plain, which was free from shrubs and trees, although surrounded by the
latter. The smoke of their fires curled up in straight columns, for the
air was so still that the sound of the horses’ jaws munching their food
could be distinctly heard at some distance from the camp.
Quito lay down until the shades of night fell, and watched his enemies.
He saw them post sentries for the night; he noted the silence that
gradually stole over the scene as the savages lay down to rest, and he
saw the fires die down until the whole camp was shrouded in darkness.
During the hours that he watched there he lay as still as a fallen
tree—only his dark eyes moved about, restlessly.
At last he rose and prepared for action. Leaving his quiver and bow
behind him, he took his gun and advanced—at first in a crouching
attitude. He might have been a shadow, so noiseless were his motions. The
edge of the forest gained, he sank into the long grass of the prairie,
like a phantom, and disappeared. Thenceforth his progress was like to
that of the serpent. Pushing his gun before him he gradually worked his
way forward until he had passed the line of sentries and gained the midst
of the camp. Here his proceedings were cool and daring.
He first crawled among the horses, and made up his mind as to which two
of them were the best. Then he went to the chief’s tent, and, gently
raising the curtain of skin, looked in. His enemy was there sound asleep.
He could have stabbed him to the heart, as he lay, with such deadly
certainty, that he would have died without being able to utter a cry,
but Quito’s object was to rescue, not to avenge. He observed that the
chief lay alone in his tent. A grim smile crossed the Indian’s face as he
lowered the curtain and again sank among the grass.
There was a large tent near to that of the chief, and Quito knew that
there were women in it, but whether or not his wife was there he had not
been able to ascertain from his distant view-point in the woods.
Raising the edge of this tent, he found that it was full of slumbering
women, but it required a close inspection of their faces in the dark
to ascertain who they were—so close that his face almost touched that
of the first woman he looked at. His heart throbbed, for he thought he
recognised the features of Laughing-eye. Just then the sleeper drew a
long breath and sighed, and Quito knew that it was his lost one. He also
guessed that the others were the women of his own tribe, but he knew that
it would be impossible for him, single-handed, to save them at that time.
To save his wife would be difficult enough, he thought.
Putting his face close to that of Laughing-eye, he heaved a long-drawn
sigh, and yawned pretty loudly, imitating a woman’s voice as much as
possible, and giving his wife a push. She half awoke, and, turning round
in a sleepy way, muttered a few unintelligible words.
Quito again drew a long breath, and muttered a sleepy remark.
Laughing-eye was startled. She raised her head to listen. This was the
moment of danger. If taken by surprise, she might utter a cry or an
exclamation which might awaken her companions, and the rousing of the
whole camp would be certain to follow, for Indians’ ears are very sharp.
Quito felt the difficulty and danger of his position, but there was only
one course left open to him.
“Hist! Laughing-eye,” he whispered, close in his wife’s ear.
Next instant his left hand was on her mouth, and with his right he
pressed her down, as she made an effort to rise. The effort was
momentary, almost involuntary. Immediately she lay so still that Quito
knew she had recognised him, so he whispered a few more words, and
released her.
Nothing more was said. Speech was not necessary, for Indians’ wits are
sharpened by experience. Quito glided, one might almost say melted, away,
and Laughing-eye followed him so quietly through the same aperture
that the blanket which she left behind appeared merely to subside into
a flat state. Quito did not stop to speak outside. Gliding through the
grass, serpent-like, in the direction of the horses, he was followed by
his wife, and after some minutes, for they moved very slowly, they were
clear of the group of tents. Not far from them one of the sentinels stood
leaning on his rifle, and gazing into the far-off horizon, where a faint
glimmer of light showed that the moon was about to rise.
