YIK KEE.

After father died some ten years ago, I found, that for three years we had been living on credit. I was eighteen, strong and well, but did not know how to work. In the little back room of the New York tenement house (by the way, the landlady seized my clothes for our rent) I considered my future. I had inherited a great faith in relatives, from my father, so I wrote to seven. I received six polite notes, telling me to go to work, and the following letter:

Jonesboro, Colorado—Jackson's Ranch.

Dear Nell.—I'm your cousin Jack. Your father once give me money to come out West. I've took up land, got a comfortable home, no style or frills, but good folks to live with and healthy grub. I've got the best wife you ever see and seven fine youngsters. The city ain't no place for a friendless girl. Wife wants you to come. She'll be a mother to you. Come right off. I'll meet you at Denver.

Inclosed was a check sufficient to defray expenses; so I started. Denver was then only a large town and the depot a barn-like structure. I got out of the cars and stood bewildered among all the emigrants and their bundles. Some one touched me on the shoulder—a roughly-dressed, broad-shouldered man with long, blonde beard and big blue eyes.

"Are you Nell?" he said.

"Yes; and you're Cousin Jack."

"I knew you," he said, as he led the way, "by your black clothes an' sorrerful look, an' them big blue eyes, like yer father's as two peas. We'll git the shader outer 'em when we get home. Yer father was a mighty good man. Bless yer dear heart, don't let them tears come. This 'ere's a dry country, we don't waste no water."

Comforting me in his kind, rough way, he reached his team, a big green wagon, drawn by two wild-looking steeds which I afterward knew to be bronchos. A fat, blonde boy, about twelve, held the reins.

"That's Ted," said Cousin Jack. "Ted, this is Miss Nell, yer cousin; give her a hug." The fat boy solemnly obeyed.

After this he seemed to have a special claim on my affections because he met me first. Jack's wife was a jolly, plump woman, with brown eyes and curly hair. She always had a baby in her arms and another at her heels. She adored Jack. I never knew them to have a quarrel. I soon grew to love the life at the ranch. I liked the big, half-finished house, its untidyness and comfort—its pleasant, healthy atmosphere. I loved the children, the household pets—Shep, the sagacious dog; Thad, the clever cat; the hens and sheep; the horses Dolly, Dot, and Daisy, that did the plowing, and the marketing at Denver, twelve miles away, and were so gentle and kind we used to ride them without saddle or bridle. I learned that cattle grew fat on the dry-looking grass and gave the best of milk. I learned to love the broad plains and the glorious sunsets, and to watch the distant bands of Indians with half fear, half interest. I helped Cousin Mary, sewed and cooked, kept the house and children neat, and lifted many burdens from her weary shoulders. We were so happy. The children and I took long walks over the plains, and Ted and I took many rides on Dolly and Dot, and in the long winter evenings I told the children stories. Occasionally Harry White came over to visit us from his ranch five miles away. He lived with his old mother; he and Jack were dear friends. Harry needed a wife, Jack used to say, winking at me.

One day Jack went to Denver for supplies. He went alone, and coming home later than usual, Ted and I and baby Mame went out to meet him. Jack looked sober and guilty, and seemed ill at ease. If he ever drank, I should have thought him intoxicated. In the wagon was a queer-shaped heap under a horse-blanket. I was sure it moved. When we got behind the barn Jack said, sheepishly, avoiding my eye.

"Well, Ted, I calkerlate I've got su'thing in that there waggin that 'ul astonish yer marm."

Little Mame pulled the blanket off the heap; she had been peeping under it all the while she was in the back of the wagon. There lay a human being. Such an object; short and squat, dressed in a queer blue blouse with flowing sleeves, wide trousers and queer wooden shoes. He had small, black eyes, a shaven poll, from which depended a long thin queue. His countenance was battered and bruised, his clothes torn and bloody.

"There was a row down to Denver," said Jack; "the Christian folks stove in these 'ere heathen's winders, tore their houses down, an' killed half on 'em. I cleared out soon as I could. When I got half way home I heard a noise back o' me, and out crawled this thing. I was so dumfounded I couldn't speak. He thought I was going ter send him back, an' he fell ter cryin' an' jabberin' in that yap of his, an' clingin' onter my han' an' kissin' of it. It sorter turned my stomach. I told him ter set down, give him some crackers ter eat, covered him up an' told him he could live with me. What do you s'pose marm'll say?"

"Oh! Cousin Jack," I said, "of course, she will not care. Your home is a refuge for all the wretched and unfortunate."

"Now don't, Nell," he said, turning as red as a rose, and busying himself about the harness. The Celestial looked at us solemnly: Mame toddled up to him. He looked at her curiously, but did not move.

"Get out, John," said Jack, "you needn't be scared no more; we're to home."

He got out stiffly, and, to my surprise, turned and lifted the baby down. She caught his pig-tail, and pulled it in wild delight. He seemed grieved when I took her away. When Jack told Mary, the good soul found a thousand reasons why he should stay, and hurried to make him a bed in the attic. The Celestial did not say much, but when Jack called him "John," he smiled a sad smile.

