One day the surgeon entered as his patient, wildly raving, was exclaiming, with great vehemence,—

"I tell you, again, that I have nothing to pay with, and you will give me no chance to earn. O, what a load to carry! Debt! debt! debt! Shall I never find rest?" Then, in a moment more, his thoughts relapsing to another subject, he murmured, "What did the preacher say? 'Come—unto—me—and I will—give you rest;' yes, that is what I want. O, if only I could come!"

The surgeon watched him through the delirium, and said,—

"Madam, it is not the bullet of the savage that's killing your husband, but some more deadly sore. He needs medicine for the mind, rather than the body; and when he is himself, you had better call in the chaplain to converse with him."

An hour later, when Mr. Jones had an easy interval, she gently said,—

"Husband, you are very sick. Don't you think it might do you good to have a little talk with the minister?"

"Minister!" he feebly answered; "what minister?"

"The minister that belongs to the fort."

"I don't know him," replied the sick man, suspiciously. "But there is one minister that I do know," he added, after a moment's pause.

"Who?" she inquired.

"Why, him!" he answered, impatiently, as if he thought she ought to understand.

"You mean the missionary," she returned.

"Yes; if I could talk with him, I would like to."

The wife mentioned his remarks to the surgeon, and General McElroy sent for the missionary.

It was evening, of a lowering, rainy day, when the messenger returned with Mr. Payson. It had been drizzling and dripping all day, but towards night the clouds grew black and wild, and a furious wind dashed the big rain-drops violently against the window. The air was raw, and seemed to pierce to the bones. The old fort buildings were delightful in fair weather, but now were damp and chilly. Mrs. Jones feared for the effect of the storm on her husband, whose frame, since his wound, had been extremely sensitive to atmospheric changes; and dreading that, if he was disturbed, he would relapse into delirium, she concluded not to invite the missionary in to see him until morning. She had disposed everything as comfortably as possible about the bed, and had a nourishing broth and his medicines handy, when Mrs. McElroy entered, and said,—

"You look worn out. Go and take a nap now, and if you are needed I will call you. You know the missionary is here, and will wish to be with him in the morning; and it is desirable that you should feel as well as you can, to encourage your husband."

Mrs. Jones, thus charged, retired to an adjoining room, thinking to rest herself for a short time, and then return. She felt that a great event was impending, and thought it impossible for her to close her eyes; but so utterly exhausted was she, that she immediately fell into a sound sleep, from which she was awakened at midnight by Mrs. McElroy, who said,—

"A great change has come over your husband. I think he is going to get well. He wants to see you and the boys."

Hurrying to her husband's side, she found him sitting up in bed as composedly as if no trouble had ever disturbed the serenity of his mind, looking much as he did in their bridal hour. He had called for a bowl of water and a towel, and was calmly washing himself. Bestowing on her a loving look as she entered, he asked,—

"Mary, dear, has the missionary come?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Can I see him now?"

Mrs. McElroy took out her watch, and said, pleasantly,—

"Are you particular about seeing him now? I suppose you are not aware how late it is."

"Yes," he answered, "it is twelve o'clock;" and his eye shone with a strange intelligence. "I should have sent for him a year ago, had not my heart been so proud and bitter. But I know him. He'll come now, if it is late."

There was something unearthly in his manner, and Mrs. McElroy said, rising,—

"It shall be as you request."

As Mr. Payson entered, the sick man extended his hand, saying,—

"I'm almost through, my friend. I've had some sore trials in life,—not so much on my own account as because of those who were too dear to me. We were cruelly wronged, and I have not been quite right here,"—placing his hand upon his forehead,—"and what has made it worse, I have been all wrong here,"—laying his hand upon his heart. "I have doubted everybody, and distrusted my God. I have been hard and scornful, and hated my fellows; but it is different with me now. I have heard that voice speaking to me, that you told us of in the little cabin. He has said unto me, even me, 'Come,' and he has given me 'rest.' I have had a long, long struggle, but the conflict is over. Ah, He is so different from human creditors! I have been a poor debtor, chased, hunted, oppressed, goaded almost to insanity, and none took pity on me, because I owed them a few paltry dollars, which I had the heart to pay, but, through the robberies of another, and their oppressions, could not. But what a debt I owed my Savior! Yet, without a word of reproach, he has forgiven me all!"

This was spoken with a wondrous energy and clearness of voice; but a deathly paleness began to overspread his face; partial delirium supervened, not raging, as before, but his features lighted up the while with a smile of heavenly beauty, and repeating again, his voice sinking to a whisper,—

"What did the preacher say? 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest.' Rest! Rest! It is mine." His spirit was gone.



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BOY IN THE TREE.

Charlie was a boy who naturally loved adventure. He was excitable, and yet had a reserved power, which, in great emergencies, made him cool and brave. He was fertile in expedients, and, when aroused, experienced a rollicking enjoyment in danger. In the little settlement he came across an old copy of Robinson Crusoe, and, charmed with its romantic descriptions, conceived the idea of becoming another Crusoe. But there was a serious obstacle in his way. He could not convert a prairie into an ocean, and get shipwrecked. Yet if he lacked salt water, there was many a man Friday at hand,—for he mentally promoted every friendly Indian to that office,—and there were plenty of cannibals in the shape of disaffected Indians who were already threatening the settlements with depredation and carnage. Now, Charlie, to enjoy his book under congenial circumstances, and where he would not be interrupted by his mother saying, "Charlie, bring some wood," and "Charlie, get some water," and the various et-ceteras of domestic duty to which boys of his age and active habits are liable, looked about for some safe retreat, and chanced to find, one day, in the woods near at hand, a large, hollow tree. Many a time had he passed it, and not discovered the welcome fact. The entrance was effectually concealed by a tangled clump of bushes. Had they taken it specially in hand to grow in such a way as to hide the hole in the tree, they could not have done it more thoroughly; and nobody but a prying young Crusoe of Charlie's qualifications would have spied out the entrance. Having discovered it, he would creep slyly in, and, by means of the light let in through a hole higher up in the trunk, would pore over the haps and mishaps of the Juan Fernandez hero, and imitate his achievements as well as he could.

It got to be a great mystery what became of Charlie through the long hours of the day. He could hear and see much of what passed around him, and, with imperturbable gravity, would sit in his sly retreat, making no answer, while his mother would come to the cabin door, and call, in silvery treble,—

"Charlie! Charlie! Where are you, Charlie?"

And then, in turn, the father would make his appearance, and shout, in masculine bass,—

"Charlie, Charlie, your mother wants yer. Why don't you come?"

After a while Sarah would be despatched to search for him, and her girlish voice would repeat the parents' calls as she looked everywhere in vain.

Then, when he returned to the house, to the accustomed inquiry, "Why, where have you been? We've been calling you, and hunting everywhere for you," he would reply, with the utmost nonchalance, "O, only out here;" at which Sarah would retort, impatiently, "I know better than that; for I hunted all round for you, and you wasn't anywhere to be seen;" and Charlie respond, with compassionate condescension, "Pooh! girls are great at hunting!"

Now, it was very wrong in Charlie to be so dumb when his parents wanted him, and to cause them so much concern by his unexplained absence; but he justified it to his own conscience on the ground that it was in keeping with his character as second Crusoe. Robinson Crusoe, in his estimation, was the greatest and most glorious man that ever lived. Charlie had taken him for his model in life; and it would derogate from the dignity of his position, while enacting the man Crusoe,—"monarch of all he surveyed,"—to obey as the child Charlie. He was willing, when in the house, to do what was expected of him, as a boy under subjection; but when he was in his Crusoe cave, alias the hollow tree, he was altogether another person; and he reasoned, in order to have things in harmony, he must act accordingly.

Charlie, by some means, had come into possession of a horse pistol, considerably out of order, it is true; but it served to fill the place of one of the two pistols Robinson Crusoe found on board the Spanish ship. He was in daily expectation of finding another; but needing ammunition to store up against a coming fray with the cannibals on the shore, he helped himself frequently to the contents of his father's powder-horn and bullet-pouch.

"What under the canopy makes my powder go so fast?" his father often exclaimed, as he replenished the mysteriously-wasting stock. The lad also begged ammunition of the free-hearted settlers, and by these means he laid up a surprisingly large amount of warlike munitions, kept securely in an old skin bag. He had also dried venison stowed away, and a good store of nuts, with pop-corn for parching, and potatoes for roasting—all against some coming time of need.

