IN WHICH PHIL FOLLOWS KIT CRUNCHER.
Old Matt Rockwood, my friend and protector, the friend and protector of
my childhood, was dead.
Ten years before, he had taken me to his home and his heart, and since
that time had done for me all that his limited means would permit. He
had been a father to me, and the bullet that sped through his heart
lacerated mine.
All that I could remember of existence was associated with the Castle
and its vicinity, though I was not born there. I knew nothing of my
parents, and nothing of the circumstances under which I had come into
the world. Ten years before, while upon a hunt, Matt Rockwood had
wrapped himself up in his blanket, and slept on the bank of the
Missouri, about a dozen miles below the Castle. It was in the spring,
and the water was very high, for the melting snows in the mountains had
swelled the mighty stream to its fullest volume.
A bright light awoke the hunter in the evening, and he discovered a
steamer on fire in the river, only a short distance below. Launching
his bateau, in which he had come down the stream, he paddled with all
his might to the scene of disaster. The pilot had run the steamer
ashore; but before those on board could escape,--for the fire was in
the forward part of the boat,--the swift current carried her off again,
and she descended the stream at a rapid rate. Matt paddled after her;
but, half a mile below the point where the steamer had run ashore, he
heard the wail of a child, very near him.
The light from the burning boat enabled him to see the child. It was
floating on a door, which had evidently been put into the water to
support its helpless burden. Matt, who often told me the story,
believed that the child's father, or some other person, had intended to
ferry the little one on shore in this manner, when the steamer had been
run aground. Probably the starting of the boat had defeated his plan,
or possibly the person who was trying to save the child had lost his
hold on the door. There was no one near the little raft. Matt took the
young voyager on the great river from its perilous situation. It was
benumbed with cold, and he wrapped it in his blanket, and laid it in
the bottom of the boat.
Hardly had he accomplished this humane task before the boilers of the
burning steamer exploded, and she was instantly a wreck on the swift
tide. Matt paddled his bateau as swiftly as possible, but he was unable
to overtake the mass of rushing fire. He shouted occasionally, in order
to attract the attention of any sufferer; but no one responded to his
call. Though he searched diligently, he was unable to find another
survivor of the terrible calamity.
The little child thus saved from the fire and the water was myself.
Matt took his charge to the shore, made a fire, warmed it, and fed it
with buffalo meat and soaked cracker. Wrapping the little stranger in
his blanket, he pressed him to his bosom, and both slept till morning.
The next day, with the child in his bateau, he renewed the search for
any survivors of the calamity. He could find none; but months
afterwards he read in an old newspaper he had obtained from a trading
steamer, that another boat had passed down the river and picked up a
few persons; but neither the names of the lost nor of the saved were
given.
Loading his bateau with as much buffalo meat as it would carry, Matt
started for the Castle with his new charge; but the current of the
swollen river was so swift that it was night before he arrived. At this
point in his story, I used to ask my kind protector whether he tried to
find out anything more about me. He always answered that he was unable
to obtain any information; but, after I was old enough to understand
the matter better, he confessed that he did not wish to discover the
friends of the child. After he had taken care of it for a few months,
he became so attached to it that he was only afraid of losing the
little waif.
[Illustration: MATT AND THE LITTLE FOUNDLING. Page 55.]
I was only two years old when I was thus cast upon the protection of
the old squatter. He watched over me and cared for me with all the
tenderness of a mother, and I became a stout and healthy child. The
plain food and the wholesome air of the wilderness gave vigor to my
limbs. The old man took care of me like a woman when I had the maladies
incident to childhood, and I passed safely through the whole catalogue
of them.
The steamer which had been burned was the Farringford, and Matt had
read the name on her paddle-box. He gave it to me as a surname, to
which he prefixed Philip as a Christian name, simply because it suited
his fancy. With such a charge on his hands Matt was unable to make any
hunting expeditions for several years; but he had already begun to turn
his attention to farming. His only neighbor at that time was Kit
Cruncher, with whom he exchanged corn and pork for game and buffalo
meat. Matt was disposed to indulge more in the comforts of civilization
than the hunters and trappers generally do. He sold wood to the
steamers that passed, and thus obtained money enough to purchase
clothing, groceries, and other supplies.
