[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "'God bless you!' he said fervently." _p._ 62]
LOST IN THE BACKWOODS
BY
EDITH C. KENYON
AUTHOR OF "JACK'S HEROISM"; "BRAVE BERTIE," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. RAINEY, R.I._
LONDON
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW
_FOURTEENTH THOUSAND_
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
ATTACKED BY ROBBERS
CHAPTER II.
ALONE IN THE FOREST
CHAPTER III.
RESCUED
CHAPTER IV.
TEMPTED
CHAPTER V.
CYRIL'S SENTENCE
CHAPTER VI.
DELIVERANCE
CHAPTER VII.
A FALSE ALARM
CHAPTER VIII.
GREEN MEETS HIS FATHER
CHAPTER IX.
AT THE SAW-MILL
CHAPTER X.
ATTACKED BY BEARS
CHAPTER XI.
CYRIL SPEAKS UP FOR THE INDIANS
CHAPTER XII.
A JOYFUL MEETING
CHAPTER XIII.
LEAVING THE SAW-MILL
CHAPTER XIV.
LOST IN THE SNOW
CHAPTER XV.
A CONFESSION OF GUILT
CHAPTER XVI.
THE DISCOVERY IN THE LOFT
CHAPTER XVII.
THE GHOST
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MEETING IN THE FOREST
LOST IN THE BACKWOODS.
CHAPTER I.
_ATTACKED BY ROBBERS._
"Your money or your life! Quick! Your money or your life!"
Cyril Morton gave a cry of horror and alarm. A masked brigand was
pointing a revolver at his father, whose pale face confronted it with
unnatural calmness.
Cyril had never passed through such a terrible minute in his whole
life as that one during which his father remained silent, instead of
replying to his fierce assailant's demand. A short while before the
train-boy, passing down the outside passage of the comfortable
American train, bearing his tray of chocolate, biscuits, fruit, etc.,
had waited on them and promised to return in a few minutes with
illustrated papers wherewith to beguile the tedium of the journey.
The train, which was a very slow one, was going from Menominee
northwards. Cyril and his father had come to North America in search
of the latter's brother, now long absent from his home. When last
heard of Gerald Morton was in Michigan, so to that State they came on
the death of Cyril's mother, whose last request was that her husband
should go and look up his only brother. Cyril was twelve years old;
he was an only child, and his father, in his sorrow, could not bear
the thought of leaving him behind in England, so the two travelled
together and were "chums," as the boy called it. After a delightful
sail from Chicago over the calm grey waters of Lake Michigan they
were enjoying their slow journey through immense pine forests, when
suddenly a band of robbers galloped up to the train, flung themselves
from their horses, and clambered on to it. First they struck down
the engine-driver, reversed the engine, and stopped the train. Then
they began to search the passengers, demanding of all their money or
their life.
On receiving no answer the ruffian who was threatening Mr. Morton
repeated his words in a voice of thunder.
"Oh, father," cried Cyril, "give him the money, or he will kill you!
Father, _please_." He screamed the last words in his agony of
apprehension.
His attention being diverted by the boy the man glanced aside at him,
and in that moment Mr. Morton, with a sudden movement, wrested the
pistol from his grasp.
The other instantly snatched at it, and a struggle commenced between
the two men for its possession. Backwards and forwards they swayed,
now locked in each other's arms, now flung apart. Once the revolver
fell upon the soft-cushioned seat, when Cyril instantly caught hold
of it, and, watching his opportunity, slipped it back into his
father's hand.
Maddened with rage the brigand struck the boy down with his huge
fist. Then Cyril lay like a log upon the floor of the carriage, and
knew no more.
A few moments and the struggle between the men was ended by the
brigand's firing point-blank at Mr. Morton, who fell back on the seat
apparently lifeless.
The robber proceeded to rapidly search his victim. Quickly he
pocketed a gold watch and chain, a well-filled purse, and also a
pocket-book containing notes. Then he stooped over the boy, looking
in his pockets. As he did so something in the white upturned face
touched even his hard heart.
"He's not unlike my Harry," he muttered, thrusting back the little
purse his fingers had just closed on. "No, I'll not take his money.
He'll come to, and maybe want it."
Turning away he went on to rob someone else; and presently, with his
pockets full of notes and gold, returned to his first victims, still
lying where he had left them.
The other outlaws were leaving the train and mounting their horses;
they were all in a hurry to get away.
The man who had struck down poor Cyril stood over him now, with a
softened look in his hard face as he felt anxiously for the boy's
pulse.
"Living!" he exclaimed, when his rough fingers had found it. "Well,
he's a plucky little lad. I'll take him with me. His father's
dead," he added, glancing at him. "I'll adopt the lad. He shall be
my son, instead of poor Harry." So saying he lifted Cyril in his
arms, carried him to where he had left his horse, and when he rode
off with the others the boy, still unconscious, was on the saddle
before him, his curly head drooping against his shoulder.
[Illustration: "The boy was on the saddle before him."]
Now it happened that under the double burden the brigand's horse
lagged behind the others, and although its master whipped and spurred
it cruelly it could not keep up with them.
"Whiterock," cried the captain of the band more than once, "come on.
Why do you linger?"
"Coming, sir," answered Whiterock, redoubling his efforts, but in
vain.
At last the captain, turning in anger to see why he was disobeyed,
perceived the boy, and cried impatiently--
"What have you got there? A lad? Ridiculous! Absurd! Fling him
down. Leave him. We want no babies."
Outlaw though he was--strong, desperate too--the brigand dared not
disobey his chief. Reluctantly, therefore, he stopped short, sprang
off his horse, and lifted the boy down in his arms. Muttering that
he had once a son like him he laid Cyril down under a forest tree,
and then, turning quickly, remounted his horse and rode rapidly after
his captain.
All the horsemen rode away. The sound of their horses' hoofs died
out in the distance.
Presently, as evening drew on, a huge grey bear, stealing through the
bushes, stood looking down on the unconscious boy. After a few
minutes the bear stooped, and almost poked him with his nose.
If Cyril had awoke then, if he had moved one hand, or in any way
"shown fight," it would have been all over with him. Unless very
hungry, however, these North American bears do not attack human
beings if they make no aggressive movement; so Cyril remaining
perfectly still the bear, having satisfied his curiosity, moved
slowly away.
The shades of night stole over the forest. It became quite dark.
The wild beasts sought their prey. All sorts of dangers were on
every side; but, quite unconscious still, the boy lay there, a faint
stirring of his pulse alone showing that life was still within his
slight young frame.
He had no mother at home praying for him, but it might be in the
Paradise above she was pleading for her boy, over whom a merciful
Providence was watching.