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      The Missouri Outlaws

      NOTICE

      GUSTAVE AIMARD was the adopted son of one of the most powerful Indian tribes, with whom he lived for more than fifteen years in the heart of the prairies, sharing their dangers and their combats, and accompanying them everywhere, rifle in one hand and tomahawk in the other. In turn squatter, hunter, trapper, warrior, and miner, GUSTAVE AIMARD has traversed America from the highest peaks of the Cordilleras to the ocean shores, living from hand to mouth, happy for the day, careless of the morrow. Hence it is that GUSTAVE AIMARD only describes his own life. The Indians of whom he speaks he has known – the manners he depicts are his own.

      PREFACE

      Very few of the soul-stirring narratives written by GUSTAVE AIMARD are equal in freshness and vigour to "The Missouri Outlaws," hitherto unpublished in this country. The characters of the Squatter, the real, restless, unconquerable American, who is always going ahead, and of his wife and daughter, are admirably depicted, while his eccentric brother is a perfect gem of description. The great interest, however, of the narrative is centred in Tom Mitchell, the mysterious outlaw, whose fortunes excite the readers' imagination to the utmost. There can be no doubt he is one of the most original characters depicted by the versatile pen of the great French novelist. In addition to being a story of adventure, "The Missouri Outlaws" is also a love tale, and abounds in tender pathos, the interest of which is well sustained in "The Prairie Flower" and in its sequel, "The Indian Scout."

      London: February, 1877.

      CHAPTER I.

      THE GOOD SHIP PATRIOT

      On the 4th of August, 1801, a little after eight o'clock at night, just as the last rays of the setting sun disappeared behind the heights of Dorchester, gilding as they did so the summits of certain islands scattered at the entrance to Boston Bay, some idlers of both sexes, collected on Beacon Hill, at the foot of the lighthouse, saw a large vessel making for the harbour.

      At first it seemed as if the ship would be compelled to desist from her design, as the wind was slightly contrary; but, by a series of skilful manoeuvres, it at last passed by the danger which threatened, the sails were one by one taken in and furled, and finally the anchor was cast beside one of the many vessels in port.

      A few minutes later nothing was to be seen on deck save one man walking up and down doing duty as watch for the time being.

      The vessel had, under cover of a dense fog, escaped from Brest, slipped past the English cruisers, and finally, after many dangers, reached its destination.

      Descending into the cabin, we find two men seated at a table upon which were glasses, bottles, pipes, and tobacco, conversing and smoking.

      These were Captain Pierre Durand, a young man, with regular but rather effeminate features, and yet a look of frank honesty, to which his sparkling eyes, his broad forehead, his long waving hair, gave an appearance of singular energy. Though every inch a sailor, there was a refinement about him not generally found in his class.

      His companion was a handsome and haughty young man, of about two-and-twenty, of moderate height, but with very broad shoulders; he was evidently of powerful make, with nerves of steel. His complexion was olive; his hair long wavy black; his eyes were large and bold; the expression of his countenance sombre and thoughtful, while at this early age many a wrinkle caused by thought or suffering was to be observed.

      There had evidently been a warm discussion, for the captain was walking up and down, a frown upon his brow. Suddenly, however, he reseated himself and held out his hand across the table.

      "I was wrong. Do not be vexed," he said.

      "I am not angry, my good Pierre," he answered.

      "Then why sulk with your friend?"

      "I do not sulk, heaven knows; I am simply sad. You have reopened a wound I thought forever closed," the other added with a sigh.

      "Well, then, in heaven's name, if it be so," cried the captain, "let us talk about something else – and above all, let us drink. This old rum is a sovereign remedy for the blues. Your health, my friend."

      Both drank after touching glasses, and then silence again ensued.

      "Now, my dear Oliver," resumed the captain, "at last we are safe in Boston. We leave tomorrow. What do you intend to do?"

      "You remember our conversation at Brest?"

      "I have not forgotten it, but I never seriously entertained the idea. We had dined rather copiously."

      "We were very sober. There were two bottles on the table, one empty and the other nearly full. I then told you that though I had only just returned to France after an absence of ten years, I was compelled to leave at a moment's notice, and to leave without raising any suspicion. I wanted to depart without anyone being able to obtain the slightest clue; you remember," he added.

      "I do, and I told you that I would run the blockade that very night, if the weather turned out as bad as I expected. Did I keep my promise?"

      "With all the loyalty of your honest heart. I also told you I intended remaining in America."

      "It is to that madcap resolution I object," said the captain emphatically. "Why not stay with me? You are an excellent sailor – you shall be my chief officer."

      "No, my friend. I can accept nothing which can ever tempt me to return to France," he answered.

      "How you suffer!" sighed his friend.

      "Horribly. Come, my friend, as we shall part for ever tomorrow, I will tell you my history."

      "Not if it makes you suffer."

      "I will be brief. Sad as my story is, it is not very long."

      "Go on," replied Captain Durand, filling up two more glasses of rum, and lighting a fresh cigar for himself.

      "I will not sermonise, but begin at the beginning. I was born in Paris, but might be English, German, or even Russian, for all I know. I am simply aware that my birthplace was Paris, in the house of a doctor, where my mother took refuge. It was in the Rue St. Honoré I first saw the light but, as soon as I could be removed, was sent to the Foundling. There I remained four years, until a loving young couple, who had lost their only child, adopted me. They were poor, and lived on the third floor of a wretched old house, in the Rue Plumet, where, I must own, I had enough, but of very coarse, food."

      "One day, however, fortune knocked at the door. My adopted mother was, and still is, one of the handsomest women in Paris. By accident an old friend, a distant relation, a man of high position, found her out. He at once procured a lucrative appointment for my supposed parent, and we moved to a splendid residence in the Faubourg du Roule. The friend, who lived close by, at once began to visit us every evening, and, by a curious coincidence, the husband always found business which required his absence. He never returned until a quarter of an hour after the other had left."

      "Accommodating husband," sneered Durand.

      "Just so. But, unfortunately for me, I became older, curious, was always turning up when not wanted, and saying things which were not required. It was decided that I was an incorrigible scamp, and must be sent away."

      "My adopted mother had relations at Dunkirk, and I was packed off to them to be sent to sea as cabin boy. Then only did I discover that these people were not my parents. My supposed mother coldly kissed me, told me to be a good boy and gave me ten sous; my father, who escorted me to the ramshackle vehicle which traded between Paris and Calais, told me to remember this, that society never having done anything for me, I was to do nothing for society; the only virtues to which men ever owed success were, he said, selfishness and ingratitude. He further added, 'Good-bye, we shall never meet again.'"

      "He turned his back and left me. This was my first young sorrow, and I felt it very much."

      "I feel for you," said the captain; "your story is very much like my own."

      "These people, knowing me then to be very delicate, hoped that the hardy profession they had selected for me would kill

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