Now, it chanced that Charlie's tree-cave turned to good account, as it saved his curly scalp; for the afternoon of the Indian outbreak,—with one eye on the Crusoe history, and the other watching to see if any cannibals landed on the shore, taking an occasional sip from an old coffee-pot filled with spring water, which he called goat's milk,—the whole frightful scene of the massacre passed before him. He saw dear little Bub run to meet Yellow Bank, and he also saw what his mother did not in the panic, that, just as the treacherous savage fired, the little fellow tripped and fell, unharmed by the bullet. He saw, at that instant, his sister Sarah start from the store for the cabin, and that the fiendish savage did not notice Bub's escape, in his eagerness to intercept the girl; so that Bub, terrified by the report of the gun, and at seeing his sister struck down by Yellow Bank, dragged himself off in the direction of Charlie's tree, not seeming to know but that he was going towards the cabin.

He saw the door of the cabin closed, and that preparations were made to keep out the savages, and that the whole attention of the Indians was turned on assaulting the house. So, cautiously creeping out, and placing one hand firmly over Bub's mouth to prevent him from making a sound, he drew him into the tree. He was fully aware that he did this at the risk of his own life; for if the child made an outcry, their hiding-place would be discovered, and they would both be sacrificed. But he had too loving and noble a nature to save his own life by leaving his darling pet brother exposed.

Charlie found it a difficult task to control himself sufficiently in the scenes that were passing before him to keep guard over Bub each instant, as he must, to prevent him from revealing their place of refuge. The little fellow had received a terrible fright, and at first struggled with singular strength to free himself from Charlie's grasp, and Charlie's arms ached from the constant strain in holding him; his efforts, however, were rewarded at last by Bub's beginning to comprehend the case.

"It's the wicked Indians," whispered Charlie, "and they'll kill us if we make any noise."

Three days and nights came and went. How thankful Charlie was for the provisions and water which he had unwittingly provided for this fearful hour! He had the good sense, however, to be careful of the water; for he knew not how long he must stay there; and he taught Bub to eat very slowly, as he had heard his father say that the hunters did so on the plains to prevent thirst. It was a terrible ordeal for a boy of his tender years to witness the horrid sights transpiring around him; and then, when the neighboring cabins were fired, he was filled with fear, lest the cinders would set the tree ablaze.

Charlie hoped, through all this long watching, for an opportunity to take refuge with his father and mother in the cabin; but the savages lay encamped around him, and several times an Indian crept upon his hands and knees, and fired from behind the tree at the inmates of the cabin.

Three days and nights—how long they were to the children in the tree! And yet there was nothing to indicate that they might not remain there as much longer, provided the defence of the cabin continued as persistently as it had done. There was still a good supply of food, although the potatoes had to be eaten raw. But the water grew nauseating, and if some more could not be obtained, what would they do? Bub began to be tormented with thirst, and once attempted to cry for water. He had borne up like a hero, controlled by his fears, sometimes seeming to forget his own wants and perils in his baby concern for his parents.

"Will the wicked Indians kill father and mother?" he once asked, his blue eyes wide with horror, and voice too loud for prudence, just as a savage was creeping up to take aim from behind the tree, so that Charlie had to guard him with ceaseless vigilance. But thirst—how could he expect that a little boy, like Bub, could long endure its torments without making his agony known?

"I want some water," hoarsely whispered Bub; "I dry."

"Well, don't make any noise, and Charlie'll get you some."

So, waiting till after nightfall, Charlie put his head cautiously out of the hole, and peered around. The spring was not far off; but Charlie knew that the savages would be likely to guard that, and he did not venture to draw his whole body from the aperture save with the utmost caution, and very slowly. Satisfying himself that the Indians were not noticing the tree, he drew himself completely out, and then, putting his head in again, whispered,—

"Now, Bub, don't you move nor stir, while I go for the water. I'll be back in a minute."

The heroic boy might have been taken in the darkness for an overgrown caterpillar, he crawled so softly towards the spring. He knew that if he broke a stick or twig, or inadvertently hit his coffee-pot against an obstacle, the quick ear of the Indian would be sure to detect it, and yet he was surprised at his own coolness and mastery of himself; and he accomplished the feat, returning with the black old pot filled to the brim.

He had got within a few feet of the tree, when, in range of the opening, he saw a figure apparently watching him. Charlie thought his hour had come; that it was a savage ready with his scalping-knife, and had given up all for lost, when the dark form moved from out the shadow towards him, and to his consternation he saw that it was Bub, who trudged forward, saying in a loud whisper,—

"Has oo dot any water?"

Charlie, to save further noise, chose the bold alternative of letting him drink on the spot; and retaining his prostrate condition, quickly put the pot to Bub's lips, and the child swallowed great draughts with satisfied gutturals that seemed to Charlie's apprehensive ear like the reports of pocket pistols. He let him drink his fill, however, then, pulling him down by his chubby legs, thrust him swiftly, but softly, through the aperture, following as fast as he could, and keeping perfectly still for a full hour before he dared venture forth again for the coffee-pot, which he was obliged to leave behind.

The vigilance of their father in the defence of the cabin not only kept the children in the tree longer than Charlie bargained for when he turned in, on that memorable afternoon, to play Crusoe, but also put their lives in jeopardy from their father's bullets. For, as we have said before, the tree being a large one, and conveniently near the cabin, the savages would creep up behind it to shoot from, which would be sure to bring a dangerous response; and Charlie was obliged to know more than once that the tree was perforated by balls from his father's rifle. At such times the youngsters kept as close to the ground as possible.

When the Indians set fire to the roof of the cabin, Charlie was almost wild with excitement, fearing that his parents would now be burned to death. Nor was his anxiety lessened when he saw his father ascend the roof to extinguish the flames, thus exposing himself to the deadly aim of the foe.

Captain Manly's attack, however, he did not understand; for the soldiers did not pass near the tree, and the confusion and clamor, the horrid yells that rent the air, and the tramp of the contending parties in the dim twilight, seemed like the chaos of a whirlwind,—the fight was so sudden and so soon over,—and he dared not leave the tree after the battle, not knowing what it all meant. He had a bewildered idea that there had been an attack on the Indians by a party of whites, but which had been victorious he could not tell. So he watched on, trying to determine this point, until late in the night, when he saw a dark body moving cautiously from the cabin.

"The Indians have taken the cabin," he concluded, "and now they'll burn our house as they did the others."

And yet it puzzled him to see how closely together the savages kept, instead of being scattered about in all directions, as they were before. He could see them moving quietly away, and thought some of them were mounted on their ponies. After they were well out of sight, resting Bub's head against the skin powder-bag,—for the little fellow, overcome by weariness, had fallen asleep,—he crawled from his hiding-place and reconnoitred. Suddenly he stumbled over a dead Indian, lying with his rifle beside him; and soon he came across another. But all was still in the cabin.

"There has been a battle," said Charlie to himself, exultantly, "and the Indians are driven away;" and he entered the house.

All was dark and quiet; so, feeling his way to the chimney, he raked open the ashes, and found a few sparks. Going out, he gathered twigs and limbs, and, heaping them on the hearth, blew them into a blaze; then running to the tree, he awakened Bub, and hurried him to the cabin, and returned for his Crusoe provisions and ammunition.

"Where's father and mother?" asked Bub, looking round in dismay.

"I think," said Charlie, soothingly, with a profound air, "that the settlers have got together and driven off the Indians, and taken our folks where they'll be safe; and now, Bub, we'll live here like Robinson Crusoe on the island, and you shall be my Friday till our folks come back; for, you see, they'll find out that we ain't with them, and they'll come and take us away."

"Can't we go where our folks is now?" inquired Bub, beginning to cry.

"It's so dark we can't find them," said Charlie.

"Won't the Indians come and hurt us?"

Charlie started at the thought.

"I don't know," he replied, shaking his head doubtfully; "'twould be just like them. But I'll tell you what I'll do. There's a good many Indians been killed around the house, and I'll just go out and get all the rifles I can, and then let them try it if they want to. Why, Robinson Crusoe drove off twenty-nine canoes full, and I bet he didn't have so many guns as I'll have."

And hastening out, he kept finding and bringing them in until he had a dozen.

"Now," said he, "I'll bring in lots of wood, and we'll keep the fire crackling;" and he stirred the burning limbs to make the sparks fly; "and if the Indians return, they'll think there's a big houseful of men in here. Besides," he added, "if our folks see the sparks from the chimney, they'll know you and I are here, and return for us. And on the whole, I guess I'd rather go with them, than to fight the cannibals alone; for if I should happen to be killed, I suppose they'd have to eat me, and I'd rather not be eaten."

Charlie brought from the enclosure a fine pile of wood and a pail of water, then went out to see that the outer door was secured, and closed the shutter in the room. He then proceeded to examine the rifles,—for he was well versed in fire-arms, like western boys generally,—and carefully cleaned and loaded them.

"Now," said he, "Crusoe had his seven guns mounted, and I'll mount my twelve."

Fortunately for his scheme, the places had been already prepared. After this was done, he went down into the cellar to see if there was anything to eat, and finding some food, he returned, and hanging the tea-kettle over the fire, he poured some boiling water upon the tea-grounds in the tea-pot, then set the table for himself and Bub, and assigning Bub one chair, and getting another for himself, said,—

"We might as well live like folks, as long as we are out of the tree."