To pass this man was difficult, indeed, it would have been impossible,
had he not been a very young man, whose eyes were rather heavy, and whose
experience of Indian warfare was slight. They succeeded, however, and
Quito ceased to advance when he came up to a splendid horse which stood
picketted by a long line to a peg driven into the ground, and with its
fore feet “hobbled,” or tied together. Without a word he cut the hobbles,
and the line by which the animal was fastened, the end of which last he
placed in Laughing-eye’s hand. She had crept up alongside of her husband,
and remained perfectly quiet, while he glided away from her.
She might have remained perhaps two minutes in this state, when, peeping
upwards, she saw another horse moving towards her. Instantly her husband
was by her side, and she saw that the end of a rope was in his hand.
“Go first,” whispered Quito in her ear, “fly towards the rising sun.”
The whisper was so soft that the very grasshoppers at their side must
have failed to hear it. In a moment both Indians stood up, and Quito
lifted his wife lightly on the horse whose larryat she held.
Such a proceeding could not, of course, pass unnoticed in an Indian
camp. Instantly a yell was given by a sentry. Just as Quito vaulted on
his steed’s back a couple of arrows whizzed past his ear, and the young
warrior whom they had first seen darted at his horse’s head. A blow from
the butt of Quito’s gun felled him, and in another moment husband and
wife were bounding away at full stretch over the plain—the former giving
utterance to a shout of defiance, which the savages returned with yells
of fury, accompanied by a mixed shower of arrows and bullets.
Just as Quito was bounding over the crest of a mound the chief of the
Indians fired a shot at a venture. He took no aim, but the bullet sped
with fatal accuracy, and pierced the heart of Quito’s horse, which fell
heavily to the earth, sending its rider over its head. The Indian fell
with such violence that he lay for a moment or two stunned. Seeing this,
Laughing-eye at once reined up, and galloping back leaped to the ground.
Quito rose, and, staggering towards the horse, made an effort to lift his
wife on to its back. He failed, and before another attempt could be made
the unfortunate fugitives were surrounded and recaptured.
Hopeless, indeed, was Quito’s case now. Death by slow torture was certain
to be his end, while Laughing-eye would be doomed to slavery. Yet
both husband and wife conducted themselves with quiet dignity, and an
assumption of stoical indifference.
But their case was not so hopeless as they supposed. Other eyes besides
those of their enemies witnessed what had passed.
Quito’s bosom friend, Bunker, on reaching the desolate village, and
learning from the old woman what had occurred, set off in pursuit of
his friend without delay, and travelled at his utmost speed. But the
man whom he followed was about equal to himself in physical powers and
endurance, so that he could not overtake him easily. On the way he fell
in with four trappers like himself, who readily consented to join him.
These all continued to advance together night and day, with the exception
of the brief time devoted to necessary sleep, but they did not overtake
Quito until he had reached the camp of his enemies. They gained on him
during the time he lay watching the camp, and waiting for the hour of
action. Arriving at the spot where he had left his bow and arrows, not
half an hour after he had quitted it, they at once guessed that he was
reconnoitring the camp, and resolved to await the issue. While the
hunters were yet discussing the best method of procedure, the yell of the
sentry was heard.
“Down with you, lads,” cried Bunker, sinking into the grass, “they’ll
come this way.”
“No,” cried one of the others, “they’re off to the left—a man an’ a
squaw.”
“That’s them—Quito and Laughing-eye,” exclaimed Bunker, “an’ all the
reptiles after them. Now, boys, git hold o’ the horses—look alive!”
The sturdy hunter set the example. Big though he was, he bounded over the
bushes like a deer, followed by his comrades. While all the men of the
camp were in hot pursuit of the fugitives they ran up to the horses, and
each secured one, which he mounted, having previously cut the hobbles of
all the rest and sent them flying over the plain.
A regular fight then ensued, in which the Indians were beaten and
their captives rescued. The remainder of the horses, too, were secured,
and, mounted on these, the whole party returned to their village in the
Mustang Valley.
