Chapter XXVI · BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY

We were a cheerful trio next morning as we started out of camp on the home-stretch for "God's country," with Jack singing: "Ain't we glad to get out of the wilderness!"

I had brought my captured ponies along, thinking to use them for riding stock going in and to realize something on them after we reached Leavenworth, and for the first day tried them—Jack riding one and I the other—but they were in such poor condition that by the time we had reached Charley Rath's ranch, the first evening, I saw that they were not going to be able to stand the travel on grass alone—and I had been unable to teach them to eat grain—so I left them with Charley, with a note to Wild Bill requesting him to dispose of them to the best advantage for me, which he did, turning in the money to me a few weeks later in Leavenworth.

Our bales of peltries made a bulky but not heavy load, and our two mules and two broncos hauled it with ease, and, though we were all anxious now to reach the end of our journey, still we were under contract to deliver the team to Mr. Kitchen in Leavenworth in good condition and, therefore, must not overdrive.

Of course each one of us was now doing some lively planning for the future.

"Well, taking all things into consideration," remarked Jack, the first evening after we had got settled in camp, "though we're glad to get out of the wilderness for a while, we've done pretty well this winter. We've had lots of fun, some lively adventures, and we've made more money than we had any idea of when we started into the business."

"Yes," I replied, "we'll each have something over a thousand dollars in clear cash for our winter's work, when we divide up, and that's more money than I ever possessed before—how is it with you fellows?"

"Same here," said Jack.

"Me, too," said Tom.

"Well," I continued, "I suppose each one of you is studying out how he can quickest blow it in before re-enlisting?"

"I don't know about that," replied old Tom. "I expect to re-enlist after a bit, of course, for soldiering's the only trade I know and I haven't really much use for the money, but I'll not squander it foolishly. I've studied out a better use for it. I have a widowed sister with several children living on a little farm back in Pennsylvania, and they only make a poor, cornbread living off the place by close economy. I've made up my mind that the best use I can put this money to is to go back there and fix them up in good shape—and then I'm off to the war."

"Good for you, Tom," I said approvingly, "but then I naturally expected that you would put your money to a sensible use. How is it with Jack?"

And Tom and I turned our inquiring looks to the Irishman.

"I know what you think," retorted he quickly. "You think you know what'll get away with Jack's money. In your minds you see my money going for whiskey and me never drawing a sober breath till I'm down to bed-rock. But I'm going to fool you. I've been doing some thinking for myself—and that's a rare thing for Jack, you know—an' I says to myself, says I, 'Jacky, boy, this is the time of your life to do some good for your poor kindred in ould Ireland.' I haven't heard from any of them for several years and don't know who of them is living an' who is dead. But I've made up my mind that when we get into Leavenworth not a drop will I touch, and soon as I crook me fingers on that money I'll hit the trail for New York, take passage for the ould dart, and if I can find any of my family living I'll bring them back with me to this glorious land of liberty, where one man's as good as another and a blamed sight better if he behaves himself decently. And mind you, now, I'm not going to touch a drop of liquor till I get back from the ould country. And then, of course, I'll re-enlist, for soldiering's my best hold."

Before he was done speaking each of us had extended a hand to give him a hearty hand shake of encouragement in his good resolution.

"My boy," said old Tom, with tears in his eyes, as he took one of Jack's hands in both his, "you don't know how glad it makes me to hear you talk that way. If you'll only stick to it, I'd give the half of my possessions to help you carry out that resolution."

"Same here, Jack," I added.

"Well, I'm going to show you that I can and will do it."

After a little pause Tom inquired:

"But now about yourself, Peck. What do you expect to do with yourself?"

"Well, I've made up my mind that I'll not re-enlist," I replied. "I've had soldiering enough, I think; but I suppose I'll have to enter Uncle Sam's service in some shape or other. I noticed when we were in Leavenworth before that the quartermaster's department at the fort is fitting out a good many trains of new six-mule teams; and, as that is something to my notion, I think I'll try for a job as wagon-master."

When we reached Council Grove, then the gateway of the border settlements, we felt as if we were really getting back into "God's country." As we passed the place where we had had the controversy with the jayhawkers, we stopped a little while to have a chat with the old storekeeper and told him the disposition we had made of the black horse. He had never heard of any owner of the horse and did not think it probable that Wild Bill would ever be disturbed in his possession of him. He had heard nothing more concerning the jayhawkers after they were gobbled up by the soldiers and taken to the military prison at Fort Leavenworth.

When we reached Leavenworth City, we again put up at Ned Welch's boarding-house, on Seneca Street, and our team at Jim Brown's stable.

A few days later, on the arrival of Mr. Kitchen's train, we transferred our team and camp outfit to him, as per agreement, divided up the cash proceeds of our expedition, and the wolf hunters disbanded, promising to keep track of each other in the future by correspondence.

Then Jack and Tom started East, intending to travel together as far as Pennsylvania.

I parted with my dear comrades with sincere regret, fearing that in the vicissitudes of the great war then getting under good headway, I might never see them again.

When next I heard from Jack he had re-enlisted and was back in the old company again. In the war he did gallant service and received some honorable scars, re-enlisted again after the war and in his last enlistment took service in the Seventh Cavalry, and was one of the last remnant of that doomed band who with their gallant leader met a heroic death on that fatal knoll by the Little Big Horn River on Sunday, June 25, 1876. With few serious faults, and many virtues, our untutored, wild Irishman was a brave, unselfish, and manly man.

Tom carried out his plan of using his money for the benefit of his widowed sister and her children on the little farm in Pennsylvania, saw them comfortably fixed, and then went to Washington, where, through the influence of army officers who had known him in the service he obtained a commission as captain in a volunteer cavalry regiment, soon rose to be colonel of the regiment, and at the close of the war was a brevet brigadier-general, commanding a brigade.

He had hoped when the war ended to obtain a commission in the regular army, but his wounds so far disabled him as to unfit him for active service in the regulars. He was, therefore, compelled to accept a pension and retired to the little farm to try to content himself with the dull life of citizen.

After years of perilous adventures and desperate encounters on the frontier, Wild Bill was finally assassinated in the city of Deadwood, South Dakota, by a wretched gambler.

And I? Well, of course, I married "the girl I left behind me" in Leavenworth City, for which piece of wisdom—or good fortune—I have always congratulated myself. After getting married I took service with Uncle Sam as a wagon-master, in which capacity I served through the Civil War, in Kansas, Missouri, Arkansas, and the Indian Nation.

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