Then, having finished their repast, he said,—

"I feel tired, it's so long since I've had a good sleep; so I guess we'd better go to bed." And lying down upon the bed in the corner, with an arm lovingly clasping little Bub, they sank into the sweet sleep of childhood.



CHAPTER XIX.

BUB'S BROADSIDE.

It was nine o'clock next morning when Charlie awoke, much refreshed. Some moments elapsed before he could recollect where he was, and how he came there. Then, hastening, first to the port-holes, through which his guns were pointed, he scanned the field on all sides, to see if any enemy was in view. The result being satisfactory, he commenced preparations for breakfast, for Bub was now awake, and hungry as a "starved kitten."

"I tell you what," said he to Bub, as they ate their morning meal, "I've got a jolly plan for us. I'm going to dig a cave in the cellar, so that if the Indians should get into the cabin, we could hide there just as we did in the tree."

"And you'll have some water in there for me to drink," suggested Bub.

"Yes," answered Charlie; "we'll have everything that we want."

So, assuring himself, by another examination, that matters outside wore a peaceful aspect, he repaired to the cellar, to commence the excavation. Luckily for Charlie's plan, the cellar walls had been carelessly constructed, and in a corner he found a large-sized stone, that he could remove from its place in the foundation without disturbing the others. Taking this out, with the iron fire-shovel, he soon had drawn forth a large quantity of the loose sand.

"Now," observed Charlie to Bub, "you must take the shovel, and throw the sand about the cellar, while I work with my hands."

This was quite an easy task, the sand was so light and dry. And ere long he had a place large enough to conceal himself and Bub.

"But," said he, "I shall make it extend farther in, so that if the cabin is burnt over our heads, it won't be too hot for us."

But Bub made little headway in shovelling the sand; so Charlie finished the job for him, and then from a heap of litter, which he had before taken the precaution to scrape into a corner, he took enough to cover the fresh sand all over.

"Now," said he, "let's try our new cave;" and, squeezing through the hole from which he had taken the stone, Bub creeping in after him, Charlie reached out and drew the stone into its place again. Charlie was delighted.

"I like this!" he exclaimed; "it's more like Robinson Crusoe's cave."

Bub thought he liked it too, but soon cried out, "I can't hardly breeve; an' it's drefful dark."

"It's lucky I've tried it," replied Charlie; "but I'll fix it all nice."

And pushing out the stone with his foot, he went up stairs, and returned with an old bayonet, with which he succeeded in dexterously working some small holes through the mortar, with which the crevices of the ill-matched stones were filled. This was so ingeniously done, that it would not be noticed; and yet enough light and air were let in to make the place tolerable for the purpose for which it was intended.

It was now past noon, and they went up stairs, and Charlie looked out again, to see if there were any signs of danger; but still "all was quiet along the Potomac."

"I don't think," sagely observed Charlie, "that the Indians are ever coming back. In my opinion they have had about enough of fighting, they cleared off so quick, and there is so many of them dead."

At which Bub waxed valiant, and said,—

"I wish I had my big stick to stick into their backs, if they do come."

Charlie could not forbear a laugh at this, notwithstanding the sanguinary scenes that had crowded the last few days with horrors, but answered,—

"I know what you can do, Bub, to drive them away, if they should come;" and, drawing a ball of twine from his pocket, he tied it to the trigger of one of the mounted rifles, then feeling again in his pocket for his knife to cut off the string, he said,—

"Where's my jackknife? I must have lost it in going to the spring for water; lots of things tumbled out as I crawled through the grass. Never mind; I can use a case-knife;" and, taking one from the table, he divided the string so as to leave the end of it hanging within easy reach of Bub. He did the same to all the guns.

"Now," he explained to Bub, "when I tell you to pull one of these strings, you must do it as quick as you can. I will whisper, Pull! and you must take right hold of the twine, and draw it so;" and, contrary to Charlie's intention, bang went the rifle.

"Why, I didn't mean to do that; but it will show you how. Pulling the string made the gun go off, you see."

Bub was all attention, and asked, eagerly,

"Shall I do it now?"

"O, no," replied Charlie. "I mean, when I tell you to. When the Indians come, and I say, Pull! Suppose, for instance, I should get up in this way,"—and he ascended to the lookout,—"and I should look out in this way,"—and he put his eye to the port-hole,—"and I should see a big Indian coming to kill Bub."

"Yes," answered the little listener, "I knows;" and his eyes glistened with excitement.

"Well, as I was saying, I peep out, and I see a big Indian coming—"

Bub at this instinctively drew nearer the string, his gaze on Charlie.

"And I should whisper, Pull!"

Instantly Bub's fat fist twitched the string, and a second report echoed over the prairie.

"What did you do that for?" asked his brother, much displeased. "I didn't wish you to do it now. I was only explaining how to do it, and I want you to do it right. Don't touch the strings till I tell you; and then, when I give the word, you'll pull—won't you?"

Curly-head looked as if he intended to stand by the guns.

"In that way, Bub," continued Charlie, "we could keep off a great many Indians; I loading and firing, and you firing too, Bub. But I haven't put that last rifle in just right;" and glancing out of the hole, as he adjusted it, he turned deathly pale, and his whispered utterance was strangely faint, as he exclaimed,—

"If there isn't an Indian now!"

It is said by old hunters accustomed to shoot small game, however skilful in the use of fire-arms they may be, that the first time they see a large animal,—a deer, for example,—such a nervous excitement seizes them, although the creature stands within a few feet of them, for an instant they cannot command themselves to fire; and when they do, they are sure to miss the object. It is not surprising, then, that Charlie was, for a moment, paralyzed. He gazed at the Indian as if fascinated, as the savage glided along, his head bent, going from the spring towards the tree, in the very path through which Charlie had carried the water, stooping to pick up something, then keeping on a few paces, then stopping and putting his ear to the ground, as if intently listening. He was within easy range of Charlie's rifle all the time; yet the boy lifted not his finger.

The savage now rapidly darted forward, as if following Charlie's trail, and, sweeping the bushes back with his hand, discovered the opening in the tree, and, to Charlie's amazement, managed to creep in. Nearly an hour had passed, and Charlie still waited in painful suspense, wondering what next would transpire, when he saw a score or more of Indians stealthily approaching from different directions towards the cabin. The blood returned to Charlie's face, and, recovering his senses, he whispered to Bub, "The Indians have come."

He then took sight across the rifle nearest Bub, and found that it covered several of the savages; and, taking aim with the one next to it, he said to his little brother, "Pull!" Bub did so, and, starting on the round trot, pulled each string in succession. A broadside ensued that would have done honor to an old-fashioned ship of war. The effect was prodigious. The savages seemed to think that a strong force occupied the cabin; for, with a loud yell, and a hasty discharge of fire-arms, they vanished from sight.

Charlie was astounded at Bub's misunderstanding of the order and the effect produced. Gazing amazed into vacancy,—for the enemy had disappeared,—he sprang to the floor, hugged Bub till he almost suffocated him, and, laughing uncontrollably, stammered, "That beats Robinson Crusoe!"

The scene was indeed ludicrous. The savages had come to carry off their dead comrades, and, creeping cautiously along, had got so near the house without being observed, that their suspicion that the cabin was vacated became confirmed. The discharge of the rifles by the boys was, therefore, a perfect surprise, the fact that they were permitted to get so near before they were fired upon impressing them all the more; for they well knew that, if few were in the dwelling to defend it, every effort would have been put forth to keep them at a distance. Moreover, the firing coming from all sides of the dwelling at once, had also the appearance as if it was quite heavily manned.

It was a brilliant day, and the light puff of smoke from each rifle rose at once into the air, giving Charlie a fine view of the field; and the simultaneous springing up of so many astonished savages, their queer grimaces, and the grotesque manner in which they scrambled out of range, struck the lad as irresistibly comic, especially as he considered that it was Bub's blunder that was at the bottom of the rout.

Recovering himself, he proceeded to reload the rifles. But one thing gave him uneasiness. The Indian, he was quite sure, was still in the tree. What was he there for? "Perhaps," thought Charlie, "he will make a hole through the tree, and watch his chance, and shoot me. At any rate, he's a spy; and if he should find out that only Bub and I were here, he might make us trouble."

