THE EMIGRANT AGAIN.
“STOP!” cried Reginald Mortimer, in great astonishment. “Come back
here!”
Julian heard the command, but he did not heed it. He strove with
nervous haste to open the door, but the knob refused to turn for him.
He dashed himself against it with frantic violence; but the stout oak
planks had been intended to resist a stronger force than he could bring
to bear upon them, and they did not even tremble beneath his weight.
Reginald Mortimer appeared to be utterly confounded by the boy’s
behavior. He watched his movements for a few seconds, and said:
“Julian, you could not leave the rancho if you were to effect an
entrance into the hall. Shall I call Pedro, and tell him to let you
out?”
It was now Julian’s turn to be astonished. He had expected violence,
but was not prepared for the accents of kindness. He looked timidly at
the man, and took his hand off the door-knob.
“Come here and tell me all about it,” continued Reginald Mortimer in a
mild tone. “Why should a glance at me alarm you? Is there anything so
very frightful about me?”
“No, sir; but you are the man who stole me away from my home and took
me to live with Jack Bowles.”
The owner of the rancho opened his eyes, but said nothing.
“And you came to his house not long ago and offered him money to drown
me in the Missouri River,” added Julian.
Reginald Mortimer was profoundly astonished. After hesitating a moment,
as if undecided how to act, he extended his hand to Julian, and
leading him to a seat on the sofa, placed himself beside him.
“My dear boy,” said he, kindly, “what delusion is this you are laboring
under? You have made a great mistake. That this house is your own, and
that you will some day have a better right here than I or any body
else, I admit. And that you were stolen away long years ago by some bad
man is equally true; but I knew nothing of it until after it was done,
and neither did I know where you were, for all my efforts to find you
were unavailing. I never heard of Jack Bowles before. I have not the
least idea where he lives, and neither do I know who the man was who
wanted to drown you in the river. It certainly was not I.”
“Then it was some one who looks exactly like you,” said Julian.
“There is but one person in the world who resembles me, that I am aware
of, and that is my cousin—your Uncle Richard. It could not have been
he, for he has tried as hard to find you, and is as much interested in
your welfare as I am. Besides, he went to Fort Stoughton two months ago
to shoot buffaloes, and has not yet returned. It could not have been
Sanders either, for he does not look at all like me. More than that, he
is a firm friend of our family, and has worked hard to find you—not
with any intention of doing you an injury, but in order to restore you
to your home and friends once more. You must be dreaming.”
While Reginald Mortimer was speaking Julian was looking him sharply in
the face and thinking busily. He was not deceived by the man’s apparent
sincerity. Although greatly mystified he knew that he was not dreaming.
His thoughts wandered back to that memorable night on which he had
first seen Richard Mortimer at Jack Bowles’ cabin. He remembered how
closely he had scrutinized his features in order to impress them upon
his memory, and when he compared them with the features of the man who
was now seated at his side he told himself that any one not intimately
acquainted with the two gentlemen would have declared them to be one
and the same person. But something that just then occurred to him
satisfied him that they could not be. He thought he must be growing
very dull, or else he would have known long ago that the emigrant who
had joined the wagon train at St. Joseph, and watched all his movements
so closely during the journey across the plains, could be none other
than Richard Mortimer. He wondered that he had not thought of it
before, and especially that he had not recognized him when Sanders
pronounced his name in the reception-room.
Another thing that suddenly became clear to him was that the trapper,
Sanders, was the same man who had rescued him from the smoke-house.
Julian saw the reason for his pretended friendship now, and knew why it
was that the man had been so anxious to accompany him to the mountains.
He wanted to make $5,000 by delivering him into the hands of Reginald
Mortimer. But there were still a good many things that he could _not_
understand, and he wondered if they would ever be made plain to him.
“You are greatly in need of rest,” said Mr. Mortimer, laying his hand
gently on the boy’s shoulder. “You are completely exhausted. Go to bed
now, and I will talk these affairs over with you in the morning. I will
then explain everything. If you feel timid in this gloomy old house I
will tell Pedro to make you a bed here on the sofa.”
“I would rather be alone, if you please,” replied Julian. “I have been
through a good deal to-night, and I want time to think it over. My mind
is greatly confused.”
