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"The two men, Tea-Garden and Mahone, kept together, drinking and carousing, and selling liquor to the Indians, sinking lower and lower in the scale of humanity. The Indians' money went into the white man's pocket as freely as ever, but there began to be low mutterings of discontent, mingled with the drunken dance and whoop. A storm was gathering but its omens were not heeded. "One day in mid-winter, a gang of Indians had been at the post all day, drinking and carousing. The host and his companion, Mahone, had drank with them, and were even more under the influence of liquor than their guests. Night came on and the children were sent supperless to bed. The children were frightened and hungry, and were lying in bed awake listening to all that was going on around them. They knew that their father and Mahone were asleep by their heavy breathing, but the Indians were awake and talking angrily in their own language, which the children well understood. They were telling how they had been cheated by Tea-Garden, and as their anger increased the children heard these savages plan the murder of the whole family while they slept. The three were in one bed, and the little girl of six was the only one that slept. The oldest boy drew the bedclothes up over her head in the hope that by so doing she might be unnoticed and so escape the massacre that awaited them. Trembling with fear the boys dared not speak or stir, but no word or movement escaped them. They saw one of the Indians take up an ax from the corner, try its edge, and then saw it descend, crashing through the brain of their father. They saw it raised, and again descend, in like manner, above the prostrate form of Mahone. Both men passed from their drunken slumber into the embrace of death without a sigh or a struggle.

"The two boys lay clasped in each other's arms, horror-stricken at the scene. For fully half an hour they lay there, gazing on the bloody spectacle, before the Indians seemed to remember their existence and came toward them. True to their savage custom of sparing neither women nor children, they prepared to finish their hellish work. With an unerring aim the ax went crashing through the skull of the younger boy. The elder crept beneath the bed-clothes in terror, and as the ax again descended it crashed through his shoulder, inflicting a severe but not painful wound, and as, with almost superhuman fortitude and presence of mind, he lay perfectly quiet, the Indians did not take the trouble to see whether they had quite finished their work or not, as they doubtless would have done had they been sober. The little girl slept on unnoticed and undisturbed.The drunken orgies increased, while the boy of eleven years, the sole witness of the scene, peered out from under the bed clothes. About the middle of the night, according to the Indian custom, the bloodthirsty, drunken wretches stole away, having first kindled a fire at the outer walls of the building. The brave boy listened until their savage yells died

away in the distance, then rousing his sleeping sister, his only living companion in all the household, the two set out, barefooted and nearly naked, over the snow to the nearest neighbor's house, a mile away. With that bleeding, gaping wound in his shoulder, partly dragging and partly carrying his little sister, the boy succeeded at last in reaching the friendly shelter of the neighbor's house. But the hands and feet of both the boy and girl were badly frozen.

"In the morning neighbors visited the scene of the tragedy, and found only the ashes and smouldering ruins of the building, and the charred bones of the three victims.

"Both the girl and boy grew up the girl to brave, noble womanhood. The boy, even before he reached the years of manhood, became a wild hunter, who told no tales of the game he sought. But whereever his hunting-grounds lay, there might often be found a dead Indian, with a peculiar mark, as if killed by the same unerring aim. None but himself knew the number slain, but at last he himself fell a victim to his life-long foes.

CHAPTER III.

Pioneer Life; Pioneer Women; An Indian Scare; Oddities of Bench and Bar; Unique Weddings; Jumping Claims; Rather Crowded; Lost in the Woods.

There are many reminiscences of pioneer life in this now well peopled and thriving country, and its borders, which, told by comfortable and even luxurious firesides, sound like the telling of a dream, or like the pages of some improbable romance. The early settlers are fast passing away, and in the rapid march of time, the early days, with their hard struggles, their privations, their quaint legends, and withal, their mirth and jollity are being rapidly forgotten.

There are those in the older States, and in fact in all countries, who have no desire to remove from their ancestral homes, who are content to "live where their fathers lived-die where their fathers died," but the natural increase of population, as well as the tide of immigration from the countries of Europe would make it impracticable for all to do this. And it is fortunate that a large class is imbued with the spirit of the pioneer-with the earnest desire to seek new and more thinly settled countries, and carve out a fortune or win a comfortable home and a competency for themselves. This spirit and steady purpose it is that turned the prai

ries and forests of the west into cultivated farms, and caused the beautiful hills and valleys of our county to teem with waving fields of grain, swarm with flocks and herds, be made beautiful with fruits and flowers, which adorn and cheer the homes, where but a few years ago the wild Indian sought his game, and was "monarch of all he surveyed." All honor then, to the sturdy settlers who in braving danger as well as solitude, not only for himself but also for those he loved, to become an independent home winner, has done so much to open up the land for those who followed in his footsteps, or who in later years came after him.

PIONEER WOMEN.

