The Wild Man of the West Part 29

March Marston had at last struck a chord that vibrated intensely in the bosom of the warm-hearted child. She drew her log closer to him in her eagerness to dilate on the goodness of her adopted father, and began to pour into his willing ears such revelations of the kind and n.o.ble deeds that he had done, that March was fired with enthusiasm, and began to regard his friend d.i.c.k in the light of a demiG.o.d. Greatheart, in the "Pilgrim's Progress," seemed most like to him, he thought, only d.i.c.k seemed grander, which was a natural feeling; for Bunyan drew his Greatheart true to nature, while Mary and March had invested d.i.c.k with a robe of romance, which glittered so much that he looked preternaturally huge.

March listened with rapt attention; but as the reader is not March, we will not give the narrative in Mary's bad English. Suffice it to say, that she told how, on one occasion, d.i.c.k happened to be out hunting near to a river, into which he saw a little Indian child fall. It was carried swiftly by the current to a cataract fifty feet high, and in a few minutes would have been over and dashed to pieces, when d.i.c.k happily saw it, and plunging in brought it safe to sh.o.r.e, yet with such difficulty that he barely gained the bank, and grasped the branch of an overhanging willow, when his legs were drawn over the edge of the fall.

He had to hold on for ten minutes, till men came from the other side of the stream to his a.s.sistance.

Mary also told him (and it was evening ere she finished all she had to tell him) how that, on another occasion, d.i.c.k was out after grislies with a hunter, who had somehow allowed himself to be caught by a bear, and would have been torn in pieces had not d.i.c.k come up with his great two-edged sword--having fired off his rifle without effect--and, with one mighty sweep at the monster's neck, cut right through its jugular vein, and all its other veins, down to the very marrow of its backbone; in fact, killed it at one blow--a feat which no one had ever done, or had ever heard of as being done, from the days of the first Indian to that hour.

Many such stories did Mary relate to the poor invalid, who bore his sufferings with exemplary patience and fort.i.tude, and listened with unflagging interest; but of all the stories she told, none seemed to afford her so much pleasure in the telling as the following:--

One day d.i.c.k went out to hunt buffaloes, on his big horse, for he had several steeds, one or other of which he rode according to fancy; but he always mounted the big black one when he went after the buffalo or to war. Mary here explained, very carefully, that d.i.c.k never went to war on his own account--that he was really a man of peace, but that, when he saw oppression and cruelty, his blood boiled within him at such a rate that he almost went mad, and often, under the excitement of hot indignation, would he dash into the midst of a band of savages and scatter them right and left like autumn leaves.

Well, as he was riding along among the mountains, near the banks of a broad stream, and not far from the edge of the great prairie, he came suddenly on an object that caused his eyes to glare and his teeth to grind; for there, under the shade of a few branches, with a pot of water by her side, sat an old Indian woman. d.i.c.k did not need to ask what she was doing there. He knew the ways of the redskins too well to remain a moment in doubt. She had grown so old and feeble that her relations had found her burdensome; so, according to custom, they left her there to die. The poor old creature knew that she was a burden to them. She knew also the customs of her tribe--it was at her own request she had been left there, a willing victim to an inevitable fate, because she felt that her beloved children would get on better without her. They made no objection. Food, to last for a few days, was put within reach of her trembling hand; a fire was kindled, and a little pile of wood placed beside it, also within reach. Then they left her. They knew that when that food was consumed, and the last stick placed upon the fire, the shrunken limbs would stand in no need of warmth--the old heart would be still. Yet that heart had once beat joyfully at the sound of those pattering feet that now retired with heavy ruthless tread for ever. What a commentary on savage life! What a contrast between the promptings of the unregenerate heart of man and the precepts of that blessed--thrice blessed Gospel of Jesus Christ, where love, unalterable, inextinguishable, glows in every lesson and sweetens every command.

When d.i.c.k came upon her suddenly, as we have said, he was not ten paces distant from the spot where she sat; but she was apparently deaf and blind, for she evinced no knowledge of his presence. She was reaching out her skinny arm to place another stick upon the sinking fire at the time, for it was a sharp and cold, though a bright and sunny autumn day.

d.i.c.k stopped his horse, crushed his teeth together, and sat for a few moments regarding her intently.