Reginald Mortimer lighted a candle, and after unfastening the ponderous
spring-lock which held the door and prevented Julian’s escape from the
room, he conducted him along the main hall for a short distance, and
turned into another that ran at right angles with it, finally ushering
him into his sleeping apartment.
“This is your room,” said he. “You are master here, and if you will
take the trouble to look about you, you will find that I have neglected
nothing that I thought would add to your comfort. Now, if you will
dismiss your fears, if you have any, as I hope you will, for they are
certainly groundless—you can enjoy a refreshing sleep. You need not
hurry yourself in the morning, for I will wait breakfast for you.
Goodnight, and pleasant dreams.”
Reginald Mortimer placed the candle upon the center-table and went out,
closing the door after him. Julian stood listening to the sound of his
retreating footsteps, and when it had died away, and he heard a door
open and close in some distant part of the house, he stepped carefully
across the floor and tried the lock. It was not fastened.
“This looks as though there might be some truth in that man’s story,”
said he to himself. “The doors in this rancho—if that is what the
house is called—seem to have a way of locking themselves, and I fully
expected to find myself a prisoner. I’ll see that no one enters here
to-night. If Dick Mortimer is still prowling around he shall never
see the inside of this room. And Reginald doesn’t know that Dick is
about here at all. He thinks he is off on a shooting excursion at Fort
Stoughton, wherever that is. Dick evidently keeps his movements hidden
from his cousin, and that proves that he is up to something he doesn’t
want him to know.”
Julian turned the key in the lock as he said this, put down the catch,
and seeing two strong bolts on the door, one above and the other below
the lock, he pushed them into their sockets. Not satisfied with this
he tilted one of the chairs against the door, and placing the back
under the lock, and bracing the hind legs firmly against the floor,
thus formed a barricade that could not have been easily forced from the
outside, even if the lock and bolts had been undone.
This much being accomplished, Julian took his stand in the middle of
the floor and looked about him. His quarters were large and airy, and
contained a greater variety of elegant furniture than he had ever seen
before. The floor was covered with a soft carpet that gave out no
sound as he stepped across it. The walls were concealed by blue and
gold hangings, and in one corner stood a comfortable bed, which, with
its clean white spread and pillow-cases, presented a great contrast
to the miserable couch to which Julian had been accustomed for the
last eight years. Opposite the bed was a huge fire-place, and over
it was a mantel-piece of black walnut, on which stood an ornamental
clock. In the corner beside the fire-place was a small book-case,
containing a collection of works that would have delighted any boy
who was as fond of excitement and adventure as Julian. In spite of
the limited advantages he had enjoyed in his old home he had learned
to read and write, and having an all-devouring passion for books, he
had perused every thing that came in his way. On the opposite side of
the fire-place stood a finely carved wardrobe, and the first things
Julian’s eyes rested upon when he opened the doors was a double-barrel
shot-gun, a rifle, and a belt containing a revolver.
“This is just what I’ve been looking for,” said he joyfully, as he drew
the elegant six-shooter from its holster. “If I am master of this room,
as that man says I am, I have a right to do as I choose. I choose to
say that I want to be alone here to-night. Dick Mortimer had better
keep his distance, and so had those strange people Sanders spoke of,
who can go through key-holes, and cracks an inch wide, and even solid
stone walls. If they trouble me I will see if a bullet can go through
_them_. Now, where is the ammunition?”
That was a question easier asked than answered. The accouterments
belonging to the weapons were all in the wardrobe—the powder-horn and
bullet-pouch depending from the muzzle of the rifle, and the shot-bag
and flask hanging from the ramrod of the double-barrel; but they were
empty. Nor was there any ammunition in the room. Julian overhauled the
drawers in the lower part of the book-case, but they contained nothing
but writing and drawing materials. Then he searched all the drawers in
the bureau; but although they were filled to overflowing with all sorts
of trinkets and valuables dear to the heart of youth—nothing in the
shape of powder and lead could be found.
With a sigh of regret Julian returned the useless revolver to its
holster, and throwing himself into a large easy-chair, which extended
its arms invitingly, stretched his feet out before him, thrust his
hands into his pockets and went off into a reverie.
