CHAPTER I
IN A LONELY CABIN

On the edge of a prairie, in western Iowa, thirty years ago, stood a cabin, covering quite a little ground, but only one story high. It was humble enough, but not more so than the early homes of some who have become great.

The furniture was limited to articles of prime necessity. There was a stove, a table, three chairs, a row of shelves containing a few articles of crockery and tinware, and a bed in the far corner of the room, on which rested a man with ragged gray beard and hair, a face long and thin, and coal-black eyes.

It was evident he was sick unto death. His parchment-colored skin was wrinkled; from time to time he coughed so violently as to rack his slight frame, and his hand, thin and wrinkled, as it rested on the quilt that covered him, shook as with palsy.

It was hard to tell how old the man was. He looked over seventy, but there were indications that he had aged prematurely.

There was one other person in the room whose appearance contrasted strongly with that of the old man – a boy of sixteen, with brown hair, ruddy cheeks, hazel eyes, an attractive yet firm and resolute face, and an appearance of manliness and self-reliance. He was well dressed, and would have passed muster upon the streets of a city.

“How do you feel, Uncle Peter?” he asked as he stood by the bedside.

“I shall never feel better, Ernest,” said the old man in a hollow voice.

“Don’t say that, uncle,” said Ernest in a tone of concern.

There seemed little to connect him in his strong, attractive boyhood with the frail old man, but they had lived together for five years, and habit was powerful.

“Yes, Ernest, I shall never rise from this bed.”

“Isn’t there anything I can get for you, uncle?”

“Is there – is there anything left in the bottle?” asked Peter wistfully.

Ernest walked to the shelf that held the dishes, and took from a corner a large black bottle. It seemed light, and might be empty. He turned the contents into a glass, but there was only a tablespoonful of whisky.

“It is almost all gone, Uncle Peter; will you have this much?”

“Yes,” answered the old man tremulously.

Ernest lifted the invalid into a sitting posture, and put the glass to his mouth.

He drained it, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.

“It is good,” he said briefly.

“I wish there were more.”

“It goes to the right spot. It puts strength into me.”

“Shall I go to the village and buy more?”

“I – I don’t know – ”

“I can get back very soon.”

“Very well; go, like a good boy.”

“I shall have to trouble you for some money, Uncle Peter.”

“Go to the trunk. You will find some.”

There was a small hair trunk in another corner. Ernest knew that this was meant, and he lifted the lid.

There was a small wooden box at the left-hand side. Opening this, Ernest saw three five-dollar gold pieces.

“There are but three gold pieces, uncle,” he announced, looking toward the bed.

“Take one of them, Ernest.”

“I wonder if that is all the money he has left?” thought Ernest.

He rose and went to the door.

“I won’t be gone long, uncle,” he said. He followed a path which led from the door in an easterly direction to the village. It was over a mile away, and consisted of a few scattering houses, a blacksmith’s shop and a store.

It was to the store that Ernest bent his steps. It was a one-story structure, as were most of the buildings in the village. There was a sign over the door which read:

JOE MARKS,

Groceries and Family Supplies

Joe stood behind the counter; there were two other men in the store, one tall, gaunt, of the average Western type, with a broad-brimmed soft felt hat on his head and the costume of a hunter; he looked rough, but honest and reliable, that was more than could be said of the other. He may best be described as a tramp, a man who looked averse to labor of any kind, a man without a settled business or home, who cared less for food than drink, and whose mottled face indicated frequent potations of whisky.

Ernest looked at this man as he entered. He didn’t remember to have met him before, nor was there anything to attract him in his appearance.

“How are you, Ernest?” said Joe Marks cordially. “How’s Uncle Peter?”

“He’s pretty bad, Joe. He thinks he’s going to die.”

“Not so bad as that, surely?”

“Yes, I guess he’s right. He’s very weak.”

“Well, he’s a good age. How old is he?”

“I don’t know. He never told me.”

“He’s well on to seventy, I’m thinking. But what can I do for you?”

“You may fill this bottle; Uncle Peter is weak, he thinks it will put new life in him.”

“So it will, Ernest; there’s nothing like good whisky to make an old man strong, or a young man, for that matter.”

It is easy to see that Joe did not believe in total abstinence.

“I don’t drink myself!” said Ernest, replying to the last part of Joe’s remark.