But if we honor the man who thus cuts loose from the dear associations of his early home, how much more honor is due to the woman who, though often reared in the lap of ease, or even luxury, does not repine. The life that for man is only difficult, for woman is truly hard. From much that makes frontier life exciting and pleasant to men, women are naturally shut out. Her work is at home. It is woman who keeps the hearth-fires glowing and helps keep the wolf from the door, not always an imaginary wolf, but sometimes a wolf of real flesh and blood. It is woman that spreads the hospitable board for all strangers and travelers and gives to the wilderness cabin the life and light of home. With whatever difficulty the way of man as a pioneer was beset, at his side, an ever ready and willing helper, was woman. In health, a friend and companion; in sickness, a physician, nurse and housekeeper, all in one, not only in her home, but also in the home of an unfortunate neighbor. The pioneer woman was always busy, generally cheerful, and always to be depended on in times of trial. As brave as modest, they turned back from no difficulty, they feared no danger. As modest as brave, they shrank from having their names and deeds written for the public. The quiet life of daily toil and self-sacrifice was not the kind of which histories are made, but rather the life which lives in the grateful memory of those who knew them. The following from a speech before an old settlers meeting, pays such a deserved tribute to woman, and is so true and appropriate, that we quote it:

"But what of old comrades in the life battles in the wilderness that was, what of our companions, the women? Most of them had been delicately reared, and were accustomed to the luxuries and refinements of cultivated society; and most of all had good homes with the necessaries and conveniences of life in abundance, and were surrounded by kind friends and dear relatives. To these they had been bred; to all these they were strongly attached. But these ties were sundered, these homes were left behind, when after the last trunk was packed, and the last farwell was sadly uttered they set their faces sadly westward for a new life and a new home, they knew it must be among strangers.

They shared with us the trial of the journey, the weary miles of sunshine, and storm as we journeyed on and onward. They partook with us the coarse fare and rude accommodation of the wagon and wayside, the canal boat and the steamer, the log tavern and the bivouac under the open heaven, all this they encountered without murmuring, and cheerfully. And when late in autumn, or early in spring it may be in the cold storm or driving mist and chilly winds that cut to the bone, they took their departure from the last outpost of civilization, over lonely prairies, or through the gloomy forest, over the dismal roads, beset with roots or stumps without sign of cultivation, or human habitation, then it was, the hour of bitter trial came to their hearts; then it was that amid their loneliness, and utter heart desolation the dear homes and kindred they had left, rose up before them, and through the tears they look down upon the little ones who cling to them. But not a murmur, not a word of complaint or regret escaped them. The feelings too deep for utterance, which swelled within them, were smothered in their bosoms. When we at last, (some later, some earlier) had found a place where to make a home in these pleasant groves and prairies, pleasant to us men; for here there were herds of bounding deer, and flocks of wild fowl, the wolf and sand-hill crane, and game large and small to give us sport. The lakes and streams abounded in fish, and we could take them at our will. The country was all open and free to roam over, as one great park. There was excitement for us in all this; suited to our rougher natures and coarser tastes. We could roam and fish or hunt, as we pleased, amid the freshness and beauties of nature. But how was it with our wives? From all these they were excluded. They were shut up with their children in log cabins, when they were fortunate enough to get them, rude huts without floors often, and not unfrequently without doors and windows, while the cold fierce winds of dark December whistled through them. Frequently they were covered with sticks fastened with poles, between which the stars of night looked down upon the faithful mother and her sleeping infants, here in one small room, filled perhaps with smoke; without furniture, except a little of the rudest kind; rough slab stools, an equally rough table, and bedstead, if any, made of poles fastened into the house, no kitchen utensils, save perhaps a skillet and a frying pan, destitute of crockery, and with little tinware, they were called upon to do unaided, the duties of a housewife. With these conveniences and these surroundings, they took upon them for weeks and months, and even for years the burdens of their households, in a continued struggle with hindrances and perplexities. These were the heroic women to whom our hearts did homage; and I should fail in my duty, at this time if in the roll call of worthy and honorable names they should not be remembered. And all honor to these pioneer women, say we."

AN INDIAN SCARE.

We cannot now realize the anxiety nor even the dangers that beset the settlers from the Indians, particularly at the time of Indian outbreaks, in this and neighboring States.

A contributor to the Decorah Journal the present year, in writing of pioneer life, thus refers to an occurrence well remembered by old settlers:

"As I write the word 'Indians,' memory takes me back to the early days of my childhood in Decorah. Again I see a rider on a foaming steed dash along Broadway, as I did twenty or more years ago, shouting at the top of his voice, "The Indians are coming!' Again I see the street thronged with blanched-faced men and trembling women, running to and fro in wild excitement and gazing with anxious faces off into the west, imagining every tree a red-skin, and the smoke from every distant chimney a sign of their devastation. Again I hear the whispered consultation of the men as to the best means of protecting their loved ones. Again I feel my hand clasped in that of my sainted mother as I toddle along at her side, down Mill street hill, across the old red bridge, and over to West Decorah-a place of imagined safety. It was a false alarm, and probably faded from the memory of many of our readers, and remembered by others only as the dim recollection of a half forgotten dream. But it comes back to my mind to-night as vividly as though it were an occurrence of yesterday. Twenty years! How great the change! Infants then in their mothers' arms are men and women now; the young are middle aged; the middle aged old; while many whom we knew and loved have fallen asleep and are at rest in the silent churchyard.

AMUSING REMINISCENCES.

But life here had its bright and hopeful side, and with all the anxieties and trials of the pioneers, they became accustomed to their lot, which was cheered by a realization of what they were accomplishing, and by amusing and sometimes exciting incidents or episodes. We are permitted to glean the following from a lecture by Judge M. V. Burdick, whose residence here, and familiarity with early life, and wide acquaintance with old settlers, has given him a large fund of information, and which his warm and sympathetic heart and command of language has given him a happy way of expressing himself. The first anecdote has for its leading characters the judge himself, and another well known attorney and ex-judge:

"In a country as new as Iowa was in 1850, there is always considerable litigation, and a young lawyer, even though he dons the plain habiliments of a farmer, and swings the axe to cut the logs that build his cabin, need not tarry long without a client. At least, I found it so on my arrival in Iowa. In a busy little town that gave promise of ere long expanding into a city, the Turkey

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