Dick's Desertion Part 7

The name was on his blue lips as strength failed, and he fell full length in the snow, while the whirling haze of white, the pony, and Peter Many-Names, slid away to nothingness, and only that voice remained--"Stephanie, Stephanie!"

Peter, partly roused from the lethargy which was creeping over him, tried to lift d.i.c.k from the drifts, but was too weak. So he quietly pulled off his own blanket, laid it over the English boy, and then crouched down with his back to the worst of the wind, and waited stoically--waited for death, which was all he looked for. He thought of it quite calmly; but then through all his stormy life the gates of the Happy Hunting-Grounds had never been far away. There was something very pathetic in that little crouching brown figure waiting so gravely and patiently for the end.

The wind blew the snow into little ridges on his long black hair, and then blew it off again. The pony came close to him with drooping head, as if for company; but by then the Indian was too far gone to heed anything, though still he crooned little s.n.a.t.c.hes of his desolate song, as was right and fitting.

Presently he too fell softly sideways into the snow as a tired child falls. His last distinct thought was of the great broad woods through which they had pa.s.sed, and of the warm summer sun upon the fair, green world.

Just then the pony lifted its lean head, fringed over with the long ragged mane, and pointing its nose to the blast, neighed shrilly, piercingly, as only an Indian pony can neigh. But neither d.i.c.k nor Peter Many-Names heard it.

That neigh was answered by a dozen or more. But so strongly blew the irregular winds that only faint echoes of the shrill clamour were to be heard. It proceeded from the very heart of an unusually large bluff of willows upon the bank of a river. There was an open s.p.a.ce in the middle of this thick growth of stunted trees, which was occupied by several horses and a cl.u.s.ter of tepees. A band of Indians were very comfortably weathering the unexpected storm in this manner, little more than a few yards distant from the spot where d.i.c.k and Peter Many-Names had been overcome.

When the pony neighed, no echo of the sound reached the ears of the people in the tepees; but the loud whinnyings of their own horses at last aroused Man-afraid-of-a-Bear, who had been sleeping the sleep of the just after a full meal, and he therefore went cautiously forth to investigate.

He noticed with satisfaction that the blizzard showed signs of abating, and he also noticed that another pony had been added to their little herd; so he carefully followed that pony's track for a few yards, and came upon d.i.c.k and Peter Many-Names. He had looked for something of the kind, being accustomed to the chances of the plains.

The Red Man is hospitable, but suspicious. However, there was nothing about the half-frozen and unconscious pair that might have led Man-afraid-of-a-Bear to suppose that they were enemies. Besides, their advent had added a very fine pony to the wealth of the tribe; so, without much more ado, he dragged them one after the other to the tepees.

His haste was probably their salvation. Heroic and weird remedies were applied to ward off frost-bite, and after a time Peter Many-Names recovered sufficiently to eat a hearty meal.

But it was days before the grip of the frost loosened from d.i.c.k's brain. An old woman had taken a queer fancy to the white boy, and she nursed him patiently and fed him well long after the great storm had pa.s.sed, and long after Peter had begun to do his share of the hunting and other tasks which fell to the men. Day after day pa.s.sed, and still d.i.c.k lay helpless on the pile of skins in the dusky tepee, waited on by the grim, silent old squaw, and knowing nothing of his surroundings.

He fancied the Indian woman was Stephanie, and kept calling out to her and begging her to forgive him. "For indeed, Steenie, I 'm sorry," he would cry; "and after this I will be different, dear, and try and make it up to you. I was selfish and did not think, but I loved you all the time. I never forgot you. Forgive me, Stephanie! Stephanie, Stephanie!" And so it went on, until, exhaustion brought quiet.

No one noticed him much or was much interested in him. But Peter Many-Names, after a few weeks, was counted a valuable addition to the tribe; and the pony was the swiftest of the herd.