Here the state of things was so desolate and mournful that it was
resolved all the Indians who remained should start with Quito and his
wife for the Mission Station in the south. This intention was carried
out the next day, and they parted with many expressions of good-will
from their friends the hunters, who returned to their wild and lonesome
occupations of shooting and trapping in the mountains.
After a long journey the Indians reached the Mission Station, where
they remained three weeks under the instruction of the missionary. At
the end of that time they expressed their desire to join themselves to
the followers of Jesus Christ, and were baptized. Then Quito begged
that the missionary would unite him to his wife after the manner of the
Christians. Of course there could be no objection to this request, so
it was complied with—and thus Quito and Laughing-eye were baptized and
married on the same day.
[Illustration]
LOST AND FOUND.
A STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS DAYS.
_By EDWIN HODDER, Author of “Memories of New Zealand Life;” “Junior
Clerk;” “Tossed on the Waves,” &c._
If a merry day is associated with painful memories, its charm is lost,
it is a day to be avoided, one would wish to let it pass unheeded; any
attempt to make it gay only increases the gloom, and if the unpleasant
remembrances are indulged, they come back on the day which commemorates
them with a living reality, making the mind morbid and unhappy; and
cherishing dead regrets is as vain and wrong a thing as retaining the
remains of a loved life, which should be buried out of one’s sight.
Christmas day is not a sad and gloomy day to me now, but it was once; and
then such a party as this you are giving to-night, Mr. Merry, would have
been of all things in the world the one that I could not have endured,
for it would have recalled so many sad circumstances to my mind, that,
with all the fun and gaiety of you youngsters, I could not have thrown
off the shroud of regrets which such a scene as this would have cast
around me. But those days are past, and now Christmas day is one of the
happiest of the year; and how all this came to pass I am going to tell
you.
When I was a boy about fifteen or sixteen, I was at Dr. Spanker’s
school, in Berkshire, and if anybody ever had a life like a long summer
day, without a cloud or a cold nipping wind, that life was mine in those
days. The boys were the heartiest, jolliest fellows that ever threw a
quoit or kicked a ball; we knew every orchard, every bathing place, every
level piece of land for racing or cricket, every hill side for nutting,
and hedge-row for blackberrying, within twelve miles of the school. We
were all hand-and-glove in every exploit, and many a glorious scrape we
got into. Poor Dr. Spanker, how it was he did not go out of his mind we
never could make out; but he was such an easy-going, good-natured man,
and so thoroughly sympathised with young life, that he winked at many
things which other schoolmasters would have made a terrible fuss about,
and never punished anybody for their freaks unless those freaks infringed
upon some moral law. We loved the old Doctor as cordially as if he had
been our father, and in the whole school I don’t believe there was one
boy who would not rather have had his teeth knocked down his throat than
have wilfully said or done anything which would have given the dear old
gentleman pain.
The boys were not mere school acquaintances, but real friends; and
now, although years have passed away, the best friends I have in the
world are those who were my friends when I was a boy at school. Andrew
Morris was one of my great chums, and never did two boys “hit it” more
thoroughly than did we. In sport, in study, and in more serious things,
our thoughts, and desires, and aspirations were as one.
It was in the winter of 18— that my story commences. Christmas was at
hand; the school had broken up for the holidays, and Andrew Morris had
been invited to spend the first fortnight with me at my father’s house
in Marantby. There were coaches in those days; and, as we sat on the roof
wrapped up to the chin with the snow falling around us, we talked about
our plans for the holidays, and wondered what sort of a programme they
had drawn up at home for our amusement.
It was a cheery sight to see our house as it stood among the trees in the
snow, with columns of smoke rising from the chimneys, and lights gleaming
in the hall and from the windows. Long before the coach drew up, our loud
hallos had brought all the family to the door; and then there was such a
commotion as to who should get the first kiss, and who should carry in
the boxes. In the commotion, my sister Nell ran up to Andrew Morris and
gave him a good sound kiss, and then uttered a little scream, as if she
had mistaken him for me. (O! Nelly, Nelly, sly little puss, that was not
the first time you had seen Andrew, and that was not the last kiss he
ever had from you.)