“What a change a few short weeks have made in my circumstances,”
thought he. “It seems only yesterday that I was living in a den that a
respectable dog would turn up his nose at, going about clothed in rags,
starving both summer and winter, and beaten and sworn at by every one
of the family. Now I find myself under the roof of a man who speaks
almost the first kind words to me that I ever remember of hearing, who
embraces me and tells me that he is my uncle, and leading me to a room
fitted up like a palace informs me that I am sole master of it. And I
need not get up in the morning at the first peep of day to cut firewood
and help Mrs. Bowles lay the table and cook corn-dodgers, but may
sleep as long as I please, and my breakfast will be kept waiting for
me. This man tells me, too, that I shall some day have a better right
here than he, who now claims to be the owner of the rancho. Isn’t it
enough to turn any one’s head? I will go to sleep now, and perhaps in
the morning some of these things, which now seem to be involved in such
impenetrable mystery, will be clearer to me.”
Julian arose to his feet, and having turned down the quilts began to
divest himself of his jacket. Suddenly he paused and stood holding the
garment in his hand, and looking first at the candle on the table and
then at the hangings which concealed the walls.
“I’ve heard and witnessed enough to-night to make a coward of almost
anybody except Silas Roper,” thought he, “but I believe I’ve got the
nerve to do it. I am going to see what is on the other side of those
curtains. If there is any way for that emigrant, or for those people
that Sanders spoke of to get in here, I want to know it. I shouldn’t
like to wake up in the night and find them prowling about my room.
Gracious!”
Julian felt the cold chills creeping over him, and glanced quickly
about the apartment, half-expecting to see some frightful object
advancing upon him from some dark corner.
At first he was half-inclined to pass the night in the easy-chair, and
never go to sleep at all; but dismissing the thought almost as soon as
it entered his mind, he snatched the candle from the table and hurrying
across the room raised the hangings.
Nothing was to be seen but the huge blocks of stone which formed
the walls. On one side of the room there was no opening except the
fire-place, opposite to which was the door. The other two sides, as
Julian discovered when he raised the hangings, were provided with
windows.
He placed his face close to the panes, but not even the twinkle of
a star could be seen through the gloom. Somewhat surprised thereat,
Julian deposited his candle on the floor, looped back the curtains and
carefully raised the window. It opened into what appeared to be a deep
recess in the wall. At the opposite side was a heavy iron-bound door,
just the size of the window, which swung inward as Julian drew the
bolt, and then he saw the stars shining down upon him, and the full
moon rising above the mountain tops.
“This house was certainly intended for a fort,” thought the boy, gazing
in surprise at the massive walls around him, which seemed strong enough
to resist the heaviest artillery. “There isn’t a wooden partition in it
as far as I’ve seen. They are all of stone, and must be six or seven
feet thick. I can’t see the use of it.”
This was a point upon which Julian was enlightened before he was many
hours older. He learned that the walls were not as solid as they
appeared; that there were long corridors and winding passage-ways
running through them, communicating with every room in the house, and
all leading to a gloomy cavern in the hill behind the building, with
which he was destined soon to become well acquainted.
Julian held the shutters open and took a survey of the scene before
him. He saw the high stone wall which surrounded the house on all
sides, the ponderous gate which had opened a short time before to admit
him and the trappers, the well-beaten bridle-path leading across the
valley toward the mountains, and noted even the smallest object within
the range of his vision, but nothing looked familiar.
The home of his boyhood was not so gloomy and desolate a place as this
in which he now found himself. There was no high wall to shut out all
view of the outer world, but there were flowers blooming before the
door, a pleasant grove close by, and people constantly coming and
going. And there was a jolly old gentleman, from whose side he was
scarcely ever separated, who used to take him on his knee and talk to
him for hours; and now and then a laughing, blue-eyed boy would make
his appearance after a long absence, spend a few days in romping with
him and then go off again. Where was that father and brother now? If
they were alive and well, as Silas had so often assured him, why were
they not living there in the rancho, if that was their home? Why should
they remain away and allow a stranger to take the management of their
affairs?
“If I have a home and friends I must look further to find them, that
is plain enough to be seen,” soliloquized Julian, closing the shutter
and creeping back into the room. “But before I go I should like to know
what object this man has in view in bringing me here and claiming me
for his nephew. When I meet him in the morning I will call him Uncle
Reginald, and act as though I believed—— What are you doing here?”