The days pa.s.sed, and the prairies lay a vast field of white beneath the radiant blue of the skies. Then the snow blew off the higher mounds and ridges, and only the hollows and sloughs were white. So the season advanced, through all its changes of cold, through all its s.h.i.+fting winds, and brilliant sun and sudden tempest. And still the old squaw tended d.i.c.k, filling him with fearful herb-drinks, feeding him n.o.bly, wrapping him close in soft skins. It was a fancy of hers that Death should not have the white boy; and once having become possessed with the idea, she nursed d.i.c.k as if he had been her own son, to the wonder of the tribe. And at last her care was rewarded, and the clouds cleared from his brain, though he had little hold on life for a time.

But the days of weakness pa.s.sed, and with them pa.s.sed the last shadow of hesitation in d.i.c.k's mind. He had had long hours in which to repent and think as he lay in the corner of the smoky tepee--long hours in which to realise the fulness of that mercy which had s.h.i.+elded him in danger and saved him from death. And he went out into the suns.h.i.+ne again, resolved that as soon as he was strong enough to travel he would go back to that life in which his lot had been cast. He would go south, back to the Settlements, to work, and to Stephanie. And the wilds should thereafter call him in vain.

CHAPTER XI.

Back to Stephanie.

That long winter spent among the Indians was a bitterly hard one to d.i.c.k, and taught him patience and humility in no very gentle fas.h.i.+on.

He was anxious to put his good resolves to the test of action; but it would be some time before his strength became sufficient for the long journey back to the Settlements. And accustomed as he was to the possession of perfect health, he fretted under the knowledge, and chafed against the sense of helplessness which was so new to him. "But what's the use of fidgeting over it?" he told himself over and over again. "What's the use of thinking of it even, when I 'm fit for nothing but to sit at the entrance of the tepee when the sun's warm, or to lie on the pile of skins when the weather 's bad, and eat between times? Oh, but that old woman can cook things!" And indeed the old squaw, who was a person of position and influence, took care that he had plenty of food and warmth, and saw to it that no one molested him, regarding even Peter with suspicion. But the rest of the tribe looked upon him merely as an appanage of Peter Many-Names, and not a particularly creditable one at that.

Peter was enjoying himself thoroughly. The lean and haughty young braves, who looked down upon the white boy, were glad of his silent company; and the elders considered him a promising youth. While poor d.i.c.k lay weak and restive in the old squaw's wigwam, Peter was ruffling about the camp with a dozen arrogant young rascals at his tail. He was pre-eminently skilful as a hunter, and he added many ponies to the wealth of his host--ponies which were certainly never taken in trade for other articles, excepting probably an occasional bullet, or no less deadly arrows. In the genial warmth of admiration Peter expanded visibly in more respects than one. While poor d.i.c.k chafed under the knowledge that he was neither needed nor respected.

But in time a better frame of mind came to him. "How can I win respect, even the respect of untaught Indians," he thought, "when I don't deserve it? Even by their standards, I 'm not of much account.

Why, I don't even respect myself." For a time he was downcast and discouraged, but as strength of body increased under the old squaw's care, strength of soul increased also. And he resolved that in future he would think less of his pleasure and more of his duty, in whatever way of life his lot should be cast.

Some of this pa.s.sive resignation pa.s.sed off with his weakness; and he foresaw more clearly that his whole life might be pa.s.sed in struggling against just such temptations as this one to which he had yielded. But by then the keen, clean prairie had begun to do its work, and he faced his future resolutely. With surprising wisdom he did not make many far-reaching and likely-to-be-broken resolves. "I will go back to Stephanie as soon as I can," he thought; "and after that I will settle down to any work I find, as near to her as possible. At present, this is enough to think of."

So, with unusual patience, he set himself to wait for the return of strength and spring; while the old squaw grunted in undisguised admiration of his appet.i.te, which bordered on the voracious.

The weary weeks of cold pa.s.sed slowly. At the end of March the change came, and the prairies suddenly leapt into life. The skies were softer, and full of great white clouds which sailed grandly before the wind. The long, low earthen billows were covered with gra.s.s and all the radiant flowers of spring. Every depression of the soil was a slough full of green water, covered with battalions of mallards and other wild-fowl. The poplars put forth s.h.i.+ny leaves which glittered restlessly in the suns.h.i.+ne, and the meadow-larks filled the whole world with music.

Then d.i.c.k spoke to Peter Many-Names. "To-morrow," he said, "we will begin to get ready, and next week we will start south again. I have had enough of your plains."

