Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration: "STAND OUT O' MY WAY, OR I'LL KILL YOU!" See page 104] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE MOCCASIN RANCH A STORY OF DAKOTA BY HAMLIN GARLAND AUTHOR OF "THE CAPTAIN OF THE GRAY-HORSE TROOP" "MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS" etc. NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS MCMIX ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright, 1909, by Hamlin Garland. All rights reserved. Published September, 1909. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. MARCH 1 II. MAY 24 III. JUNE 33 IV. AUGUST 49 V. NOVEMBER 67 VI. DECEMBER 86 VII. CONCLUSION 128 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE MOCCASIN RANCH I MARCH Early in the gray and red dawn of a March morning in 1883, two wagons moved slowly out of Boomtown, the two-year-old "giant of the plains." As the teams drew past the last house, the strangeness of the scene appealed irresistibly to the newly arrived immigrants. The town lay behind them on the level, treeless plain like a handful of blocks pitched upon a russet robe. Its houses were mainly shanties of pine, one-story in height, while here and there actual tents gleamed in the half-light with infinite suggestion of America's restless pioneers. The wind blew fresh and chill from the west. The sun rose swiftly, and the thin scarf of morning cloud melted away, leaving an illimitable sweep of sky arching an almost equally majestic plain. There was a poignant charm in the air--a smell of freshly uncovered sod, a width and splendor in the view which exalted the movers beyond words. The prairie was ridged here and there with ice, and the swales were full of posh and water. Geese were slowly winging their way against the wind, and ducks were sitting here and there on the ice-rimmed ponds. The sod was burned black and bare, and so firm with frost that the wagon chuckled noisily as it passed over it. The whistle of the driver called afar, startling the ducks from their all-night resting-places. One of the teams drew a load of material for a house, together with a few household utensils. The driver, a thin-faced, blue-eyed man of thirty, walked beside his horses. His eyes were full of wonder, but he walked in silence. The second wagon was piled high with boxes and barrels of groceries and hardware, and was driven by a handsome young fellow with a large brown mustache. His name was Bailey, and he seemed to be pointing the way for his companion, whom he called Burke.