THE FRIEND IN NEED.
“Blarst thar durned painted hides! I wish they’d shot an’ skulped me,
’fore they left me in sich a trap as this. Been here tew nights an’ one
day, an’ am like tew be here, an’ make this my last restin’-place. I war
a fool for ever fallin’ inter ther clutches.”
It was now the morning of the second day of Wild Nat’s enforced rest,
and he paced restlessly up and down the narrow limits of his prison, or
paused to gaze over the valley below. Frequently a bird skimmed beneath
him, or wheeled close to his niche, and then away, as free as the air.
“Ef I only had you,” he muttered, watching one of those fleet-winged
creatures skimming airily beneath him, “I believe I could eat you,
feathers an’ all! Blarst the reds, anyhow! S’pose they thought ef they
left me my weepons, it would aggravate me, seein’ I couldn’t use ’em.
Wish they’d left me some ammunition. It wouldn’t done me any good,
though; if I shot forty birds, I couldn’t git ’em.”
The pleasant June day wore on. Below in the valley the birds flitted
from tree to tree, and squirrels ran chattering over the fallen trunks,
or chased each other up and down the cottonwoods, and once a herd of
buffalo went tearing down the further corner of the valley, and
disappeared behind the woods beyond.
Still scorched by the sun, and pierced with the pangs of hunger, the
trapper paced up and down his narrow beat, occasionally pausing and
talking to himself. So the time passed until noon, and the tired hunter
gave a glance at the sun, muttering:
“Noon again. I’ve a notion to jump down. But I might as well die here,
as tew die jumpin’ off, an’ die I shall, for all I see. Cuss ’em,
anyhow! If ever I git out, I’ll make ’em wish they’d killed me on the
spot. But thar’s no use talkin’ ’bout gittin’ out. ’Way off in this
wilderness, folks ain’t comin’ ’long every day, an’ I’m dished, that’s
sartain. I never s’posed I war goin’ tew die like a rat in a trap,
an’—waugh!”
The trapper paused abruptly, and strained his eyes to see some object
afar in the distance, that had attracted his attention. After watching
it a moment, he muttered:
“It’s _somebody_, thet’s a fact. Like as not, an Indian.”
He continued watching him eagerly for a few minutes longer, and then
ejaculated:
“Beavers! it’s a white man! Whoop! If he war only comin’ this way, or
rather, if he war only comin’ here, for he’s got his nose p’inted in
this direction; but it’s noways likely he’ll come near enough for me tew
holler tew him. If my gun war only loaded!”
He stood in silence, watching the approaching object—which was now
plainly visible as a man on horseback—for some time, and then a shadow
crossed his face, as the rider turned his horse in an opposite
direction.
“Hel-lo-o!” shouted the trapper. “’Tain’t likely he can hear so fur off,
but I’ll try anyhow. Hel-lo-o!”
The equestrian passed on without seeming to hear.
“Whoop!” screamed Wild Nat, making every sound the human voice can
compass. “Who-o-o-p! Hel-l-l-oo!”
The stranger seemed to hear, for he stopped to listen.
“Hello! _Whoop!_ Hel-l-loo!” yelled the trapper, growing black in the
face with his efforts. “He hears!” he ejaculated, joyfully, as the
stranger turned toward him. “He hears, an’ I’m out of this trap!”
The stranger approached to within a few hundred yards of the cliff, and
then, not being able to see any one, shouted.
“Up here,” answered Wild Nat. “I’m dished, an’ would like yer
distinguished consideration on the best way tew git out.”
The stranger looked up, and after taking a somewhat protracted view of
the situation, called out:
“Well, you _are_ in a not over-pleasant place. Been there long?”
“Ever since the night before last,” returned Nathan. “Can ye lend a
feller a helpin’ paw?”
“Certainly,” replied the other, heartily; “but how is it to be done?
Some sort of a rope is needed.”
“Sartin,” responded the trapper. “Must have one. Don’t scarcely think ye
can step up here, nor I can’t step down. Ye can git a rope an’ let it
down from above.”
“But the rope?” said the other. “If I had an ax I could peel some bark,
and make one of that; but—”
“I’ve got one,” interrupted the trapper. “Thar it comes!”
The stranger took the hatchet, and tethering his horse, fell to work
with a will. It was a long task, however, and the sun was not far above
the mountain-tops when the rope was of sufficient length and stoutness
for the purpose required.
“It’s done,” called out the laborer. “Half an hour longer, and you will
be a free man. It will be no small task to climb the mountain.”
He took a survey of the cliff, and then, going several hundred yards to
the right, began the ascent. It was a tortuous winding, rocky way, and
it was some time before he arrived, panting and somewhat exhausted, at
the top.