When I was about seven years old Matt began to take me with him when he
went hunting and fishing, and I soon learned to be of some service to
him. I acquired all the arts of the backwoodsman, and soon became quite
skilful. I worked in the field, and tramped a dozen miles a day with
him. I was tough and sinewy, and knew not the meaning of luxury. My
clothes were made by old Matt, until I was able with his help to
manufacture them myself.
It was a fortunate thing for me that Mr. Mellowtone established himself
in the vicinity of the Castle, for he took an interest in me, and
taught me to read and write. He was a singular man; but I shall have
more to say of him by and by. Until he came, I spoke the rude patois of
Kit and Matt; but Mr. Mellowtone taught me a new language, and insisted
that I should speak it.
Matt had been a pioneer in Indiana, but had afterwards engaged in trade
and failed. His ill success had driven him into the far west to resume
his pioneer habits. Even then he had passed the meridian of life; but
he cleared up a farm, and had been prosperous in his undertakings. The
sale of wood and the produce of the field to the steamers brought in
considerable money, and he had supplied himself with all needed farm
implements, so that we were able to work to advantage. We had a
grist-mill, turned by horse power, which enabled us to convert our corn
into meal. We raised pigs, and always had an abundant supply of pork
and bacon.
I was about thirteen years old when my story opens. I was contented
with my lot, though I was occasionally troubled to ascertain who my
parents were. Matt had no doubt they were both dead, since no inquiries
had ever been made for the lost child. Some day I expected to visit the
regions of civilization, and see the great world. Only twice in my life
had I seen any white women, at least within my memory. They were on the
deck of a steamer, lying at our wood-yard near the mouth of Fish Creek.
I had a reasonable curiosity, which I hoped to gratify when I was
older. For the present, I was willing to cleave to old Matt, as he had
to me.
But now the old man lay upon the ground, silent and motionless. The
crack of the rifle which had sent the ball to his heart was still
ringing in my ears. It was almost instantly followed by another, and I
saw a burly savage drop from his horse, and roll over into the brook.
Kit Cruncher had fired, and was loading his rifle for a second shot. It
was fortunate that we had removed the logs from the bridge, for the
Indians were kept at bay by the deep gully in which the brook flowed.
When the big Indian fell, his comrades set up a fierce howl, for he
seemed to be the leader of the band. Mr. Mellowtone fired next; but his
aim was less certain than that of the hunter. For my own part, heedless
of the howling savages, I stood behind the tree gazing at the prostrate
form of old Matt. I wept bitterly, and should have thrown myself upon
his body if Kit had not sternly commanded me not to move.
The savages were not long in discovering that all the advantage was on
our side, and, with a ringing whoop, they turned their horses and
retreated a short distance.
"They are unhossing theirselves," said Kit. "Don't move, boy!"
"Matt is shot!" I exclaimed. "I must go to him."
"Don't go, boy. You can't help him any now, and you mought git shot if
you show yourself. Don't do it, boy."
"Is Matt dead?" I asked, trembling with emotion.
"Dead as a hammer," replied Kit. "He'll never move hisself again. Hold
still, boy."
"He may be alive, and I want to do something for him," I insisted.
"He hain't moved since he dropped, and I know by the way he went over
that it's all up with Matt. Don't throw your life away, boy."
"Poor Matt," sighed Mr. Mellowtone, from his position near us. "It is a
sad day for him, and for us."
"Keep your eyes wide open, or some o' the rest on us will smell the
ground," added Kit. "The redskins is gittin' down into the brook."
The savages retreated to a point on the stream, where they dismounted,
evidently with the intention of crossing. They picketed their horses,
and we judged that they meant to complete the work which they had
begun.
"We must follow them up," continued Kit. "Boy, take Matt's rifle, and
follow me."
I bent over the form of the fallen patriarch. I placed my hand upon his
heart, but there was no answering throb. He was indeed dead, and my
whole frame was shaken with convulsive grief.
"Don't stop there, boy!" called Kit.
"He is dead!" I groaned in bitterness of spirit.
"I know he is, boy; but we can't help it. We can't stop to cry now."
"My best friend!"
"Come, boy!" shouted Kit. "Bring his rifle, powder, and ball."
I wiped the tears from my eyes, but I could not banish the sorrow from
my heart. Gently I raised the head of the old hunter, and removed the
powder-horn and bullet-pouch which were suspended over his shoulder.
Picking up the rifle, which lay near him on the ground, I followed my
companions into the forest. I felt then that I could shoot an Indian
without any remorse.