The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-11-29
The Vigilants,

In ~glittering snow-tipped spears which pierce the azure
of the skies,
just as the pioneers began their pleasures of the night,
And sunset glorifed the hills with crimson-tinted
light
The moon, fullorbed, it's magic spread DER landscapes
grand and bold,
And wove its threads of silver light mid sunsets bars
of gold
A type of that which lured these men from fresides
far away
To beat at Natures treasure vaults undaunted day by
day;
Strange groups were there, unkempt and rude, wild.
eyed, steel hearted men,
When, loudly calling as he rode, there galloped
through the glen,
Gray-haired, gray-eyed, cool, stern and grim, their
leader, Broncho Ben.
"Quick! to your saddles, vigilants! They're running
off our stock!"
And echoes caught and tossed the stern commands
from rock to rock;
''Those Indian demons once again have found our
herds at grass.
Well ride straight through the lower park, and meet
them at the pass!'
Swift words, swift deeds. They dashed away, led on
by Captain Ben,
And vanished down the vale toward the entrance of
the glen.
A short half hour and they had neared the green vale's
rocky gate
The Indian bandits rushing on in headlong race with
fate
The miners sighting every gun through eyes afame
with hate.
Out fash the rifles notes of death, in emphasis of fire,
Out rang the shouts and answering yeus, in tones of
deadly ire,
While many a warrior kissed the earth as border
rifles flashed,
And many a steed, its rider gone, in wild abandon
dashed.
Quick, men! There go the leader and his son!" cried
Captain Ben;
Shoot down the dogs! BY heaven, they're gone!
You've missed them once again!
Give me that Winchester, McCook, I'll bring them
down to dust,
Before they reach yon bowlder piles and heaped up
lava crust!
There! Those shots dropped them! What! Not gone?
The youngster not yet deadl
Bring water here from yonder brook to battle his face
and head,
Tear off that hunting shirt and find the wound from
which he bled.'
"Well, who'd have thought its Here's a go! Just see
that ripping hair.
fOOr chllu! nat race, without the pant, is beautiful
and fair.
That greaser devil after all was mated with a dove
Lord! Lord! What won't these women do, and dare
it all for love?
Some mothers sunbeam, fathers pet, lured off to
Of hardship, plumber, blood stained crime; of peril,
gore and strife.
I'd give this hand to change that shot! If I had only
known
That I was shooting at a girl, that man had died
alone.
What's that you sayY "A white man toy Wash off
that Spanish brown.
All! Now 1 know that handsome face. It's gambler
Sam McKown,
Who knitted those fellows from the States, last year
and skipped the town.
WHO knows the girl! Light up some brush, we'll
save her if we can
To live repentant of the past and cheer some better
man."
Up flashed the FIRE. With weird effect it lit the Gu
The group Of roughly costumed men, the wounded girl
And as its rudy glow revealed the maiden's youthful
Reflected in those dark eyes fixed upon the leaders,
There stole Ser his a yell of gray, a dread and awesome
change,
The stern eyes melting into love, emotions deep and
strange.
With one deep groan he sank to earth, and, kneeling
at her side,
His tears. were mingled with her blood, her hfe's low
ebbing tide.
She kissed him, murmured some low word, smiled
softly once, and died.
They buried her there where the pines and towering
mountain height
Look down upon the lonely grave, as many a moonlit
night,
A grayhaired man with silent mien rides down the
pass alone
And kneels beside the rough hewn shaft of gray, un.
lettered stone.
They questioned him at first but he in accents hoarse
and strained
Asked but their silence, turned aside, and never once
explained.
So life flows on its turbid course in camp at Diggers'
Glen,
And still the vigilants are led by s~terneyed Broncho
Who was the maidenG" One man knows, but seals it
in his breast;
These incidents are solemn truths. God only knows
the rest.
Another romance, scaflet-Stanped, upon the border
West.
Traced out in blood, in strange events, in consecrated
tears,
In heart-throbs timing with life beats the marching of
the years,
These trails of freedom by our bold and hardy pio-
neers.
Il. Edgar Jones.