He was puzzled to know what to do. He set himself to watch through the port-hole to see if he would come out. Two long hours Charlie remained at his post, till he grew weary with the duty. Then he bethought himself of another plan. He had read in the old spelling book of the boy who wouldn't descend from the farmer's apple tree for coaxing; and the farmer said, "If you will not come down for words, I'll try the effect of stones," which brought the trespasser quickly to the ground. Now, the Indian was not up a tree, but he was in one, and he would not come out for Charlie's watching; so Charlie thought he would employ harder arguments, and, aiming at the point where he supposed the savage must be in his hiding-place, he blazed away. He had fired three times, when, suddenly, the tawny occupant slipped out, and crouched behind the tree, from which he commenced making friendly signs towards the corner of the cabin from which the bullets came. Charlie understood the signals, but muttering, "You can't catch me that way, old villain," continued firing every time he thought he could hit the savage. The Indian had not, during all this, fired in return. This seemed curious to the boy; but concluding it to be an Indian trick, he determined not to be outwitted. Whatever the object of the savage was in his mysterious conduct, he at last despaired of accomplishing it, and adroitly slipped away.

As night drew its heavy curtains around the beleaguered cabin, Charlie experienced a feeling of dread creeping over him. He felt comparatively safe while he could see the foe; but now the night seemed ominous of evil. The wind moaning through the trees, the ticking of the insect under the bark in the logs, and even the shrill chirping of the cricket, sounded unnatural to him. He thought of the dead and gory forms stretched upon the greensward without; the grass matted with human blood; the imprecations and fierce shouts that had resounded, and the deathly struggles that passed before him while sheltered by the friendly tree; the heavy tramp of men fighting in the deadly struggle; the sharp reports of the fire-arms; the horrible screams and heart-piercing pleadings of women and children as they were murdered and tortured by the savages; the lurid glare of the burning cabins; the Indians dancing and yelling in horrid mirth: his active brain was filled with such remembrances. In the stillness and loneliness of night, in that cabin, these awful scenes came up with appalling vividness, and weird and demon faces seemed to peep and mutter at him from the corners of the room. Once he fancied that he heard the cellar stairs creak under a heavy tread. And while Bub slept peacefully in childish unconsciousness of his brother's terror, he shivered and watched through that long night until the rosy beams of morning dispelled the illusions of the darkness.



CHAPTER XX.

LONG HAIR.

The news of Mr. Jones's death, together with the atrocities connected with the Indian uprising, spread a gloom throughout the fort; and when, two days later, the funeral of the pioneer took place, tears were in many a veteran's eye. General McElroy respected the qualities which had marked the last days of the deceased, and said,—

"He did not serve in the ranks, but if ever a man deserved a soldier's burial, poor Jones does; and he shall have it."

So the body was borne to the grave under military escort, the soldiers marching to the mournful strains of the funeral dirge and muffled drums; the corpse was lowered to its last resting-place; the burial service read with a trembling voice by the chaplain,—for the missionary had taken his place among the mourners by the side of the widow,—the usual salute was fired, and the procession retraced its steps.

Mrs. Jones felt that she was now bereaved indeed, and almost alone in the world, and it became a question with her what she could do, under the circumstances, for herself and family. Disconsolately she discussed this matter with Tom.

"I cannot remain longer in these apartments, living on the hospitality of the general," said she; "and as your dear father is gone, it becomes me to earn something for my own support. I must have Robert with me, he is so young, and make some humble home where you can be with us as much as possible. But what I can do to effect this I cannot now see, there are so few opportunities for women to earn."

It goaded Tom that his mother was under the necessity of talking in so depressed a way, and that he could do nothing suitably to provide for her. At this juncture there was a gentle knock at the door, and Mrs. McElroy entered.

"You will excuse me if I have intruded," said she; "but I came in to ask what arrangements, if any, you had made for the future, and to say that, if you have nothing better in view, the general and myself would like to have you remain with us."

"But I have already been dependent on your hospitality too long," objected Mrs. Jones, "and it seems proper that I should make a home for myself and Robert as soon as possible."

"Have you any suitable place provided as yet?" asked Mrs. McElroy.

"Not decisively," answered the widow.

"It could not be expected that you would so soon," answered Mrs. McElroy. "Now we have a plan for you, which may be to our mutual advantage. The little community dwelling within these brick walls is a very social one, and the general's time and my own is so much occupied, that my children suffer for a mother's care. You are exactly the person we need to take the oversight of them. Your own children are a credit to you; they show that you have just the qualities of mind and heart for such a position. Now, if you will look a little after my children's training, you will take a burden from my hands, and a load of anxiety from my mind, and between us both, I think we can manage so as not to be overcharged."

"But Robert—" began Mrs. Jones, hesitatingly.

"The general has taken a great fancy to him, and says if he can have him he will make something of him; and what my husband undertakes he never does by halves. Robert would have the best of advantages, and be under your own eye."

Mrs. Jones's emotions were too great for words. This unexpected provision for herself and boy seemed truly providential. She might go the world over and not meet with such delicate and appreciative treatment. Still she hesitated. Her life in the squatter's cabin through so many years of deprivation and poverty placed her, in her own consciousness, in such painful contrast to the courtly and elegant Mrs. McElroy, that she felt diffident about accepting so responsible a trust. And she understood children well enough to know that the offspring of the rich often look down on those in humbler circumstances. Would the general's children respect her as they should, in order for her to assume such a relation towards them as their mother wished? These thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, and, in justice to them as well as herself, she felt that she would like to have that point put to rest. She was a woman of straightforward good sense, and therefore decided to be frank in the matter, and asked,—

"But would the arrangement be agreeable to your children, madam?"

Mrs. McElroy had foreseen this, and was prepared with an answer. She rang the bell, and black Nancy appeared.

"Send Alice and Willie here," she said; and in a moment the brother and sister came running in.

"Children," said their mother, "I've been trying to persuade Mrs. Jones to stay with us, and take charge of you. How would you like that?"

"O, that would be so nice!" said Alice, crossing to Mrs. Jones, and putting her arms around her neck—an action that was peculiar to her.

"It would be real good in her, I'm sure," chimed in Willie; "and then I could have Robert to play with me,—he makes splendid popguns,—couldn't I, mother?"

So it was settled, and in such a manner that Mrs. Jones was made to feel that she was conferring a favor, rather than having one conferred on her; and, in fact, the arrangement was mutually advantageous, as Mrs. McElroy had sincerely remarked.

Mr. Payson now called to take leave of the widow, and ask if Tom would like to return with him. He was much pleased with the arrangement, expressing anew his sympathy with her in her bereavements, and, charging her to cling to the consolation of the gospel, he and Tom took their departure, the latter tenderly kissing his mother and Robert as he bade them good by.

"You must come often and see your mother," said Mrs. McElroy, cordially; "you know we shall be like one family hereafter; and not only Robert and your mother will be lonesome without you, but the rest of the children will be glad to have you join them in their amusements and studies," to which assurance Alice and Willie looked their approval. As the wheels of the missionary's buggy rumbled out of the square, Mrs. Jones said with a sigh,—

"What a change has come over my flock within a few days! my husband, and Sarah, and dear little Bub murdered by the Indians, and Charlie, also, I suppose I must say, although there is something peculiarly trying in the mystery that hangs over his fate."

"You do not really know, then, what became of him," observed Mrs. McElroy.

"No; and this uncertainty is agonizing. Perhaps he was captured by the Indians, and may be at this very moment suffering the most barbarous treatment from them; or the dear boy may have been devoured by a wild beast, or he may be starving in the wilderness. This suspense concerning him is too much to bear;" and she looked anxiously out of the window.

But the hour for dinner had arrived, and Mrs. Jones and Robert went down with the others to dine. As they entered the dining-room, the general directed their attention to the corner of the room; and there, wrapped in his blanket, sat an Indian, whom Mrs. Jones, after the first start of surprise, recognized as Long Hair.

"Mrs. Jones," said the general, "perhaps you can find out what the red-skin wants. He isn't very communicative with me, but seems anxious to see your Tom."

"I am glad to meet you," said Mrs. Jones, kindly, to the savage. "Have you anything of importance to communicate?"

But Long Hair appeared as if something had gone wrong with him, and sat in moody silence.

"Will you not speak to me, Long Hair?" asked Mrs. Jones. "You know I've always treated you well—have I not?"

"White squaw good to Injin. Sojer say Injin lie; sojer call Long Hair dog; tell him go way."

"Some of your men have ill-treated Long Hair, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Jones to the general.

"Well," said the general, "I'll see that they don't do it any more;" and, wishing to propitiate the tawny brave, he added, "perhaps Long Hair would take some dinner with us." But the Indian wasn't so easily appeased, and said,—

"Long Hair no beggar-dog; Long Hair shoot deer, shoot raccoon, catch fish, plenty!"

"But," interposed Mrs. Jones, "didn't you bring some venison to my cabin one day, and did I refuse it, Long Hair?"

"White squaw good," he repeated; "Long Hair never forget. Long Hair sick; white squaw medicine him. Long Hair kill deer for white squaw."

"Yes," said Mrs. Jones; "you were sick, and I took care of you, as I ought to; and you have been very kind to me and mine, and I shall never forget it."