When Julian stepped down from the window-seat into the room he had just
left, he found that it had an occupant who had no business there. It
was not a spirit, either, for spirits do not need lanterns to guide
their footsteps, and revolvers to defend themselves, and this intruder
had both. One was held in his left hand by his side, and with the
muzzle of the other he was covering Julian’s head. It was the emigrant,
clean shaven and close cropped, as he was when the boy first saw him
with the wagon train.
“What do you want here, Dick Mortimer?” cried Julian, recoiling before
the muzzle of the revolver. “Clear out!”
“So you know me, do you?” inquired the man, with some surprise. “That
villain, Sanders, has been posting you. He has deserted me and gone
over to my cousin; but, fortunately, I shall have no further occasion
for his services. Put on your jacket and come with me; and mind you, no
noise!”
“By what authority do you order me out of my own house?” demanded
Julian, scarcely knowing what he said. “I am master here, if you
please.”
“Ah! Reginald has been posting you, too, has he?” exclaimed the
emigrant angrily. “You have learned more than I ever intended you
should know; but it can’t be helped now. This is my authority,” he
added, raising his revolver to a level with the boy’s head and placing
his finger on the trigger; “and you will do well to respect it. What
else did Reginald say to you? Did he tell you who you are, or give you
any information concerning your father?”
“No; but I know that he is alive and well.”
“Then Silas has been posting you. Do you know where he is?”
“That’s my business. Have you a man with you waiting to earn that
$1,000, or do you intend to do the work yourself?”
“You know that too, do you? No; you need stand in no fear of bodily
harm as long as you obey my commands. I have come to the conclusion
that I can use you to as good purpose as Reginald can. No more words
now. Put on that coat and come with me.”
Julian mechanically obeyed. His bodily powers were so nearly exhausted,
and he was thrown into such a state of bewilderment and alarm by his
new adventure, that he suddenly seemed to become insensible to every
emotion. He could walk and talk, but he received no more impression
from the objects around him than if he had been in a dream. He no
longer shrunk away from the revolver which was kept pointed straight
at his head, nor was he surprised when the emigrant raised the
hangings at the foot of the bed and disclosed to view an opening in
the wall—that solid stone wall which Julian had so carefully examined
but a few minutes before. He clambered through without waiting for the
order, and followed his captor along a narrow passage-way and down a
flight of steps into a commodious underground apartment, which, judging
by its general appearance, was used as a cellar and store-house. Here
the emigrant spoke again, and the sound of his voice aroused Julian to
a sense of his situation.
“Yes, yes,” said he, “I have changed my plans concerning you. Silas
Roper is the man I want now, and in order to get hold of him I must
hold fast to you. I have a comfortable little shooting-box up in the
mountains, and there you can stay and enjoy—— Great heavens!”
The emigrant ceased speaking and started back as if he had been shot.
Julian looked up into his face and saw that it was white with terror,
and noticed, too, that he was trembling violently in every limb. His
eyes were staring fixedly toward the farther end of the cellar, and
following the direction of his gaze Julian discovered something that
made his heart beat a little faster than usual.
It was not a frightful object his gaze rested upon—nothing but the
figure of a feeble and decrepit old man, who was walking across
the opposite end of the cellar. He moved along with tottering step
and form half-bent, his thin silvery hair streaming down over his
shoulders, and one withered hand grasping a staff upon which he leaned
heavily. He seemed ignorant of the presence of the emigrant and his
prisoner, and walked on without looking either to the right or left.
Suddenly, however, he turned and approached the foot of the stairs.
Julian could not see his eyes, which were fastened upon the ground,
but he obtained a fair view of his face. He could discover nothing
in it calculated to frighten any one, for its expression was mild
and benevolent, but the emigrant seemed unable to endure the sight
of it. He retreated as the old man advanced, growing more and more
terrified every moment, and finally with a shriek of dismay dashed the
lantern upon the floor, extinguishing the light and leaving the cellar
shrouded in darkness. Julian turned and made a feeble attempt to ascend
the stairs, but exhausted nature gave away at last. He felt himself
falling—falling—and then all was blank to him.