“Now for a surprise, John,” said Nelly, when we had taken off our coats
and beaten off some of the snow. My mother, and I, and Andrew, and Cousin
Mary, all crowded round, as Nelly, with her hand on the dining-room door,
said “Open Sesame!” And when the door opened I confess I was surprised;
such a sight burst upon me as I had never seen in my home before. The
carpets were up, and the floors were chalked in the old-fashioned way,
which has long since gone out; the furniture was removed, and rout seats
were all round the room; the folding-doors had been taken down, so as
to throw two rooms into one; the walls were decorated with banners and
beautiful devices in evergreen; and, there was no mistake about it, that
this year we were going to have a regular Christmas party.
“We have sent invitations to everybody,” said Nelly, “and to-morrow
night, that is Christmas Eve, we shall have such a party as Marantby
never saw before.”
Andrew Morris and I were enthusiastic in our admiration of the
arrangements, and promised to give all the assistance we could to
complete any plans that might yet remain for the evening’s entertainment.
But, as soon as my father’s back was turned, I whispered to Nell,
“However did you manage to get father’s consent to all this? He has
always made such terrible objections, even to having a few friends, for
fear he should be thought extravagant, that I cannot make out how he
should have agreed to this.”
“Oh, mamma will tell you all about it by-and-bye. Come along and have
supper, for, after your long ride, you must be half-starved.”
So, after supper, when the others had gone to bed, I got my mother into a
cosy chat, and asked her all about it.
“Well, my dear John,” she said, “I’m rather anxious about your father.
As you know, he is far from being a poor man, but he has, for the last
two or three years, had a strange notion that his money will take
to itself wings and fly away, and a terrible dread of poverty, and
ultimately the workhouse or starvation, is always haunting him. There
is not the slightest foundation for this fancy, which arises from some
mental disorder; and, at times, he is perfectly aware that it is but a
fancy, and has had the very best medical advice; but, at other times, the
impression comes upon him so vividly that his life is perfectly wretched.
So we are having this party for two or three reasons; one is to try and
enliven him with a change of scene; another, to show him that he will
not be ruined by the expense. We must all do what we can to make him
enter into the spirit of the amusement; for, although he has given his
free consent to all the arrangements, his manner has been very strange
at intervals to-day, and I can see that something oppresses him. Do your
best then, my boy, to cheer him up, and let us pray God to give him
better health to enjoy the mercies with which He has surrounded us.”
I shared in my mother’s anxiety; but on the next day my father seemed
so much better, and joined so very heartily in all we did, that in the
bustle and excitement of expectation I almost forgot the conversation of
the preceding evening. At last the carriages began to arrive, and the
merry-making commenced. Everybody was in high spirits, for the weather
was just the right sort for the season, with the snow thick upon the
ground, and the difficulties in the journey to our house had made some
fun for the guests, and put them in the cue for more. My father was
as merry as any of us, and warmly welcomed each arrival; and when the
music struck up for a set of quadrilles, he accepted the challenge of
my mother, and danced with her. I could not help noticing, however,
that when he was not engaged in conversation, his countenance fell, and
a look of pain came on his pale face; but he recovered himself almost
instantaneously, and was at once himself again. Merrily flew the hours,
and never were charades played with greater spirit, or dances whizzed
through with more delight. It was nearly supper time, and I went to find
my father, who, on a plea of head-ache, had withdrawn for a little while
into the study. But he had left the study, and so, fearing that he was
really unwell, I went to his bedroom, but found that he was not there.