Under her gentle influence, the Indian was persuaded to partake of the food placed before him. He ate with a voracity which showed that he had been long fasting, and his appearance indicated that he had seen hardship and danger. Mrs. Jones was satisfied that his coming portended something to her, either good or evil; and, from his reserve, she feared it might be the latter, and the better to draw out of him the tidings, whatever they might be, related the circumstances attending her husband's death, referring to the murder of Sarah and little Bub, and the disappearance of Charlie, adding, that she supposed he was also killed. The Indian listened in silence till she spoke of Charlie and little Bub, and then, with energy, exclaimed,—

"Charlie no dead! Bub no dead!"

"But Bub must be dead," said Mrs. Jones; "for I saw him shot by Yellow Bank."

"No; Injin speak truth."

"What makes you think so?" asked she, astonished.

Long Hair made no reply; but drawing from beneath his blanket a little shoe, he placed it on the edge of the table; then, by its side, he laid an old battered jackknife.

"Why, Long Hair!" cried Mrs. Jones, deeply agitated; "that's Bub's shoe, and Charlie's knife. Where did you get them?" a ray of hope springing up in her heart.

"Long Hair went find Charlie; travel much; peep in wigwam much; no find. Long Hair say Charlie no killed; Charlie no taken prisoner; Charlie hid near cabin. Long Hair look all 'bout near cabin; see Charlie hand put down so," spreading his fingers, "in mud at spring; den Long Hair say, Charlie thirsty; been spring for water; find trail; find knife in trail, near big tree; find shoe near big tree; Bub hid in tree; then Long Hair push bush way; see hole in tree. Long Hair hear Injins coming; Long Hair crawl in tree quick; no Charlie there; no Bub there; find these in tree;" taking from his blanket a handful of nuts, and some potatoes, and a crust of bread, and some trinkets that must have fallen from Charlie's pocket; "den Long Hair see Injins come, one, two, tree, ten, twenty, many; come all round, crawling, crawling; get near cabin; Injin think nobody in cabin, 'cause get near; rifle shoot from cabin, one, two, tree, many rifle; scare Injin; Injin run like deer; Long Hair wait to see if Injin come again; no come; shoot from cabin at Long Hair; come out tree; get behind tree quick; make peace sign at cabin,—no bleeve Long Hair; try shoot at him; Long Hair come way—come to fort!"

"Well, that's strange," said General McElroy; "from Long Hair's account, there seems to be a number in the cabin; it must be that all the settlers were not massacred, and have returned, and taken possession of the cabin; we must send a force to their relief."

"But where are Charlie and Bub?" asked Mrs. Jones of the Indian.

"Long Hair don't know; think in cabin."

"How many persons, should you judge from the firing, were in the cabin?" inquired the general.

"Long Hair don't know; no trail."

"What does Long Hair mean by that?" asked Mrs. McElroy of her husband.

"He means that there is no appearance of any of the settlers being about the cabin," said the general, "which makes the matter still more incomprehensible; for if any of the settlers had come back, Long Hair would have traced them. Isn't that it, Long Hair?" The Indian nodded assent. "And yet he says that there were many guns fired," continued the general; "so many that quite a force of the assailing Indians were panic-struck, and fled. How was the firing done, Long Hair? As if by persons that were used to handling the rifle?"

"One, two, tree, bery good; hit Injin some; shoot at Long Hair good; much hard get way; to the most, much poor—shoot here, shoot dere, shoot everywhere!"

"But what makes you think the children are in the cabin?" asked Mrs. Jones; for, mother-like, her thoughts were constantly recurring to them.

"Trail go towards cabin," replied the sagacious red man; "couldn't follow trail; shoot Long Hair if he follow trail."

"I think that Long Hair is right," said the general, striking the table with the flat of his hand: "your boys were born to be heroes, madam. If I mistake not, that Charlie and Bub of yours were the defenders of that cabin against the savages. And yet," he added, doubtfully, "that is simply absurd; it's beyond the power of two little boys to perform such a feat; for you recollect, ladies, that Long Hair said that not only a number of guns were fired, but at the same time; and to conclude that two little boys should fire off a score of guns, more or less, simultaneously, is to assent to a physical impossibility. The truth is, the deeper I go into this matter, the more I'm puzzled. What is your opinion of it, Long Hair?"

"Long Hair no sense; no tell; mind much dark;" and the Indian seemed mortified that his sagacity was for once at fault. "No white settlers in cabin; Charlie and Bub in cabin; much gun fire; hurt two, tree Injin; scare much Injin—don't know."

"He means that he is certain that no settlers have returned to the cabin," explained Mrs. Jones, "but that Charlie and Bub are there; while as to who shot off so many fire-arms, he is as much in the dark as ourselves."

"Well," said the general, rising, "there is one way to clear up this mystery. I'll send a trusty detachment there at once to open the secrets of the cabin."

Long Hair rose at this, and said,—

"White chief send sojer to cabin, right way, bimeby, quick?"

"Yes," replied the general, "and I should like to have you go with them as guide."

"No," answered the Indian, sententiously; "Long Hair go 'lone; Long Hair always go 'lone;" and, starting at a quick pace, he was speedily out of sight.



CHAPTER XXI.

"PULL THE STRING, BUB."

The high state of excitement into which Charlie had been kept by the startling events connected with the massacre, and his ingenious defence of the cabin, brought about a reaction; great lassitude alternated with feverish symptoms. He felt obliged to watch during the long hours of night, and caught such snatches of sleep as Bub's performances allowed by day.

One day, after Bub had had his breakfast, Charlie said,—

"I feel as if I was going to be sick, Bub; my mouth tastes dreadfully, and my head aches so I can scarcely see. If I shouldn't get well, and the Indians should come, you must remember and go into the hole in the cellar, and pull the stone up in its place after you, just as I showed you how, and keep still same as we did in the tree."

"And shall I have to take the toffee-pot and go to the spring, same's you did?"

"No," said Charlie; "the Indians would see you and kill you if you did, and we have a well in the yard. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll bring a pail of cold water now, and fill the coffee-pot, and put it into the hole, and a good lot of food there for you to eat, so that you wouldn't have to come out for anything; and, Bub, if I should die, and father and mother should come and take you away, I want you to tell them that I put the water and the food there; won't you?"

"Yes," said Bub; "and I'll let them hide in our tree; mayn't I, Charlie?"

"Yes," answered Charlie; "you must tell them all you can remember; tell them that I tried to be a good boy; tell mother,"—speaking very softly,—"that every night we said 'Now I lay me;' and don't you never forget to say, 'Now I lay me;' will you, Bub?"

"No, I won't," said Bub; "tos, if I'm dood, like you and mother, and say, 'Now I lay me' every night, when I die Dod will send a big angel down to take me up to heaven; won't he, Charlie?"

"Yes," said Charlie. "Now I'll go get the water;" and, walking with unsteady step to the well, he returned with a pail of water, and, filling the coffee-pot, descended, feebly, to the cellar, and placed it in the hole which he had dug; then, carrying most of the provisions that they had, deposited them there also, and going up stairs again, he started for the bed, but suddenly stopped, and putting his hand over his eyes, said,—

"O, where is it? I can't see, I'm so dizzy," and fell by the side of it, on the hard floor. Bub looked on in wonder, scarcely comprehending the meaning of it, saying,—

"Did the cellar hurt you, Charlie?" But there was no answer. In a few moments after, Charlie opened his eyes, and said,—

"Bub, I'm dreadful sick; if the Indians should come,—and you must watch for them, Bub, else they might come when you wasn't looking,—"

Then he relapsed into silence.

"Did you 'peak, Charlie?" said Bub, wondering that he did not finish the sentence. The dear little voice seemed to recall his wandering thoughts, and, taking up what he was saying where he had left off, continued,—

"If the Indians should come, Bub, remember and pull the strings; perhaps that will frighten them off, as it did before. If it doesn't, go right into the hole in the cellar, as I told you."

"I fraid to go into the cellar 'out you."

"But you must," answered Charlie, "or the Indians will kill you. But you won't feel afraid if you pray God to take care of you."

"Is Dod stronger than dark?" asked Bub.

"Yes," said Charlie, "he made the dark; he made you, and everything; but," he added, "I feel better; I guess I'll get on the bed; it's easier there."

Charlie was threatened with brain fever, as his bloodshot eyes, flushed face, and throbbing temples revealed. The strain had been too great for him, and he soon seemed to be unconscious of what was passing around him, and moaned and tossed incessantly. Chary of his scanty store of provisions, not knowing how long they might be shut up in the cabin, he had eaten sparingly himself, but fed Bub generously, not only from love to his little brother, but because it would keep him the more quiet. The night-watching had worn on him terribly.