“There’s nothing like whisky,” remarked the tramp in a hoarse voice.

“You’ve drunk your share, I’m thinking,” said Luke Robbins, the tall hunter.

“Not yet,” returned the tramp. “I haven’t had my share yet. There’s lots of people that has drunk more’n me.”

“Why haven’t you drunk your share? You hadn’t no objections, I reckon?”

“I hadn’t the money,” said the tramp sadly. “I’ve never had much money. I ain’t lucky.”

“If you had more money, you might not be living now. You’d have drunk yourself to death.”

“If I ever do commit suicide, that’s the way I’d like to die,” said the tramp.

Joe filled the bottle from a keg behind the counter and handed it to Ernest. The aroma of the whisky was diffused about the store, and the tramp sniffed it eagerly. It stimulated his desire to indulge his craving for drink. As Ernest, with the bottle in his hand, prepared to leave, the tramp addressed him.

“Say, young feller, ain’t you goin’ to shout?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ain’t you goin’ to treat me and this gentleman?” indicating Luke Robbins.

“No,” answered Ernest shortly. “I don’t buy it as drink, but as medicine.”

“I need medicine,” urged the tramp, with a smile.

“I don’t,” said the hunter. “Don’t you bother about us, my boy. If we want whisky we can buy it ourselves.”

“I can’t,” whined the tramp. “If I had as much money as you” – for he had noticed that Ernest had changed a gold piece – “I’d be happy, but I’m out of luck.”

Ernest paid no attention to his words, but left the store and struck the path homeward.

“What’s that boy?” asked the tramp.

“It’s Ernest Ray.”

“Where’d he get that gold?”

“He lives with his uncle, a mile from the village.”

“Is his uncle rich?”

“Folks think so. They call him a miser.”

“Is he goin’ to die?”

“That’s what the boy says.”

“And the boy’ll get all his money?”

“It’s likely.”

“I’d like to be his guardian.”

Joe and Luke Robbins laughed.

“You’d make a pretty guardian,” said Luke.

CHAPTER II
UNCLE PETER’S REVELATION

Ernest went direct to his home, for he knew his uncle would be waiting for him.

The old man’s eyes were closed, but he opened them when Ernest entered.

“Was I gone long?” asked the boy.

“I don’t know. I think I fell asleep.”

“Shall I give you some of the drink?”

“Yes.”

He drank a small amount, and it seemed to brighten him up. “You look better, Uncle Peter. You may live some time.”

Peter shook his head.

“No, boy,” he replied; “my time has come to die. I know it. I would like to live for your sake. You will miss me when I am gone, Ernest?”

“Yes, uncle, I shall miss you very much.”

The old man seemed gratified. Ernest was the only one he cared for in all the world.

“I don’t care so much about dying, but I am anxious for you. I wish I had money to leave you, Ernest, but I haven’t much.”

“I am young and strong. I can get along.”

“I hope so. You will go away from here?”

“Yes, uncle. I don’t think I shall care to stay here after you are gone.”

“You will need money to take you away.”

“There is a little more in the trunk.”

“But only a little. It is not quite all I have. I have a hundred dollars in gold laid away for you.”

Ernest looked surprised.

“I must tell you where it is while I still have life. Do you remember the oak tree on the little knoll half a mile away?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Dig under that tree five feet in a westerly direction. There is a wooden box about a foot below the surface. There’s nothing to mark the spot, for it was buried a year since, and the grass has grown over it. After I am gone go there and get the money, but don’t let anyone see you. It will be best to go at night. There are evil-disposed men who would rob you of it. I am sorry it is so little, Ernest.”

“But it seems to me a good deal.”

“To a boy it may seem so. Once I thought I might have a good deal more to leave you. Go to the trunk and search till you find a paper folded in an envelope with your name.”

Ernest went to the trunk. He found the envelope readily, and held it up.

“Is that it, uncle?”

“Yes. Put it in your pocket, and read it after I am gone. Then be guided by circumstances. It may amount to something hereafter.”

“Very well, uncle.”

“I have told you, Ernest, that I do not expect to live long. I have a feeling that twenty-four hours from now I shall be gone.”

“Oh, no, uncle, not so soon!” exclaimed Ernest in a shocked tone.

“Yes, I think so. If you have any questions to ask me while I yet have life, ask, for it is your right.”