For a moment a horrible undefined dread came over me; I trembled in
every limb, and cold perspiration dropped down my face. There was no
reason for this; there were twenty places where my father might be; it
was not at all an unusual thing for him to seclude himself when he felt
unwell, but for all that I could not divest myself of the strange feeling
that came over me that something wrong had happened. I ran hastily
through all the bedrooms, and then looked into every room down stairs,
but he was not there. Old Williams, the gardener, was in the hall, and I
asked him if he had seen my father? “Yes, Master John; he was here about
half-an-hour ago. He put on a stout pair of boots, and his top coat,
and said he should go into the stable to wish the horses and old Carlo
a merry Christmas.” I went at once to the stables and called to him,
but no answer came in reply. A lantern was in the loft, and, lighting
it, I walked round the place to see if I could trace whether, by his
footprints, he had been there. The snow marked his steps distinctly,
but they were turned from the stable towards the paddock. Again that
horrible dread, which had seized me in the bedroom, returned, for I knew
that at the bottom of the paddock ran the river, swollen by the recent
snows! Mechanically I followed the footprints, which led directly to the
river. I tried to call out, but a suffocating feeling like night-mare
rendered me speechless. I fell down on my knees in the snow, and cried
with my whole heart to the merciful Father in heaven to avert the evil I
so intensely dreaded. Strength came to me with the necessity; my voice
came back to me, and I made the silent night ring with my father’s name.
But no answer came, and now I stood at the edge of the rushing river, and
the marks of the footprints had ceased! There was no time to be lost;
the snow, which before had been falling gently, now began to descend in
a storm, and every moment would serve to obliterate the tracks of his
steps, if there were any more that might be found. With a cry to heaven
to give me strength for all that remained to be done, I flew back to
the house. Nelly was the first to meet me upon my return, and my face
betrayed to her my anxiety. “My darling Nell, be calm and strong. I fear
something has happened to father. Comfort mother while I and some of the
friends are away. Go first to Williams, and tell him to come here with
all the lanterns he can get, and then bid him saddle both the horses
without delay.” A brave little woman was my sister Nell! I can see her
pale face, and her white hands clenched together, as she stood beside me
that night in her pretty evening dress, and heard my hurried news. In
less than ten minutes I had a party of eight trusty men around me, to
whom I told my suspicions, and begged their help. Among them was Captain
Wray, an old friend of my father’s; he saw with a military instinct the
position, and at once took the command of the expedition. “Let four
follow each other through the paddock to the river,” said he, “and then
divide, two to the right, and two to the left. John, Andrew Morris,
Williams, and I, will go across the bridge, and adopt the same plan on
the other side of the river. Now let us be off, and may God grant us
success.”
A deep and earnest amen followed, and we started off.
I will not give you a history of that terrible time; in vain we searched
for footprints, in vain we dragged the river; messengers were sent into
every village round about, letters were sent to all the principal posting
stations along the high roads, information was given to the London
constabulary, rewards were offered for any clue of the missing one; and
every effort failed.
Had it not been for my good friend Andrew Morris, I do not know how I
should have gone through the fatigue and anxiety of those days. He never
seemed to tire; he was determined not to encourage a feeling of despair;
at one moment he was devising some fresh scheme, and the next comforting
my mother and Nelly with hope. At last Andrew and I, when we found every
endeavour in our neighbourhood fruitless, determined to go up to London
and seek for _him_ there. We journeyed from street to street, gazing
earnestly in the face of every passer by; we went from workhouse to
workhouse, from shipping place to shipping place; and at last, worn out
with fatigue, we returned to Marantby disappointed and distressed.
Time wore away; Andrew Morris went home to engage in business, and I
returned no more to school, for the management of my father’s affairs now
devolved in a great measure upon me. The spring time came, with its songs
of birds and perfume of flowers; the glad summer sunshine played upon the
murmuring waters of Marantby; the red leaves of autumn fell in gorgeous
showers, and the silver traceries of frost sparkled in the wintry nights,
but still our home was desolate; and so it came to pass that Christmas
Day became a day full of painful memories.