Bub had small comprehension of Charlie's condition; and finding, after a while, that Charlie did not talk with him, he took the post of sentinel, and did himself great credit. This seemed a long period to the little fellow, and after going the rounds of the port-hole, and seeing nothing to alarm him, he set about amusing himself. The skin bag, containing the ammunition, caught his eye; so, getting the fire-shovel, he managed to dislodge it from the peg on which it hung, and down it plumped upon the floor. Bub looked towards Charlie at this, to see what he would say, but, as he did not seem to notice, lugged the bag to the hearth, and commenced strewing the powder upon the fire. This was highly satisfactory, and one little puff would go up, sending out the white ashes, to be succeeded by another, as fast as the fat fist of the little mischief-maker could work. Then he began to strew the powder out from the hearth upon the floor; and he clapped his hands in glee, as he saw the fire run along the trains that he had laid. Very careless was he in his pyrotechnic contrivances, and might have found himself involved in a grand explosion, had he not bethought himself that, if powder was good to burn, it was also good to eat. Now, it chanced that Charlie, in his investigations in the cupboard, had come across a neglected jug, that contained molasses; and as molasses was much prized by Bub, he had kept it for that little boy's sole use, dealing it out to him, a little at a time, at each meal. So, bringing out the jug and a saucer, Bub filled the latter with molasses, into which he stirred the powder, and commenced eating the sweet mixture. He knew he had been into mischief that would displease his brother; so, denying himself the first taste, taking the saucer and spoon in his hand, he trudged to the bedside, and said,—

"Bub made Charlie some tandy. Bub good boy."

But, as Charlie gave no heed to the peace-offering, Bub put the saucer upon the table, and, seating himself in his usual place at meal time, commenced eating. The compound was not so pleasant as its inventor had expected, and, after the first few spoonfuls, was abandoned in disgust. It now occurred to him that it was time to resume his post as sentry. Mounting to his first outlook, his little blue eyes dilated, for he saw an Indian creeping along.

"Charlie," said he, jumping down in terror. "Injun come to kill Bub!"

But, as Charlie did not reply, he clambered on the bed, crying,—

"Charlie, 'peak to Bub; Injun come!" Then, supposing that the reason he made no answer was because he had burnt the powder, he said, with quivering lip,—

"Bub's sorry he's been naughty; Bub won't be naughty no more. Bub love Charlie;" and he put his little face lovingly against Charlie's. But he started back as Charlie's hot cheeks touched his tender flesh. Remembering how hot his own flesh was when tortured with thirst in the tree, and how grateful the draught of water was Charlie fetched from the spring at the risk of his life, Bub exclaimed,—

"Charlie dry; Bub give Charlie some drink!" and hastening to the table, he took from it the large bowl, and filled it from the bucket that Charlie had left on the floor, and, climbing with it on the bed again, essaying to put it to his lips, upset the whole over his face and neck. The sudden application of the cold water proved a balm to the sick boy, and, recognizing Bub, he inquired, confusedly,—

"Where—where am I?—what's the matter?"

"Injun's come!" cried Bub, with renewed earnestness.

Charlie attempted to rise, but fell back, exhausted, saying, while a growing faintness crept over him,—

"I can't get up, Bub, I'm so sick; pull the string."

Bub did as he was directed, and again the cabin fort broke the stillness of prairie and forest with its unmanned broadside.

"Now," said Charlie, his voice sinking to a whisper, "go and hide yourself in the cellar, Bub, and keep very still."

"I 'fraid 'out you!" said Bub.

"I am so sick," answered Charlie, "I can't go with you."

"I so 'fraid!" quivered Bub, as he saw the deathly pallor creeping over Charlie's face, and the fixed look of his eyes.

"Pray, and then go and keep still," said Charlie.

And little Bub knelt by the bedside, and, folding his hands, repeated,—

"Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take;"

and then adding, of his own accord, "Please, Dod, take care of Charlie, and don't let the dark hurt Bub;" rising, he said, "Bub isn't 'fraid now;" and, descending into the cellar, he crept into his hiding-place in the wall, and carefully readjusted the stone.

The Indian that Bub had seen was Long Hair. While he was cautiously reconnoitring, the command under Captain Manly had reached the ground. The soldiers found the outer door securely fastened, and, though they thundered for admittance, there was no response from within. In their impatience, some broke down the door, while others scaled the walls. Captain Manly was the first to enter, and the soldiers pushed in eagerly after him, anxious to rescue the settlers, if any were there still. Instantly his eye caught the figure stretched on the bed.

"Hush, boys," said he, reverently; "the little fellow is dead."

Tears filled the eyes of the men as they gathered about their officer, and gazed silently upon the features of the boy. A placid look was upon the brave lad's countenance; his curly-brown hair lay in dank masses, in fine contrast to his white forehead; while the lessons of self-control, which he had been taught, made his expression mature and noble. Captain Manly stooped and kissed the cold forehead, and the soldiers instinctively lifted their caps.

Meanwhile, the cabin had been carefully searched.

"There's not a soul in it," said Sergeant Eaton, touching his cap. "The little lad yonder seems to have been all alone."

"Impossible. What did that firing mean from the cabin, just as we rode up? And here, you see, are no less than a dozen rifles, all nicely mounted. Where are the fingers that pulled the triggers? Sergeant, there is some mystery here that needs to be unravelled. Have you searched the cellar?"

"We have, sir," was the reply.

The officers stood looking at each other perplexed, and were continuing their conversation in a low tone, when Long Hair entered, and without noticing any one, stood, with folded arms, gazing at Charlie.

"Long Hair," said the captain, turning abruptly towards him, "how long did you get here before we did?"

"Little time—not much."

"Were you on the ground when we heard the discharge?"

"In tree; just here; over dere."

"Did any one leave the cabin after the guns were fired?"

"No leave cabin," he answered.

"Who do you think fired the guns, Long Hair?"

"Charlie fire gun."

"But Charlie is dead; and the discharge was only a few moments ago."

"No; Indian no sense; Charlie no fire gun. Bub fire gun."

"Impossible," returned the captain, impatiently. "How could such a child do it?"

"What string for, cap'n?" asked Long Hair, pointing to the twine that hung from the gun triggers, which, being so near the color of the walls, had been detected only by the Indian's keen glance. This ingenious arrangement was examined with interest; and the conviction was fast gaining ground, that Long Hair was not far from right in his conclusions.

"But where is the child?" asked the captain; and again they searched the cabin. The closet was peered into to its topmost shelf; a few boxes that had been left, emptied of their contents; even the bed on which Charlie lay was minutely examined, and the improbable supposition that the walls of the cellar might conceal him was renounced, as the soldiers struck the butts of their guns against the stones.

"Is it possible," asked the captain of Long Hair,—for he had learned to rely much on his sagacity,—"that Bub could escape from the house?"

Long Hair shook his head, saying,—

"No trail; Bub no go."

"May it plase your honor," said the Irish private, O'Connor, touching his cap to the captain, "I belave, on me sowl, that it's the ghost of the brave lad that shot the guns. The likes of him, sir, would be afther defendin' the cabin if 'twas only out of respect to the onburied bodies of the women and the childers that has been murthured by the hathen savages—bad luck to 'em!"

"Long Hair," said the captain, smiling at the superstition of the warm-hearted Hibernian, "I've a mind, while the men are taking their rations on the grass, to leave you to clear up this mystery; I believe, if any one can find it out, you can."

The men, having fallen into line, stacked their guns, and Long Hair was left alone with Charlie. He stood for a moment looking at the quiet form of the boy; and the workings of his usually stolid face showed the affection which he felt for him. He then carefully looked about the room, then went quietly out, and passed around the cabin, critically examining the ground as he walked. He soon returned, and made directly for the cellar, gliding noiselessly in his moccasins down the stairs. In the dim light he carefully went over the cellar bottom. Taking up some of the litter with which it was covered, he gently scraped the fresh sand away until he came to litter again. Patiently and carefully then he removed the top litter from a wide space, noticing from which direction the sand had been thrown, and in a moment he was standing where the heap had been, which Charlie and Bub had shovelled away. Stooping down now, he saw where the earth had been fretted by the stone as it had been pulled out and in; then he placed his ear to the ground, and listened intently; instantly he glided from the cellar, and stood with folded arms before Captain Manly.

"Well, what luck?" asked the captain.

"Long Hair find pappoose."

There was a general excitement at this, and a number arose, as if eager to follow the captain and the Indian; but Long Hair stirred not, saying, angrily,—

"Too much sojer; scare pappoose."

"That is sensible," said the captain; "you and I will go alone, Long Hair."

The Indian led him at once to the place in the wall where Bub was concealed.

"Pappoose in dere," said the Indian, pointing to the stone. "Take stone out."

The captain drew it forth, got down on his hands and knees, and peeped in, and saw Bub's bright eyes looking into his; and, taking hold of Bub's chubby hand, he said, soothingly,—for Bub now began to cry,—

"Don't be afraid, my little fellow; we are all your friends, and have come to take you to your mother."

