KILLED BY HIS FATHER.
When Smithers reached Silver City he felt sure that the people would
help him to rescue her, but he was afraid to make any noise about it.
Not that he had valued the oath he had taken, but he remembered the
robber's threat, and was alarmed lest he might have been shot, for not
keeping faith with him. What the desperado's motive was for making a
prisoner of Mrs. Smithers he could not imagine. With the resignation
of a self-seeking coward, he made up his mind that she was lost to him
forever. "Papa," said Alice, "won't you try to get mamma away from that
awful, mean man?"
"I fear, my dear," he replied, "that the attempt would not only be
attended with great danger, but would also be useless."
"Shall we never see her again?"
"Never," answered the coward, emphatically.
"I don't care much," said Harold; "we can get along just as well
without her as with her."
"But she is our mother," exclaimed Alice, "and I am very sorry for
ever being rude and naughty to her, and I don't want to lose her. If
papa won't try to get her back again, I will."
"You?" said her father, in astonishment.
"Yes. I feel very bad about poor mamma, and I never knew how much I
loved her till now."
As she spoke she got out of the wagon.
"Where are you going?" asked Smithers.
"I'm going to ask that bold, bad man to let mamma go, and if he won't,
he'll have to keep me, too, for I won't leave her."
"What madness is this?" cried her father.
"Oh, Alice was always a spoony, little fool," replied Harold.
"I've been very wicked to mamma," said Alice, setting her lips firmly
together, "and I see it all now; but I should not have been if you,
papa, and Harold had not told me not to mind her."
She began to walk back toward the canyon.
"Come back!" shouted Smithers. "I can't allow this, Harold, go and stop
her."
"Go and stop her yourself," answered Harold. "I can't be bothered
running after girls."
Mr. Smithers bit his lip till the blood came.
He had brought his son up to be undutiful and rebellious against his
mother, and now he was reaping some of the crop, the seed of which he
had sown.
Now he realized the full force of the saying that "it is sharper than a
serpent's tooth to have a thankless child."
"Bring her back, I say," roared Smithers, who was nearly beside himself
with vexation.
Still Harold did not move.
He sat on the front seat of the wagon with provoking coolness, and did
not seem in the least alarmed at the display of parental wrath with
which he was favored.
The fact was he had never been brought up to respect either father or
mother, and he had arrived at an age when it is rather late to begin to
inculcate lessons of filial obedience.
Hearing her father shout, Alice became alarmed lest he would follow and
bring her back.
In his angry state of mind, and in that wild and desolate wilderness,
he might even whip her.
So she commenced to run at the top of her speed, and her form grew dim
and more indistinct every minute, as a slight haze was descending from
the hills and enveloping the valley in mist.
"Confound you!" said Smithers to Harold, "will you do what I told you?"
"What?" asked Harold, with the same provoking calmness.
"Don't ask me questions, when you know very well what I mean. Go after
your sister."
"Oh, she's all right. The robbers won't hurt her, and you know very
well where she has gone."
Smithers was now in an ungovernable fury. His troubles and trials of
late had not served to improve what was always a hasty temper, and to
add to this he had given way to habits of drinking since quitting New
York.
Even that morning he had indulged in sundry drams, which he had taken
from a flask he carried in his pocket.
"If you don't do what I tell you, by thunder! I'll make you!" he cried.
Invitingly near him, at the rear of the wagon, were his pistols. He
seized one and pointed it at Harold.
"Now, you young whelp!" he almost screamed, so beside himself was he
with excitement, "will you obey me?"
"I'm all hunk," replied Harold, thinking his father was only trying to
frighten him.
At that moment the pistol exploded. Whether Smithers pulled the trigger
intentionally or whether it went off accidentally, we will charitably
leave open to doubt. Certain it is that Harold fell from the wagon to
the ground, which instantly became deluged with his blood. He groaned
heavily, as if suffering acute agony. With a cry of alarm, Smithers
cast the pistol from him, as if it had been a snake.
"Good Heaven! what have I done?" he exclaimed.
Running to the side of Harold, he raised up his head. The eyes were
glazing fast, and he drew his breath with the utmost difficulty.
"Oh, Harold, my boy!" cried the wretched father. "Speak to me, speak!"
"Father, forgive," was all the boy could gasp.
"For Heaven's sake! say you are not dying, Harold--my own! Speak to
me, Harold!" A faint smile curled round the corners of his livid lips.
There was a rattling sound in the throat, and Harold had ceased to live.
"Oh, Heaven, be good to me. I have slain my son!" exclaimed Smithers,
throwing himself on the ground in a paroxysm of grief.
He remained in a condition of stupor for more than an hour, resembling
a man who had been stunned by a heavy blow.
At length he roused himself, and rising, looked around with a shudder.
There lay the body of his son Harold, stiff and cold in the embrace of
death. No blandishments, no caresses, no power on earth could bring him
back to life.
In the midst of that solitude an awful sense of loneliness stole over
the soul of the guilty man.
He was the murderer of his child. His wife was a captive in the hands
of a robber, and his daughter Alice had gone to join in her captivity.
All--all had left him.
He was alone in the world--he, who a few short hours before had been
blessed with the happy companionship of wife and children. It was
almost more than he could bear.
Mechanically he sought in the wagon for a shovel, and in a listless
manner began to dig a grave.
The coyotes had smelt blood, and were barking at a distance.
Overhead flew the lazy buzzards, for their instinct, too, told them
that death was near.
An hour's work made the grave deep enough for the body, and
reverentially he laid it in.
When he had filled it up with earth he sought for stones and piled a
rough cairn over all that remained of the once haughty and spoiled
child, Harold.
Dropping a tear over the grave, Smithers struck the oxen with the whip,
and the heavy wagon rolled sluggishly on toward Silver City.
Deep down in his breast Smithers carried his weight of woe, and vainly
tried to drown his load of grief and care by repeated draughts of fiery
spirits.
But the attempt was useless, for the fire in his heart was raging
fiercely.