But Peter Many-Names was quite comfortable, and found many and plausible objections to the idea.

"Very well," said d.i.c.k quietly, "you stay here, and I will go alone.

Only you must get back my gun for me."

Peter stared. There was a change in his comrade--a change which he could not fathom. But the day on which d.i.c.k was to start found Peter ready to start with him. "You my brother," he grunted in explanation, "an' I go with you. You not quite strong yet, an' so you go alone, you get lost or starve or drown or somethin'," which was likely, though Peter might have expressed it in a less uncomplimentary fas.h.i.+on.

"I can go by myself," said d.i.c.k, a little indignant, though much relieved that the Indian had elected to go with him. But Peter only grunted again.

"I goin'," he repeated, "come back here in spring--next spring. You come along quick."

Many and ceremonious were the farewells between Peter and his stately savage host. But the old squaw was the only one who grieved for the loss of d.i.c.k; she gave him three pairs of delicately embroidered moccasins, and then stood and watched him out of sight with dull tearless sorrow. She had seen so many lads ride away in the distance; and few had ever returned. d.i.c.k waved his hand to her several times, but she did not respond; only stood and looked after him with sad, dim old eyes.

The two travellers were accompanied by a crony of Peter's, who was to go with them to the end of the prairie-lands, and then return to the tribe with the three ponies they rode. They proceeded swiftly, and for the most part in silence; for the two Indians were sparing of words, according to their wont. They rode together ahead of d.i.c.k; but sometimes Peter fell back and opened a brief conversation. "To-morrow we begin to see woods again," he said once, "prairie soon break up, end. Then come trees, rivers, lakes. Now we see whole sky; then only little bits above leaves. Now we see who comes, miles an' miles away, then we see only gra.s.s, leaves, shadows, an' know less." But d.i.c.k welcomed the thought that the prairies would soon end.

His dreams had led him astray. He fully realised that now. But it was not in him to think of the long woodland journey that lay before them with anything but keen and somewhat wistful pleasure. The prairies were not attractive to him. They were too vast, too monotonous, too remote from the little hopes and cares of human life. But the forests were different, and he was full of longing to behold them once more in all the beauty of the early year. Yet other longings were now stronger; and every night he counted that he was so much nearer to Stephanie. At last the prairies were behind them, and he and Peter were alone and on foot once more. It had been autumn when they pa.s.sed through this country on their northward way, and now, looking back, d.i.c.k could scarcely believe that in a few months such changes could have taken place in all his hopes and aims and feelings.

There were changes also in his appearance. Severe illness and long-continued hards.h.i.+p had made him taller and thinner and older. He bore himself with less light-hearted confidence, and seemed to expect less consideration. Instead of being a careless boy to be guided and excused, he now gave greater promise of becoming a good man to be relied upon and trusted. The trials of that winter had been excellent moral medicine for his selfishness, and the nearness of danger and death had led him to realise something, however dimly, of his unavoidable duty to his friends, his sister, and above all, to his G.o.d.

Through all the splendour of the northern spring they went steadily southward. Not this time was d.i.c.k lost in a lazy dream of delight, though he loved the great woods more intensely than ever. The free skies were as fair to him, the winds still sang their little gipsy-songs to his heart, the green solitudes were as welcome to him as ever, but he held to his purpose firmly. And the days pa.s.sed from clear dawns to tender twilight, and every day left him so much nearer to Stephanie.

Steadily they journeyed southward, into lands of warmer sun and fuller blossom. Flower gave place to promise of fruit on all the wild bushes; the birds lost their spring songs with which the woods had rung, and flitted about busily and silently. Never had fairer season visited those forests, and d.i.c.k was alive to every subtle shade and gradation in all the beauty about him. He noted every point that made for loveliness in the glades and ravines and waterways, he felt akin to the very bees and b.u.t.terflies in their enjoyment of sun and summer. Yet never did he turn from his purpose, even in thought.

And neither did he rely so utterly upon the Indian; who, feeling that his influence had somehow lessened, watched closely and wondered more.

d.i.c.k was no longer as pliable as of yore, but his moral fibre seemed to be tougher and less yielding.