"Melican man callee John. Hump. Yik Kee."

So with due consideration for his feelings we addressed him as Yik Kee. He was of great use. He helped take care of the children, did the washing (Mary did not fancy his method of sprinkling clothes) and helped Jack on the farm. We made him one of the family. He was always pleasant and smiling, but was a man of few words.

Cousin Jack added much to his income by trading in hides. Ranchmen living at a distance sold their hides to him and Jack sold them to traders who came around at certain times in the year. Harry White was a partner in the business. He used to go on a sort of round-up and visit the ranches all over the country. The cattle of the ranchmen roamed in vast herds over the plains, protected only by the brand of the owner. Cattle stealing was frequently practiced. Offenders in this respect were shown no mercy. They were convicted, tried, and executed only in the court of Judge Lynch. I never blamed the ranchmen for this; it was impossible to guard the herds in the vast area over which they traversed, and the cattle must be protected in some way. Gil Mead was a wealthy ranchman, who lived about ten miles from us. He owned the largest herd of cattle on the plains. They were branded with the vowels of his name. E.A., which could be recognized anywhere. He always shipped his cattle East to his brother in Chicago. I feared the man. He was tall and gaunt, with deep-set black eyes and low forehead. His home was unhappy; his wife cross and ugly, and his children wild and unruly. This made him more than commonly disagreeable.

I think it was in the fall of '74 that Harry White brought the big load of hides to Jack. Both were much pleased at the bargain they made. Harry gave glowing accounts of a new customer—a ranchman from Chicago, who had taken up an abandoned homestead. He had purchased many cattle from his cousin, Gil Mead, and hoped to rival him in the number and quality of his herd. Jack packed the hides away to keep till December, when we expected the dealer.

One afternoon, not long after this, Gil Mead rode up to the house, looking very agreeable and pleasant. A couple of strangers, also ranchmen, were with him. They wanted to look at the hides, one of the men being a trader, Gil said. Jack was in Denver, so Yik Kee and I went to the barn with them. They looked the hides over carefully, and conversed in low tones, Gil with a suppressed oath. Finally they thanked us courteously and took their leave.

"Hump; no goodee," said Yik Kee, but he wouldn't say any more.

At five that evening, when we were at supper, a crowd of twenty-five or thirty men rode up on horseback. Jack came out and met them, inviting them in to take supper, in his generous, hospitable way. They wanted him to go to Denver with them, there was to be a meeting there of importance to ranchmen. The meeting would be at eight. They had brought with them an extra horse for Jack. Mary looked around for Yik Kee to help her, but he had mysteriously disappeared.

I faintly remembered seeing his white, horrified face peering around the barn at the horses. I noted the visitors ate little—the food seemed to choke them. Some of them watched Mary and the baby in a queer sort of way. When Jack, as was his custom, kissed his wife and babies good-by, one of the visitors, an oldish man, coughed huskily, and said: "Blest if I kin stan' this." They all rode off, Jack the merriest of all, waving his hat till he was out of sight.

When we were clearing up the unusual quantity of dishes, Yik Kee appeared at the end window and beckoned me. I followed him out. Ted was with him. Behind the barn were the three horses saddled. Shep was with them, released from confinement, where he had been secured from following his master.

"Foller 'em," said Ted in an excited whisper. "Yik's afraid they're up to something."

"What is it, Yik?" I said, sternly. "No fooling now."

For answer he twisted his long pig-tail around his neck, tying it under his left ear in a significant manner.

"Hump, he hangee; stealee cow."

"Oh, Mary," I sobbed, remembering Gil Mead's visit, and his strange actions, and dimly seeing what Yik Kee meant, "I must tell Mary," I said, wildly.

"Hump, no," said Yik Kee. "Yellee sick," and he closed his eyes in a die-away sort of manner. "Go now—too latee."

We mounted.

"Mother'll think we're gone to ride," said Ted, as we galloped over the plains. He was deathly pale, poor little fellow, but he sat erect and firm. I saw his father's big Colt's revolver sticking out of his pocket. He was a determined boy. Even in my despair, in my wild hope that I could save Jack by begging on my knees, that I could cling to him, that they would have to kill me first, I could not help a smile at the comical figure Yik Kee presented on horseback. His loose garments flapped in the wind, his long pig-tail flew out behind, and he bobbed up and down like a kernel of corn in a corn-hopper.

It was a soft, warm night, lighted only by the pale young moon and the twinkling stars. We rode as fast as our horses could gallop. Shep was close at our heels. Way ahead, when we reached the top of a little hill, we saw the crowd of horsemen. They were riding toward Denver. We galloped on with renewed zeal. They turned into a cross road leading to Mead's ranch. On this road was a bridge over Dry Gulch, which was in the spring a roaring torrent. Beyond the bridge, across the fields, was the hay-stack of Mead, where was stored sufficient to feed his domestic cattle through the winter. We at last reached the turn in the road. They were three miles in advance, riding rapidly. Yik Kee stopped at the turn. "Hump! Can't catchee. Hangee at bridge. You goee!" He turned his horse and sped across the field, deserting us basely.