"Won't Injun kill me?" asked Bub, glancing apprehensively at Long Hair.

"No," said the officer; "it's Long Hair; he came to keep the bad Indians from killing you."

When Captain Manly appeared with Bub in his arms, the air was rent with the joyful shouts of the soldiers; and Bub suddenly found himself a hero, as he was borne about and caressed by them—a joy that was suddenly intensified to a wild pitch of excitement, as word was brought that dear, brave, romantic Charlie had revived. He was not dead. Aroused by the shouts of the soldiers over Bub's appearance, he had opened his eyes, and, imagining that the Indians were assailing the cabin, murmured, in a clear, distinct voice,—

"Pull the string, Bub!"



CHAPTER XXII.

TOM AND THE MONEY-LENDER.

Mr. Cowles—farmer, grocer, postmaster, and money-lender—drew his chair to the fire. The large, old-fashioned stove had an open front, and it was pleasant, on such a piercing day, to see the flames leap, and hear the wood crackle, and sit in the genial warmth.

The table was neatly set for supper. There was a platter of cold prairie chicken, a glass dish containing wild-plum sauce, and a plate of biscuit; while on the stove hearth stood a white tureen, holding a few slices of hot toast.

Mrs. Cowles, having been informed by her liege lord that her presence was not desired at that particular hour, had gladly improved the opportunity to take a cup of tea with her friend Mrs. Barker, and learn the particulars concerning the accident that happened to Bill Walker and Maria Hobbs the night before, who, while returning from a log-house dance, six miles away, were upset from the wagon into Slough Creek. Mrs. Cowles dearly loved a dish of gossip, which, smoking hot and seasoned to one's taste, was always to be had at Mrs. Barker's.

The Cowles were a money-loving and money-getting race, from the least of them to the greatest; and Mr. Charles Cowles was not a whit behind the shrewdest of them in this respect.

It was a stormy afternoon in March, and the winds, which, like troops of wild horses, came careering across the prairies, and charged upon the money-lender's "framed" house, furiously whirled the snow, and made shrill, wintry music. Mr. Cowles added more fuel to the fire, reseated himself, put his feet into a chair, and fell into a deep study.

He was the moneyed man of the place, and, although comparatively a new comer, was the autocrat of the settlement. His first visit to the town, "prospecting," caused considerable commotion; for if the groves and prairies had been arranged on the plan of a vast whispering-gallery, the fact that he had a golden purse could scarcely have circulated more rapidly. Many prophesied he would not condescend to dwell in so small a town—a surmise that seemed the more probable from his haughty, overbearing carriage. And when it was certain that he had bought out the best of the two stores, and carpenters were set to work building a large addition to the grocery, and teams arrived from the Mississippi loaded with barrels and boxes of goods, there was general congratulation. The town will go ahead now, the settlers said; men of capital are beginning to come in, and land is sure to rise.

But Mr. Cowles did not pitch his tent there for the benefit of the public, as the public soon had reason to know. He invested nothing in "improvements," but simply kept his stock replenished, selling at the high frontier prices, giving credit when wanted, but always taking ample security, and letting money in the same way, at five per cent. per month.

The settlers had met with the usual financial disappointments of the frontier, and then a business revulsion at the east caused a fall in the value of land, and a diminution of immigration; and, having expended the little they had on their arrival, they were compelled to do as best they could. In this extremity it became common for them to get trusted at the store for groceries, and hire money of its proprietor; and in an astonishingly short space of time, the sharp grocer held mortgages on most of the farms in the neighborhood. He was inexorable when pay-day came; and if the money was not ready, he foreclosed, deaf to all appeals. But of this he invariably gave each one who applied for a loan an offensively plain warning. He was a middle-sized, broad-chested, black-eyed man, muscular, passionate, blasphemously profane, heavy-voiced, had a remarkable command of language, and when angered his eyes seemed to shoot lightning, and he would gesticulate with great energy. There was no respect of persons or station with him; high and low were served alike. When credit or money was asked for, he would say,—

"Certainly, sir; but, mind you," with a fearful oath, "if you don't pay according to agreement, I shan't wait a moment. Everybody that deals with me has to be on the square. O, yes; you expect to pay, but you won't. And don't you come whining and crying round me then; it won't make any sort of difference. I've put my grip on your land, and I tell you now that I shan't let go. Don't you say, then, that I didn't tell you beforehand just how it would turn out."

The money-lender of the young village was feared, hated, and fawned upon. His bearing was imperious and sneering towards all. He had a vigorous intellect, however, was uncommonly well-informed, and would discourse to the groups in his store, sitting with his stout legs hanging over the counter, with a coarse brilliancy, original and sagacious, from which the more cultured might cull gems of thought, fresh and striking, despite the terrible swearing, which would startle even bad men.

Was there "a well in the rock" of this man's hard heart? We shall see.

The lines of the money-lender's face were bitterly hard; but on this afternoon his features worked as if strong conflicting emotions were striving for mastery. Something unusual was stirring his brain; he sat thinking, thinking, uneasily shifting his position, and at length arose, and passing through a dark hall, entered the shop, and said,—

"Ah, Tom, is that you?"

"Yes," answered the young man, diffidently; "Mr. Payson said you wished to see me."

"Yes, walk in this way;" and Mr. Cowles returned to the home-room, followed by Tom.

"Do you know why I sent for you?" asked the grocer.

"No, sir."

"Well, I had a little private matter that I wished to talk with you about; but I'm hungry as a bear, and if you'll do me the favor to drink a cup of tea with me, I'll try to explain."

Tom had ever shrunk from contact with this man, and marvelled much at finding himself his guest. Yet a cosy sitting down together they had, Tom's host being singularly attentive to him, while they partook of the nice edibles.

"Tom," said the grocer, as they sat back from the table, "I've heard good accounts of you;" and his voice grew soft and tremulous; "and I'm really glad of it. And I've had an eye on you myself quite a while; and, bad as they say old Cowles is, I like to see others do well. You stuck by your folks when you wished to go off; that's right. You made the most of your schooling; that's in your favor. You are an honest, right-minded lad, aiming to be, I suspect, some such a man as that missionary."

Tom's surprise grew apace. How did this rough, swearing, covetous dealer ferret out his heart's secrets?

"You wished to go from home to study, but, like a true son, staid by to help the family. That must have been a great self-denial to you; was it not?"

"Yes," faltered Tom.

"Of course it was. But how did you manage to give it up so bravely?"

"Mother advised me to pray about it, and I did."

"Do you think it does any good to pray?" asked the grocer.

"O, yes, indeed. I couldn't live without prayer, it helps me so much."

"But," objected his questioner, "do you imagine that the great God cares enough about our little affairs to answer the trifling requests we may make of him?"

"I do, sir," replied Tom, with glowing cheeks and tearful eyes; "I have known him to do so many and many a time."

"Perhaps you were deceived."

"O," cried Tom, "if you had been in the missionary's family as much as I have, and heard him pray for things, and then see just what he asked for come into the house almost before he arose from his knees, you could not doubt that God had heard him. Why, sir, how do you suppose he has managed to get along on the little that the settlers have paid him, unless it has been in answer to prayer?"

"I am sure he must have been pinched," answered the money-lender, moving uneasily.

"I would like to relate an instance or two," continued Tom, "if it would not be—"

"No, no, it won't be disagreeable to me; but I have not time to hear it now. I believe all you say. I tell you what it is, young man," he added, rising and pacing the floor, deeply agitated, "I know more about these matters than folks think. There's my brother; he's a Methodist minister, just like this missionary about praying. He's often prayed for me, and says he has the evidence that I shall be converted, and become a preacher."

"Perhaps you will," earnestly remarked Tom; "you have ability enough to do a great deal of good."

"So he says. What if it should come about! How strange it would seem for a cursing old sinner like me to preach and pray as that missionary does! They call me a hard man. But what can I do? Don't I inform every soul that asks me for money that he's a fool, and that I shall hold him to the writing? I get their lands, it is true; but if I did not, somebody else would. Why, they mortgage all they have, and then buy the highest priced goods in the store. I've no patience with such folks, and they don't get much mercy from me."

"But," bluntly said Tom, "I can't see how another's wrong-doing justifies ours."

"That's so," he returned, gloomily. "But I've a different sort of business to transact with you, than to defend my misdeeds. That missionary has been making me a pastoral visit, and he took it upon himself to inform me that the Lord has called you to preach the gospel, and that it is my duty to furnish money to send you off to college, or some such place, where they grind out ministers."

"Me!" exclaimed Tom, rising to his feet.