As the weeks pa.s.sed and they proceeded farther and farther south, d.i.c.k grew restless and anxious. All sorts of vague fears began to torment him, and he imagined that some disaster might have befallen Stephanie.

She might be ill. She might be needing him in a hundred ways, and probably had been, throughout all those long months. The thought of her in illness or trouble became as a spur to goad him on, and Peter marvelled at the pace. d.i.c.k was still d.i.c.k, and his penitence was always deep in proportion to its tardiness.

So the year went on. The wild asters showed their buds, and presently opened into golden-hearted stars, filling the forest glades with a mist of delicate purple. Farther and farther south they went, while the wild sunflowers bloomed and faded, and the fair green growth became lifeless and sere with the sinking of the sap. And every day's journey brought d.i.c.k so many miles nearer to Stephanie.

Until at last, almost at the end of the autumn, they camped for the night only a few miles away from the Collinson homestead. That same night, as they sat beside their little fire, Peter Many-Names glanced at d.i.c.k curiously. "You go on alone to-morrow," he said, as one stating a long-decided fact.

d.i.c.k looked up, almost startled that the Indian should show so perfect a knowledge of his feelings. "Yes, I go on alone," he answered quietly, "I go on alone--to see my sister."

The Indian leant forward, his eyes s.h.i.+ning greenly in the flicker of the firelight. "Yes, you go on alone, my brother," he replied in his own speech, "you go on alone, to the life of the white man. In dark houses shall you live, in hard labour shall you grow old. The white stars, the great stars of the north, the clear winds that are the breath of the Great Spirit, the noise of the buffalo-herd, the shrill cry of the eagle, the note of the tw.a.n.ging bowstring--all these shall be to you as a forgotten tongue. In the plains and the forests man sees the foot-marks of the Great Spirit, hears His speech in the heart, and beholds His presence in all things. And you shall know them no more."

d.i.c.k nodded. "I shall know them no more," he answered, a little sadly, "but I think the Great Spirit can be heard and known as well in my life as in yours, Peter."

The next day d.i.c.k went on alone. He had no very distinct plan in his mind, but he was too much ashamed of himself to go directly to the homestead, and face the grave, displeased looks which he felt sure would be his portion, and deservedly so. Instead, he skirted round the edges of the familiar fields, and struck upwards through that little rocky ravine which cut through the fertile acres.

As he walked cautiously amongst the dead fern and bracken, stooping beneath the swinging, leafless branches, sinking knee-deep in the drifted, dead leaves, he wondered what chance he would get of speaking to Stephanie. Every familiar tree and fence, every detail of the ground, everything which he had known before and now saw again, gave him a feeling of half-painful pleasure which astonished him, for he had not realised that anything about the farm had grown dear to him. And the dearest thing of all--what of Stephanie? He almost ran along the bottom of the narrowing ravine, brus.h.i.+ng through the bushes, leaping the fallen and rotting trees, yet his instinct of caution kept his progress quiet.

The ravine ended in a steep bank, and d.i.c.k climbed up it swiftly in the deep, dead leaves, breathless, and looked, and looked again. Beyond the stump fence, on the gradually rising ground, stood Stephanie. Her eyes and mouth had a wistful look, but she did not seem unhappy. She was standing a little turned away from the ravine, watching the distant forests beyond the farm-buildings--watching them dreamily, and a little sadly. She had neither heard nor seen d.i.c.k. And he knelt in the deep leaves, and looked at her, and looked. All his shame and repentance surged upon him overwhelmingly, and kept him dumb and helpless, unable to move.

Everything was very quiet--quiet as only the woods can be in the late fall. Once, while d.i.c.k knelt there, two big, brown woodp.e.c.k.e.rs flew heavily across the fields; once some little shrill-voiced bird called suddenly from the bushes, with a distant flutter of wings, and he could hear Roger's deep tones from the far, far distance, shouting directions to the farm-hands. Still Stephanie did not move.

At last he made some involuntary sound, and she turned swiftly and saw him. He saw the light of wonder and joy flash into her clear, pale face, and sprang to his feet, calling her eagerly by name. Somehow, he could never tell in what manner he cleared the barrier of the stump fence, and was beside her in an instant.