Ottumwa tri-weekly courier. [volume] (Ottumwa, Iowa) 1903-1916, 1914-06-09
A TALE OF THE OLD FRONTIER
BY Edgar Beecher Bronson

of thousands of square miles Of terri.
tory now teeming with peaceful indus
try and trade.
And while for the large part of forty
years have been reckOned as an out
law in one part Of the country or an
| other; and while enough men have
met death at my nands-many more.
indeed, than l shall here take space
to mention-to start fair sized grave.
yard, my story shall tell alike with
out shame and without pride or spirit
of boast.
F., shall tell<it without shame, for
never" Killed any but savages and des
perate criminals engaged at the time
of their taking off either in trying to
kill me or to capture property I was
employed in guarding. l got there
first. that was all; without pride or
boast, because no really brave man
harbors such sentiments.
And whatever is really brave
man? I wonder. Certainly there
must be degrees Of bravery, if some,
as we are told, are utterly devoid of
fear For while I hope and believe l
never funked going against any odds
where my bounden duty required,
know l always lodged trouble as long
as I could with decency and safety,
and never myself became really dan
gerous to another until / myself had
become badly scared.
All 50 called danger, anyway, is on
ly relative; is actually appalling only
to the inexperienced; invariably dim
inishes where circumstances over
which we have no control make us its
familiar, until, while ever sensible OF
the hazards it hangs over us, and al
ways subconsciously on guard for
them, we eat and sleep with 1t as con-
sciously unconcerned about our own
physical safety as village sexton
spading Gods Acre.
A crisis come, then believe even
the hardest suffers momentary &C
cess of fear that sends the blood sur.
ging back upon the heart, q mental
shock due to the surprise. But this is
instantly followed by Supernatural
alertness of every sense In personal
defense against the threat impending.
Thus the steeple-jack swings singing
at dizzy heights; the miner jests while
he lamps his blasting charge and lays
his fuse; the trained gun-fghter chats
and apparently lounges beside an en-
emy he knows is eagerly watching for
a chance to pot him.
And, If you ask me, none OF these
men are running materially more seri-
GUS risk Of their lives than do the deni-
zens of cities lodging darting throngs
of automobiles with all the cleverness
and GOODNESS of banderillero in bull
ring; are in no more peril than the
workers among the madly wh1rnng
wheels of many a factory. so, at
least, it seems to me.
come of q race of pioneers. In
deed, I myself was born in sugar
bush of Ionia county near the center
of the state of Michigan, under condi-
tons of life so bitterly hard that the
worst that has befallen be away from
the home of my boyhood has seemed,
by comparison, easy.
There in the early forties it was a
perpetual struggle from year end to
year end, with no reward at the finish
other than the keeping ourselves scan
tily clad and seldom better than half
fed. None escaped the struggle. Tod.
ding youth and hating, palsied age
had to work to live, knew no ease or
even real rest.
OF money there was practically none
there in circulation, and of this condl'
ton I recall striking instance. Mr..
A. S. Wadsworth was the grandee OF
our community, it's leading merchant
and the owner of the only water power
sawmill in that section.
Always large creditor of the neigh
bors for lumber and supplies, the only
payments any we're able to make to
him were in produce. Thus when. one
day. the postmaster. Mr. Hooker, re-
ceiyed a letter for Mr.. Wadsworth up
on which twenty-five cents was due, a