"Yes, you; sit down, sit down, young man, and be calm;" and the grocer, in his own excitement, gesticulated violently with both arms at once. "He says that I'm the only man here that has the money to do this. Pretty cool—isn't it?—to dictate to old Cowles, the miserly money-grabber, in that way. I just turned on my heel, and left him in the middle of his ordering; but, you see, I couldn't help thinking about it night and day. I wouldn't wonder if that meddling missionary had been praying about it all the while; and the result is, the old money-lender is going to give you a lift, my boy. We, hackneyed, hopeless old reprobates, need just such preachers as the missionary's famous seminary is going to make out of you; and I invited you here to say that you can depend on me for two hundred dollars in gold to start with, and as much more each year, till you graduate, as the missionary says you need. When old Cowles begins to do a thing, mind you, he never does it by halves."

"But," said Tom, choking with joy and wonder, "how shall I pay you?"

"Pay! pay!" roared the grocer, his eyes shooting flame; then, suddenly waxing tender, the tears extinguishing the fire-flashes, "if you will pray for a poor old rebel like me, it is all the pay I want."

Then, going into the entry, he called,—

"Johnson! Johnson!"

"Here, sir," said a voice; and the dapper little tailor, who rented a window in the store, made his appearance.

"Measure this young man for a suit of clothes," said the grocer; "and mind and give him a genteel fit, that will do for him in the best circles east."



CHAPTER XXIII.

AN ENCHANTING SCENE.—THE PARTING.

"The hearth is swept, the fire is made, The kettle sings for tea."

It was the clear, honest voice of Deacon Palmer that fell on Tom's ear, and which he now heard for the hundredth time. Year in and out, at morning and night, the good man had sung this, his favorite song,—bachelor though he was, with silver-streaked hair,—as if his heart yearned for the wifely waiting, and the sweet home-joys it pictured. Why were they not his? Do all have their longings for something brighter and better than the present brings? something for which they must wait and wait, and perchance never attain?

Tom knocked modestly at the storekeeper's door. A moment, and the money-lender opened it, saying, heartily,—

"Walk in; walk in!"

"No, I thank you," answered Tom; "I called to say, that as I am to start on Monday to begin study at the east,"—and the young man's tones grew tremulous,—"General and Mrs. McElroy and mother are to be at the missionary's to-day, and they desire the pleasure of your company at dinner."

"Well, well, young man, you have brought a message—haven't you?" exclaimed the grocer, fidgeting about. "A pretty mixed-up company that would be—wouldn't it? Old Cowles sitting down to table with a minister of the gospel, and a student for that sacred calling, and such like folks. No, no; that wouldn't be consistent. Tell them that I am much obliged, but—"

"Now, Mr. Cowles," exclaimed Tom, seizing his hand, "you must come. I shall feel dreadfully hurt if you refuse,—and they all want you to so much. And, you know that if it was not for your kindness—"

"There, there, boy," interrupted the storekeeper, his black eyes flashing through tears, "don't talk in that way. All is, if it will please you, I'll come. But how do you go to the river, Monday?"

"O, the missionary is to get a team."

"Well, just say to him that my horses are at his service."

We will not dwell upon the dinner in the log-cabin parsonage, during which "irrepressible" Bub—his clerical tastes sharpened by Tom's example—took clandestine possession of the attic study, and, constituting himself preacher, audience, and choir, undertook to conduct divine service. Having given out the first hymn, he drowned the missionary's words, as the latter said grace, by stoutly singing,—

"I want to be an angel, An angel with a stand."

Neither may we linger amid the tender, solemn scenes of the Sabbath following, the last Tom was to spend in the rude frontier sanctuary.

It was evening of a beautiful day in May, when the money-lender's capacious carriage, drawn by his trusty grays, deposited its passengers at the landing, to await the steamer. What a lifetime of thought and emotion seemed crowded into that interval of waiting, as Mrs. Jones stood with Tom clasped closely, whispering words of mingled foreboding, hope, and caution!

"To be a good minister of Jesus Christ, how glorious, how sublime!" said she. "There is nothing I so much desire for you. But you are going into scenes very different from those in which you have been reared—scenes which will have their peculiar and insidious perils. I foresee that you will rise to distinction in your studies. But do not seek high things for yourself. Be not anxious to become what is called a great preacher, nor aspire to a 'brilliant settlement.' Sacrifice not conscience for place and power and the applause of sect. Keep humble. Keep Christ ever before you; and may he watch between me and thee while we are separated from each other;" and she kissed him a fond farewell. Tom stepped aboard the steamer, which rapidly bore him away, carrying in his heart the images of the godly missionary, fair-haired Alice, and his mother—the little group that stood on the shore gazing so lovingly after him. The young man wept freely as they faded from sight. But, happily, the magical splendor of night on the Mississippi broke in on the tumult of his feelings. Hundreds of lights gleamed from the shore in every direction; from village, and city, and town; from cottage and homestead; while steamer after steamer, illuminated within and without, came sweeping, sounding, thundering on, like some monster leviathan spouting fire. It was as a dream of enchantment to him, and soon stirred his brain wonderfully. With singular vividness the eventful past of his pioneer life flitted before his mental vision, and again he experienced the terrible anxieties and thrills of horror and of heroic resolve connected with the Indian uprising. And now his tears flow as he revisits in imagination the lonely grave of his father on the far-off prairie. Would the dear ones that survived the fearful outbreak be long safe? Might they not soon need his aid once more? And the glowing future for which he had so panted, would it be to him all he had fancied? Would he pass safely the dangers his far-seeing mother had sketched? Would he realize her ideal? And the kind missionary and the eccentric money-lender, they had high expectations of what he should become. Would he disappoint their hopes? Tom, wearied with thought, sought his state-room, and fell asleep, dreaming that he was hearing, as on the morning of his first visit to the fort, the bird-like notes of the song that then floated through the open window, and that fairy Alice looked out and said,—

"Don't forget me, Tom, while you are away."

Thus does divine and human love ever intertwine. How strange, how unvarying the experience! Farewell, Tom! Farewell, Charlie! Good by, Bub! Perhaps we may meet again.



THE LOOKOUT ISLAND CAMPERS

By WARREN L. ELDRED

Illustrated by Arthur O. Scott—Large 12mo—Cloth $1.50



This is a story of active boys of fifteen or so. They are very fortunate in the friendship of the principal of their school and his friend, an athletic young doctor. Under the care of these two they go into camp on an island well suited to the purpose, and within easy distance of a thronged summer resort. A series of exciting ball games and athletic contests with the boys at the hotel naturally follows, and the boys display as many varieties of human nature as could their elders. The author is a man who knows boys thoroughly, and by his work is known to a very large number of them, and the whole atmosphere of the story is merry, wholesome, and just what boys like.

"Mr. Eldred's book is almost certain to meet with a ready response from young readers, for not only are the boys filled with life and vigor of a true youthful and appreciable variety but their experiences are entertaining in themselves and may perhaps give the young readers ideas for summer plans of their own."—Chicago Tribune.

"This is a capital book for active boys, vigorous, wholesome and sane, written by a man who knows boys and can give them the best kind of vacation."—Defender, Boston.

For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., Boston



THE BOY WITH THE U. S. SURVEY

By FRANCIS ROLT-WHEELER

First Volume of "U. S. Service Series"

Illustrations from photographs taken in work for U. S. Government

Large 12mo Cloth $1.50



This is the first of a series of boys' books along entirely new lines. Appealing to the boy's love of excitement, this series gives actual experiences in the different branches of United States government work little known to the general public. This story describes the thrilling adventures of members of the U. S. Geological Survey, graphically woven into a stirring narrative that both pleases and instructs. The author enjoys an intimate acquaintance with the chiefs of the various bureaus in Washington, and is able to obtain at first hand the material for the books, and the finished manuscript is submitted to the chief of the bureau for final approval to ensure accuracy of statement. While the United States bureaus are not allowed to give their official endorsement to books, yet they are all eager to afford every facility to the author to take up their branch next. These are the very books that will develop boys into well-informed and valuable citizens of these United States, alive to the needs of conservation of the vast resources and energies of their country.

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For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers

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WINNING HIS SHOULDER STRAPS

By NORMAN BRAINERD

First Volume of "Five Chums Series"

Illustrated by Frank Vining Smith

12mo Cloth $1.25



A rousing story of life in a military school by one who thoroughly knows all the features of such a school, with so much in its life that is so entirely different from the ordinary boarding-school. Bob Anderson, the hero, is a good friend to tie to, and each of his four particular friends is a worthy companion, with well-sustained individuality. The dearest honor to a student is to become an officer, and these coveted honors are secured partly by competitive rank and partly by popular vote. Among all kinds of dispositions, temperaments, and temptations, Bob has no easy road to the coveted distinction. Athletics are plentifully featured, and every boy, good, bad, and indifferent, is a natural fellow, who talks and acts like a bright, up-to-date lad in real life.

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For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the publishers

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., Boston

THE END