Either the firewood had originally been placed too far away from the old woman's hand, or she had s.h.i.+fted her position, for she could not reach it. Once and again she made the effort--she stretched out her withered arm and succeeded in just touching the end of one of the pieces of wood, but could not grasp it. She pawed it once or twice, and then gave up the attempt with a little sigh. Drawing herself slowly together, she gathered up the rabbit-skin blanket which rested on her shoulders and attempted feebly to fold it across her chest. Then she slowly drooped her white head, with an expression of calm resignation on her old wrinkled visage.

d.i.c.k's great heart almost burst with conflicting emotions. The wrath that welled up as he thought of the deserters was met by a gush of tender pity as he gazed through blinding tears on the deserted. With a fling that caused his stout warhorse to stagger, he leaped to the ground, tore open the breast of his hunting-s.h.i.+rt, and, sitting down beside the old woman, placed her cold hand in his bosom.

She uttered a feeble cry and made a slight momentary effort to resist; but d.i.c.k's act, though promptly, was, nevertheless, tenderly done, and the big hand that stroked her white head was so evidently that of a friend, that the poor creature resigned herself to the enjoyment of that warmth of which she stood so much in need. Meanwhile d.i.c.k, without s.h.i.+fting his position, stretched forth his long arm, collected all the wood within reach, and placed it on the fire.

After a few minutes the old woman raised her head, and looking earnestly in d.i.c.k's face with her bleared and almost sightless eyes, said in the Indian language, with which her companion was well acquainted--

"My son, have you come back to me?"

A gush of indignant feeling had again to be violently stifled ere d.i.c.k could answer in moderate tones--

"No, mother, he's _not_ come back; but I'll be a son to ye. See, sit up an' warm yerself at the blaze. I'll get ye some meat and sticks."

In hot haste, and with desperate activity, for he had no other way of relieving his feelings, d.i.c.k cut down a quant.i.ty of firewood and placed it close to the hand of the old woman. Then he untied the tin kettle which he always carried at his saddle-bow, and, with a piece of dried venison, concocted a quant.i.ty of hot soup in a marvellously short s.p.a.ce of time. This done, he sat down beside the old woman and made her partake of it.

"Is it long since they left ye, mother?" he said, after she had swallowed a little.

The old woman pondered for a few seconds. "No," she said, "not long.

Only one sun has gone down since my son left me." Then she added in a sad tone, "I loved him. He is a great warrior--a brave chief--and he loved me, too. But he had to leave me; I am old and useless. It is my fate."

"Describe your son to me," said d.i.c.k abruptly. "He is tall and straight as the poplar," began the old creature, while a look of pride played for a moment on her withered countenance. "His shoulders are broad and his limbs are supple. He can run and leap like the deer, but not so well as he once could. Grey hairs are now mingling with the black--"

"Has he any mark by which I could find him out?" interrupted d.i.c.k impatiently.

"He has a deep cut over the right eye," returned the woman; "but stay,"

she added in some alarm, "you would not harm my son; you are not an enemy?"

"No, I would not; I would do him good. Which way did they go?"

"To the prairie--to the rising sun."

d.i.c.k at once arose, placed the kettle of soup close to the old woman's side, and unbuckling his saddle-girth, removed the blanket that covered his saddle, and transferred it to her shoulders.

This done, without uttering another word, he vaulted into his saddle, and dashed away as if he were flying for his life. The old woman listened until the clatter of his horse's hoofs ceased to beat upon her deadened ear, and then bent her head, as at the first, in calm resignation. Doubtless she fancied that another fellow-creature had forsaken her, and that the end would soon come.

But d.i.c.k had not forsaken her. He bounded along over the rugged ground on the mettlesome steed, striking fire from the flinty rocks, leaping creeks and rivulets, bursting through bush and brake, mile after mile, until he gained the open prairie, while the black coat of his charger was speckled with foam. Here he drew rein, and trotted hither and thither in search of the tracks of the Indians. He found them at last, and dismounted to examine them, for, save to the eye of a trapper or a redman, there were no visible tracks on that hard turf.

