To The West Part 98

"That's right; that's fair," came in chorus, and after a little more conversation the men moved off with the prisoners, the wounded fellow being carried on a litter of poles.

"Edwards," said Mr Raydon, "you and another had better stay here with the Chinaman. Gordon, where is the gold?"

"I have not the least idea, sir."

"Oh, then you, Dean."

"Don't know a bit, sir," said Esau, who was nursing his blistered feet.

"Here, Quong, where has Mr Gunson stored the gold he has found?"

"Me no sabbee, sah. Quong give allee gole Mis Gunson take callee. No sabbee. Hide allee gole ploply."

"Cut poles and lash them together," said Mr Raydon to Grey; "we must carry him to the Fort. Gordon, Dean, you had better come and stay till he is better."

I looked up at him doubtingly.

"Yes," he said; "it will be best."

Half an hour after we were on our way back, with Esau limping painfully.

Two of the miners volunteered to help carry the litter, so as to relieve the four we had, and the claim was left in charge of the two others, for whom, as we came away, Quong was making, as he expressed it, "plenty good flesh tea."

It was dark night again as we reached the gate of the Fort, and heard the deep-toned baying of the great dog; and a few minutes later Mrs John was holding my hands, and as she kissed me there was a tear left upon my cheek.

"So glad, so very glad to see you back, Mayne," said Mr John, warmly.

"I hope all the trouble now is at an end."

I said nothing, only helped to get Mr Gunson in his old quarters, after Esau had at last extricated himself from his mother's arms.

"Is it all real, Esau?" I said, after Mr Raydon had gone, telling us not to be alarmed at Mr Gunson's insensibility, for it might be hours before he came to.

"I shall come and see him twice in the course of the night," he said, as he went out. "You, Esau, you must rest those feet."

"Yes, sir; all right," said Esau; and it was then that I said, "Is it all real?"

"If your feet smarted like mine do, you wouldn't ask that," he replied, sulkily. "I want to know why I wasn't carried back in a litter too?"

"It was impossible," I said.

"Wasn't impossible to have given a fellow a pig-a-back. Oh, my feet, my feet! Oh, yes, it's precious real."

"I never expected to come back here like this," I said.

"Nor I neither," replied Esau. "I say, you'll keep watch by Mr Gunson, won't you?"

"Yes, of course," I said.

"That's right. I'm going to do something for my trotters."

"What are you going to do?"

"Go off to sleep."

In a few minutes I was listening to his hard breathing, and asking myself whether, after the past night, I could do duty in watching the wounded man, when there were footsteps, and two of the men's Indian wives came in.

"To nurse Mr Gunson," they said, in fair English, and a short time after I too was fast asleep.

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

ALMOST SOLDIERS.

I awoke that next morning sore, miserable, and seeing everything through the very reverse of rose-coloured spectacles. For I was back at the Fort, and it now looked a very different place to the home I had journeyed so many months to find when I was sanguine and hopeful.

There appeared to be a dead weight upon me; and as I first opened my eyes, I felt as if the best thing I could do would be to rouse up Esau, and go right away. But as I looked round, my eyes lit upon Mr Gunson lying insensible in his bed, with Mrs Dean seated patiently by his side, and I felt ashamed of my thoughts, for I could not go away and leave one who had shown himself so true a friend from our first meeting, and I at once determined, no matter how painful my position might be, to stay by his side, and tend him till he grew strong again.

I s.h.i.+vered as I thought this, for I could just see his pale face below his bandaged head, and the ideas came--suppose he does not recover-- never grow strong again? suppose he dies? The weak tears rose to my eyes at the thought, and I lay wistfully gazing at him in the silence of that bright morning, for I felt that I should be almost alone out there in that wild, new country. For Mr and Mrs John would certainly be more and more influenced by Mr Raydon; and as I could not stay at the Fort, I should never see them. The old plans of staying with them, and building up a new house somewhere in one of the lovely spots by the river, were gone, and I told myself that I should soon have to say good-bye to them.

There would be Esau, though;--perhaps not: for Mrs Dean would naturally want to stay where there were women; and as she had become attached to Mrs John, the chances were that she would stay at or near the Fort, and that would influence Esau, who would be forgiven by Mr Raydon, and stay too, while I should go off into the wilderness all alone.

Taken altogether, I was about as miserable and full of doleful ideas as a boy of my age could be. Not one bit of blue sky could I see through the clouds that shut in my future; and I was growing worse as I lay there with an indistinct fancy that I had heard Mr Raydon's voice in the night, when a bright ray of suns.h.i.+ne came through the window, and made a ruddy golden spot on the pine-wood ceiling.

It was only a ray of light, but it worked wonders, for it changed the current of my thoughts, setting me thinking that the sun was just peeping over the edge of the mountain lying to the east, and brightening the mists that lay in the valleys, and making everything look glorious as it chased away the shadows from gully and ravine, till it shone full upon the river, and turned its grey waters into dazzling, rippling, and splas.h.i.+ng silver.

I don't know how it was, but that sunlight began to drive away the mists and dark vapours in my mind. I did not feel so miserable, though I was painfully stiff and sore. The future was bright, my case not so hopeless, and I was just making up my mind that Esau would never forsake me, and that Mr Gunson would not die, when Mrs Dean looked round.

"Ah, my dear," she said; "awake?"

"Yes," I said, springing up, all dressed as I was. "You have not been watching here all night?"

"Oh, no; I only came on at daybreak. He's sleeping very calmly."

"Has he spoken?"

"Oh dear no, and is not likely to for long enough. Such a pity as it is, poor man!"

"It is a terrible injury," I said. "Yes, my dear; and how thankful I am it wasn't my poor Esau. What should I have done if it had been he?"

"It would have been terrible," I said. "Or you, my dear," she whispered hurriedly, as if in apology for not naming me before.

"Oh, that would have been no consequence," I replied, bitterly.

"Oh, my dear," she cried, with the tears in her eyes; "don't--don't talk like that. I know you've been in trouble, but we all have that, and they say it makes the happiness all the sweeter."

"Yes, they say so," I replied gloomily.

"Ah, it does, my dear. There, as Mr John said to me about you, 'it will all come right in the end.'"