him on to work under which many a man would have fallen. The paper exhibited the marks of his care and interest, and every now and then contained an article of singular force and beauty from his pen. Once, for a week, he was kept close at home by sickness, and then did the chief learn all his value to him, and when, at length, still jaded and weak from his severe illness, the boy came back, the welcome caused the tears to well up in the blue eyes, and the old man's voice to falter. So the months, with their changes and their labours, passed on, and eaoh week the "Bugrle" greeted its little world with well-filled columns and marks of loving toil. I have already written that if Mark Hopkins had one failing, it was generosity to the young. If he had another—considering his situation— it was the fearless maintenance of his own private opinion, despite the popular feeling of the community wherein he lived. During the autumn following the introduction of the new reporter to the columns of the " Bugle," the inhabitants of Golden City experienced a change of heart. This change did not originate in the frenzy of a religious camp-meeting, nor did it evaporate its usefulness in prayers and sacred songs, but that the conversion was deep was evidenced by the sudden uprising of the vigilantes. , , Every rooming brought its tale of rude justice meted out, and its body swinging in the wind, until Judge, Lynch had grown into a fiend himself, and the neighbouring camps held up their hands in pretended horror at the extremes to which the vengeance had been oarried.

Mark Hopkins hesitated noi to denounce it, and his ready pen lashed the leaders ai the whip of the huntsman would his dogs He dared to call it murder, and the murmun and threats wafted to his ears only brougb.l from him a more stinging reply. In such £ Btateofßocietyas surrounded Golden Ut) the end could not be long doubtful, and a1 , length it came. One pleasant afternoon, a committee with Sandy McNeil at their head, filed up the dark stairs and invaded the office. The} found the man they sought bending over hu desk, his young reporter beside him correcting proofs. The lad's lips grew very white, as, start led by the footsteps, he looked up and saw who entered. There was no difficulty in guessing their mission, but he never stirred from the side of hie chief. With a slight hardening in his cool, grey eyes the old editor looked up calmly. " Well, gentlemen, what is it you wish of me to-day ?" . . . _ " Ye been lyin' about us," ejaculated McNeil, who seemed to be pushed ahead as the spokesman, " an' the boys sent us here to make ye chaw yer words ; so cum now, be lively, or we'll throw your old office into the street. Ain't that it, boys?" A howl of approval testified to the feelings of his supporters. " Gentlemen"— the old man arose slowly fro n his chair and stood calmly facing them -— " I have been in your midst working for ; the interests of your young town ever since it started. During all that time 1 have endeavoured to conduct myself as a good citizen and an henest man. In my paper I have only said what I believe to be right and true" I shall not retract it because of your force. This small office is all I have in the world. It represents the hard labour of forty years. Do you expect me to stand quietly bj and see it destroyed ?" " Shut up all that gammon, old man ; don't threaten us Wi* ye take back the lies?" It was a voice in the crowd •'You talk where I cannot see you," he said, " like cowards, not brave men. I have no lies to retract. I said when you hung Andy Burch up in that ravine you were murderers, and I repeat it now." As these last brave words rang out clear and distinct in the little room, the crowd of men surged forward. The fierce look of animal hate was on every evil countenance, and an oath upon every tongue. McNeil, in advance, leaned over and grasped the heavy bottle of ink on the table. « D ye , that settles it !" burst from his lips. "Drop it!" The words fell in a shrill, almost feminine voice, as the slender form of the boy sprang before the table, and the advancing ruffian started back as he looked into the cold, polished tubes of the chief's revolver held in that nervous shaking hand. " You cowards, ten of you on one old man, you dare not" A bare arm flung up, back by the door, something cutting the dark air ; the revolver exploded, burying its leaden messenger in a beam overhead, and when the blue smoke rolled away the room was almost deserted, and the old editor bent low over the "White face Of the boy where he lay on the dirty floor. " U God ! They have killed him, and for me," his broken voice kept saying. " It is better go, sir," the white lips murmured, as if gasping for their breath. "Send send for Po— ker Pl*tt, send — quick— for lam dy— ing." It was no time for tears or words The little devil was called forth from behind the press, where he had hidden himself, and despatched for the ex-gambler. 11 Get a waggon and bring him if he cannot walk," were his hasty orders, and then the old editor came back to the side of the boy. The heavy bar of iron that had felled him lay close to the table, and without knowing why, the old man took it up, looked at it through his tears, and then threw it down into the street. The boy was now talking to himself. " What will he do now— oh, my poor father, poor father— it will kill him— oh, it will -dear, dear old father !" And the editor's tears fell upon the white drawn face, over which the damp of death was stealing. " Oh, if I could have lived— just to help you -poor, sick father— how you will suffer now _it is hard, hard, hard." And the Bilent watcher looked anxiously down the street for his messenger, the great tears running down his furrowed cheeks into his white beard. "My brave boy, 0 God, ifc is not right ! To die so young for me," he kept repeating. At last, after what seemed hours of delay, the messenger returned. Just as the long Bhadowsof evening were stealing in through the one dingy window, and falling over the dying boy, tbe gambler, in the arms of two strong men, was borne up the dark stairs to his side "Julia," his lips, with scarcely more colour in them than the ones he addressed, managed to say, "don't you know me, darling ?" , , The heavy lids opened slowly, and tbe blue eyes lightened up with recognition. "Father, I am— so sor— ry for you." "Not me, not me, O God, not me !" The old, weak voice trembled, and the tears choked him. " But, little girl, you are so young — I cannot, Omy God, I cannot let you go !" " father, kiss me— l believe lam dying " They scarcely could hear the faint words bending over her. " Quick, please," and the old man pressed his withered lips to hers. " Oh, no, no, no ! You must not, you cannot die so - Julia— Julia !" The girl smiled up at him once, her lip formed into goodbye, and the fair young life passed away from earfch for ever. The old gambler started up, his pain gone, his wound forgotten. " She is dead, dead !" he cried, " and you have killed her ! My little girl who worked j so hard to keep my miserable life. I loved her, loved her I say ! She was all I had— and now you've killed her. May the curse of God-" , , „ And gasping painfully for the breath that failed him, the old man fell forward into the editor's arms. They sleep together now, over beyond she Range—father and child— sleep where the early sunlight falls in golden tears over their graves and the bending mountain cedars sing their requiem. Pass not hasty judgment on her hidden sex ; remember only the brave, true heart, and the weeks of patient toil for the sick and dying father. Surely the rest may well be blotted out.—" Ballou's Magazine."

Famous Watering-places — Horse-troughs. Dunedin Garrison Band will compete at the Wellington Exhibition. Eewi hap decided not to go to Parihaka. What tree may be said to most resemble the remains of a fine Auckland cigar 1 -A white a§h. Milk from Scotland is now sold at Liverpool and Manchester at 6d a gallon. Recent statistics show that there are now nearly a million more females than males in Great Britain. . . North Dunedin Glee Clab is giving a series of concerts, the proceeds from which are to be handed to local charities.