Remounting, he resumed his headlong course--sweeping over the springy turf of the plains as if his horse were a winged Pegasus, whose energies could not know exhaustion. All day he rode, and as evening drew on he came in sight of the tribe of Indians.

They had encamped for the night, and were preparing their evening meal; but when they saw the solitary horseman on the far-off horizon, the braves and old men went to the verge of the camp to watch him. On he came, bounding over the turf like the p.r.o.ng-horned antelope, turning neither to the right hand nor to the left, but taking everything that intercepted him in a flying leap, and bearing down on the camp as an arrow flies from the bow.

Although a single horseman is not usually an object of terror to a band of Indians, these braves soon began to evince by their looks that they did not feel easy in regard to this one. As he drew near they recognised him; for d.i.c.k had on a former occasion given this particular tribe a taste of his prowess. Each man instantly rushed to his weapons and horse; but the horses had been turned out to graze, and could not be easily caught. Before they secured their weapons d.i.c.k was in the midst of them. With an eagle glance he singled out the chief with the cut over his right eye, and rode between him and his tent. The Indian, seeing that he was cut off from his weapons, darted swiftly out upon the plain, and made for a clump of stunted trees, hoping to find shelter until his comrades could come to his rescue. But d.i.c.k was there before him, and rode down upon him in such a way that he was compelled to take to the open plain and run for his life.

His pursuer allowed him to run, keeping just close enough to him to force him into the particular course he desired him to take. But the savage proved, indeed, to be what his mother had styled him--a brave chief. Apparently resolving rather to die than to be hunted thus like a wolf, he halted suddenly, turned sharp round, and, crossing his arms on his bare chest, looked d.i.c.k full in the face as he came up. Just as he was within ten yards of him, the Indian drew his knife, and hurled it at the breast of his enemy with such violence that it hissed in its pa.s.sage through the air. d.i.c.k received it on his s.h.i.+eld, where it stood quivering. Plucking it therefrom with a grim smile, he placed it in his own girdle, and riding up to the Indian, sternly bade him mount in front of him.

There was no refusing to obey that voice. The Indian cast one uneasy glance towards his camp, which was now far away on the plain, but there was no sign of any one coming to the rescue. His captor had got the credit of being an evil spirit, and he felt that he was left to his fate. A hasty repet.i.tion of the order compelled him to turn and seize the mane of the horse. d.i.c.k held out his toe for him to step on; the next moment he was seated in front of the pale-face, galloping towards the mountains.

Whatever astonishment the Indian felt at this singular treatment, or whatever his curiosity as to the result of it all, his countenance expressed nothing but calm scorn and defiance. He was evidently working himself into that state of mind which these redskin warriors endeavour to a.s.sume when they are captured and taken to the stake and the torture, there to prove their t.i.tle to the name of brave by enduring the most inconceivable agonies with stoical indifference, or there to bring discredit on their tribe, infamy on their name, and joy to their enemies, by breaking down under the infliction of tortures at the bare mention of which humanity shudders.

For some time they maintained the same headlong speed. When, however, all danger of pursuit was over, d.i.c.k drew rein, and proceeded more leisurely, in order to relieve his now jaded steed. But that was a steed of the true metal. It possessed that generous spirit which would have induced it willingly to exert itself even to the death. Its owner might have ridden it till it fell prostrate and dying on the plain, but he could not have ridden it to the point of refusing to advance because of exhaustion. He was merciful to it, and went slowly during the night; but he did not come to a final halt until the rising sun found him close to the camp of the dying woman.

The Indian now for the first time began partly to guess the object of his having been brought there, and steeled his heart to bear whatever might await him.

d.i.c.k dismounted, and grasping the Indian with a force that showed him how helpless he would be in a personal struggle should he venture to attempt it, led him forward, and placed him a few paces in front of his dying mother.