“Yes, Uncle Peter, I have long wished to know something about myself. Have I any relatives except you?”

“I am not your relative,” answered the old man slowly.

“Are you not my uncle?” he asked.

“No; there is no tie of blood between us.”

“Then how does it happen that we have lived together so many years?”

“I was a servant in your father’s family. When your father died the care of you devolved upon me.”

“Where was I born?”

“In a large town in the western part of New York State. Your grandfather was a man of wealth, but your father incurred his displeasure by his marriage to a poor but highly educated and refined girl. A cousin of your father took advantage of this and succeeded in alienating father and son. The estate that should have descended to your father was left to the cousin.”

“Is he still living?”

“Yes.”

“But my father died?”

“Yes; he had a fever which quickly carried him off when you were five years of age.”

“Was he very poor?”

“No; he inherited a few thousand dollars from an aunt, and upon this he lived prudently, carrying on a small business besides. Your mother died when you were three years old, your father two years later.”

“And then you took care of me?”

“Yes.”

“And I have been a burden to you these many years!”

“No! Don’t give me too much credit. A sum of money was put into my hands to spend for you. We lived carefully, and it lasted. We have been here three years, and it has cost very little to live in that time. The hundred dollars of which I spoke to you are the last of your inheritance. You are not indebted to me for it. It is rightfully yours.”

“What is my uncle’s name?”

“Stephen Ray. He lives a few miles from Elmira on the Erie Road.”

“And is he quite rich?”

“Yes; he is probably worth a quarter of a million dollars. It is money which should have gone to your father.”

“Then the wicked are sometimes prospered in this world?”

“Yes, but this world is not all.”

“Has there been any communication with my cousin in all these years?”

“Yes; two years ago I wrote to him.”

“What did you write?”

“You must forgive me, Ernest, but I saw you growing up without education, and I felt that you should have advantages which I could not give you. I wrote to your cousin, asking if he would pay your expenses in a preparatory school and afterwards at college.”

“What did he reply?”

“Go to the trunk. You will find his letter there. It is in the tray, and addressed to me.”

Ernest found it readily.

“May I read it?” he asked.

“Yes, I wish you to do so.”

It ran thus:

Peter Brant – Sir: I have received your letter making an appeal to me in behalf of Ernest Ray, the son of my cousin. You wish me to educate him. I must decline to do so. His father very much incensed my revered uncle, and it is not right that any of his money should go to him or his heirs. The son must reap the reward of the father’s disobedience. So far as I am personally concerned, I should not object to doing something for the boy, but I am sure that my dead uncle would not approve it. Besides, I have myself a son to whom I propose to leave the estate intact.

It is my advice that you bring up the boy Ernest to some humble employment, perhaps have him taught some trade by which he can earn an honest living. It is not at all necessary that he should receive a college education. You are living at the West. That is well. He is favorably situated for a poor boy, and will have little difficulty in earning a livelihood. I don’t care to have him associate with my boy Clarence. They are cousins, it is true, but their lots in life will be very different.

I do not care to communicate with you again.

Stephen Ray.

Ernest read this letter with flushed cheeks.

“I hate that man!” he said hotly, “even if he is a relative. Peter, I am sorry you ever applied to him in my behalf.”

“I would not, Ernest, if I had understood what manner of man he was.”

“I may meet him some time,” said Ernest thoughtfully.

“Would you claim relationship?”

“Never!” declared Ernest emphatically. “It was he, you say, who prejudiced my grandfather against my poor father.”

“Yes.”

“In order to secure the estate himself?”

“Undoubtedly that was his object.”

“Nothing could be meaner. I would rather live poor all my life than get property by such means.”

“If you have no more questions to ask, Ernest, I will try to sleep. I feel drowsy.”

“Do so, Uncle Peter.”

The old man closed his eyes, and soon all was silent. Ernest himself lay down on a small bed. When he awoke, hours afterward, he lit a candle and went to Peter’s bedside.

The old man lay still. With quick suspicion Ernest placed his hand on his cheek.

It was stone cold.

“He is dead!” cried Ernest, and a feeling of desolation came over him.

“I am all alone now,” he murmured.

But he was not wholly alone. There was a face glued against the window-pane – a face that he did not see. It was the tramp he had met during the day at the village store.