We rode on, Ted and I. He was pale and still; my cheeks were burning. We neared the bridge. The high mound of earth before us hid us from sight. We stopped our horses and listened. The men had lighted torches, some were preparing a rough gallows under the bridge; two were uncoiling rope; some held the horses of the others beyond the bridge. The men were masked now, and I could see by the lighted torches that this number was increased. Jack was very white and sad, but he showed no fear.

"I am innocent, gentlemen," he said, slowly, "but I refuse to tell you of whom I bought the hides."

I understood him. Could Harry White be a cattle thief? I felt as if I were going mad.

"What shall we do?" whispered Ted, cocking his revolver?

Suddenly a bright red light illuminated the heavens, followed by clouds of black smoke and a queer crackling noise. A yell from the men—Gil Mead's voice above the rest. The hay-stack was on fire. It seemed to me in the gale around it that I could see a foreign-looking human vanishing across the plain.

The men mounted their horses, Gil Mead at the head, and set off across the fields at a mad gallop. They must save the stack. They left Jack, bound hand and foot, and guarded by one man.

Shep, the wonderful dog, had kept by us until now, slinking in the dark shadows. Now, gliding sidewise and still, he reached the man on guard whose back was to us, and with no warning growl caught him by the throat with strong white teeth that could choak a coyote in a second. The man, who was in a sitting posture, fell back with a groan. Ted struck him over the head with the butt of the revolver, and pulled off the dog. I cut Jack's bonds with a knife. He looked at us wonderingly and staggered to his feet.

"Never mind how we came, Jack," I said; "quick, mount the horse beyond the bridge, and ride to Denver for your life. They will not harm a woman and child."

"Harry White," he muttered, the loyal soul that even now could think of another's danger.

"I will tell him."

"No, no; not of this—only say, if he stole the cattle, to fly the country. They will find out, sooner or later."

He galloped down the road. Ted and I mounted, calling off Shep, who sat on his haunches watching the unconscious man, and then we, too, sped down the road. The hay-stack was giving out great columns of black smoke, but the fire was dead.

Ahead of us was a riderless horse, Dolly, who greeted her master with a joyful whinny. Where was Yik Kee? Then Dot, my horse, shied from the road at a recumbent black figure. It was the indomitable Yik Kee, who had crawled all the way from the stack on his stomach, so that he could not be seen, after lying in the ditch till the blaze had faded out. "Hump! no catchee Chinee; heap sore," he said, laconically rubbing his stomach.

He mounted Dolly, and we rode on to White's ranch. Harry rushed out at the sound of horses' feet, at midnight. There, under the twinkling stars I looked into his eyes, and I told him the whole story. He showed no guilt, but only said we must stay the night at his ranch, for the men would come back to Jack's for him, and then mounting his fleet colt rode off down the road. I comforted his mother as best I could. At day-break we rode home.

Mary was in a wild state of alarm. Where had we been? Where was Jack? and how cruel we were to leave her alone. She said that at one o'clock three masked men had come to the house and searched it and the premises, and had not molested her or the children, only asking where Jack was, very sternly and sharply.

At noon Jack, Harry, the sheriff, and a party of armed men from Denver rode up, stopping only a moment to tell me they would be back at night. I dared not tell Mary, and she worried all the afternoon at their strange conduct. At night Jack and Harry came home, looking tired but happy. Then Jack told Mary, and she clung to him as though she could never let him go.

It seemed the pleasing ranchman from Chicago was one of a band of cattle thieves. He sold the hides to Harry, who, honest and open himself, was slow to suspect wrong dealings in others. The sheriff had caught the men skinning a cow that belonged to Mead, and had captured the gang and taken them to Denver.

The men concerned in the attempt to lynch Jack were sincerely sorry. Their regrets would not have availed much, however, if they had succeeded in their purpose. They gave each of the children ten acres of land; they gave Ted sixty-five, and me, whom they pleased to consider very plucky, one hundred and fifty acres. I felt rich enough, and time has made it very valuable land. The man on guard was our warmest admirer. He thought Ted, Shep, and I wonders of courage. He said when I came down on the bridge with the open knife, he thought his last hour had come.

Gil Mead committed suicide not long after this. He was always queer. No one ever knew that Yik Kee set the stack afire. I tell you Jack rewarded the faithful fellow—gave him a good farm, taught him to work it, and built him a house. The funniest thing was Yik Kee had a wife and three queer little children back in China, and Jack sent for them, and Yik Kee and his family are as happy as they can be. The children play with Jack's (he has twelve now) and get along finely together.

In '75 I married Harry White, which, I suppose, was foreseen from the beginning—at least, Jack says anybody could have seen it. The most serene and satisfied face at the wedding was that of the Celestial. In my inner consciousness, notwithstanding he is a "heathen Chinee," I have the conviction that as great a hero as is seen in modern times is the man of few words, Yik Kee.—The Continent.