She was sitting just as she had been left, but the fire had gone out, and she trembled violently beneath the blanket which she had sought to pull closer around her wasted form. d.i.c.k blamed himself mentally for having put so little wood on the fire, and proceeded to rekindle it; but, before doing so, he took a chain from his saddle-bow, with which he fastened the Indian to a tree that stood exactly opposite the spot on which the old woman sat, and not ten paces distant. He bound him in such a way that he could sit on the ground and lean his back against the tree, but he could neither stand up nor lie down.

For the first time the countenance of the savage betrayed uneasiness.

He believed, no doubt, that he was to be left to witness the dying agonies of his mother, and the thought filled him with horror. To leave her, as he did, to perish, had not been difficult, because he knew that he should not see the act of peris.h.i.+ng; but to be brought there and compelled to witness this terrible doom acted out in all its minute and horrible details on the mother whom he had once loved so tenderly, was maddening to think of. All the dread tortures that had yet been invented and practised on warriors must have seemed to him as nothing compared with this awful device of the pale-face, on whom he now glared with the eyes of implacable hate and ferocity.

"Will the pale-face," he said fiercely, "cast me loose, and meet me hand to hand in a fair fight? Surely," he added, changing his tone to one of ineffable scorn, "the pale-face is not weak, he is not a small man, that he should fear a chief like Bighorn."

"Hark'ee! Bighorn," said d.i.c.k, striding up to him, and laying the cold edge of his hatchet on the Indian's forehead; "if you speak another word above yer breath, the pale-face will cleave ye to the chin."

There was something so thoroughly resolute in d.i.c.k's voice that the Indian was cowed effectually.

The fire was soon lighted, and d.i.c.k chafed and warmed the limbs of the old woman until he brought back the vital spark. Then he set on the kettle to boil. While a new mess was preparing, he went into the wood, and, with l.u.s.ty blows, brought down the trees and cut them into huge billets, which he piled upon the fire until it roared again, and the heart of the feeble creature began to beat once more with somewhat of its wonted vigour. This done, he arranged a couch in such a way that she might get the full benefit of the heat without being scorched; after which he rubbed down his good steed and cast it loose to feed. Then he cooked and ate some food, but offered never a bit to the Indian, who gazed at him as he performed these various actions with ever-increasing amazement and anxiety.

Then d.i.c.k sat down beside the old woman, to feed and tend her till she should die; and he knew the signs of death too well to suppose that his care would long be required. All that day, and all that night, and all the next day, did the trapper, the old woman, and the Indian, remain in much the same position. d.i.c.k moved about a little, to give the old woman food and drink as she required it, and to wrap the blanket more comfortably round her, for which kind deeds the poor creature often tried to gaze fondly in his face with her sightless eyes.

During all this time her son sat opposite, observing every look and motion, yet unable himself to move. The pangs of hunger now began to gnaw within him, and from his cramped position, he became so cold that he trembled violently in every limb, despite his efforts to command himself. But d.i.c.k paid no attention whatever to him; he knew that he was strong, and could stand it. Once the Indian implored his jailer to give him some food, but d.i.c.k said sternly, "I'll give ye food before ye die, _if ye keep quiet_."

At last, about nightfall of the second day, the sands of life began to run slowly. d.i.c.k saw that the old woman's end was approaching, so he rose, and, going towards her son, he placed food before him. He devoured it ravenously. Then he gave him drink, and, loosing him, led him to the fire, where he speedily recovered his wonted heat and energy.

After that, d.i.c.k led him to his mother's side and made him kneel.

"Mother," said d.i.c.k, "can you see and hear me?"

"Ay; but you are not my son," said the dying woman faintly. "You are a pale-face--you are very good--but you are not my son."

"True, mother; but see, I have brought your son back to you!--Lay your hand on her forehead," he added in that low, stern undertone which he had used throughout to Bighorn, who could not but obey. "Stroke her head, look in her eyes, and speak to her."

The redman did not require to be told now. A natural impulse led him to do as he was bid. The instant the tones of his voice struck her ear, the old woman seemed to awaken with a start; she looked up eagerly, caught the hand that touched her forehead, and, pa.s.sing her own thin hand up to the Indian's face, felt the scar over his eye, as if to render herself doubly sure. Then she grasped the hand again in both of hers, and, taking it under the blanket, pressed it to her withered breast and held it tightly there.