Securing the rope firmly, he let it down.
“Is it long enough?” he called down.
“Plenty. Touches the ground. Hurrah!”
The trapper, lashing his rifle to his back, grasped the rope, and
steadying himself, slid slowly to the ground, where he arrived
considerably sooner than the stranger, and stood rubbing his nearly
blistered hands when his deliverer appeared.
“All right!” he exclaimed, with a nod, and giving his suspenders a
hitch, took a stride forward and extended his hand.
“Give us yer paw. Ye’ve got me out of a rather nice sitoation, an’ I’m
corrasponden’ly grateful. What mought yer name be, stranger?”
“Wayne Kent,” responded the other; “what’s yours?”
“Nathan Rogers, more commonly called Wild Nat,” replied the trapper;
“maybe ye’ve heard of me.”
“I have,” replied Kent, “and am glad to be able to offer you assistance.
You look tired.”
“Tired! Stranger, I don’t know the meanin’ of the word when I can git
any thing tew eat; but, jist at present, I hain’t hed a toothful in
three days. I’m holler clean tew my boot-heels. Got any thing eatable?”
“Yes; I have a piece of buffalo-hump. I shot one this morning,” replied
Wayne, disengaging the meat from his saddle, and preparing to cook it.
A fire was soon kindled beside a log, and the meat stewing and
sputtering on a stick beside it. The hungry trapper watched it eagerly,
and when done, lost no time in disposing of a considerable piece of it.
“Thet was good,” he ejaculated, wiping his mouth; “an’ now, as it’s
’bout sundown, I guess we’d better be lookin’ ’round for night-quarters,
’specially as we’re in pretty open ground, an’ thar may be red-skins
about. That grove, half a mile off, is a good place. What ye say?”
“I think we had better go there,” responded Wayne. “I wish I could find
my friends.”
“Yer friends?” said the trapper, inquiringly. “I hain’t asked ye how ye
come tew be pokin’ round here alone. How was it? Ye ain’t trappin’
alone?”
Kent then went on to relate his adventures, and when he was done, the
trapper remarked:
“Wal, they are not fur from the South Pass, by this time. As I hain’t
got nothin’ tew dew, an’ no hoss, I don’t mind goin’ with ye to ’em. We
can stay here till airly to-morrow mornin’, an’ then we can push on an’
overtake ’em. Can’t really say that I can ’preciate this trampin’ ’round
on foot. I’ll pay them Injuns for takin’ my horse an’ puttin’ me in thet
trap. They’ll wish they’d died when they war young.”
Kent laughed at the trapper’s earnest manner and emphatic nods, and
said:
“I don’t blame you for feeling rather hard toward them about it. It
would have been a fearful death, to die of starvation and thirst.”
The trapper’s face contracted.
“I’ve had more cause than thet tew feel hard toward the red brutes. I
owe ’em a debt, an’ for ten years I’ve been makin’ payments on it, an’
hain’t _begun_ yit.”
The grove was soon reached, and selecting a suitable spot, the men
prepared to encamp for the night.
About nine o’clock a storm came up; the thunder rolled and the
lightnings flashed vividly. Torrents of rain came down, and the wind
rocked the trees fearfully, sometimes breaking off a limb, and hurling
it down in close proximity to our friends, who experienced some
discomfort and inconvenience from the raging elements, being without
blankets, and obliged to endure the soaking rain.
The storm was of short duration. In an hour the rain had ceased, and a
few faint stars struggled through the broken clouds, looking, to the
young man’s sleepy vision, as the wind-stirred boughs alternately hid
and revealed them, like so many erratic fire-flies, that danced and
gamboled among the swaying leaves; but even these were finally lost in
slumber.
The morning broke clear and shining. Kent was awakened by a rough shake,
and the voice of Nat telling him, “it war time they war trampin’.”
Starting up, he saw that it was full daybreak. Rubbing his eyes, he
arose and obeyed the trapper’s advice to have “a toothful of
buffler-hump,” which he already had cooked.
After eating their breakfast, they started toward the South Pass, Wild
Nat saying that the emigrants would probably be there, or near there, so
they could find them by night.
“If you only had a horse, we could travel much faster,” said Kent, as he
mounted. “As it is, we will have to change occasionally.”
“I kin keep up with ye, as fast as ye’ll care tew go,” replied the
trapper, striding away.
And he did. His immense strides were laughably grotesque, and his
appearance, as his tall, lank figure glided over the ground, was
ludicrous in the extreme.
Changing occasionally to take turns in walking, and stopping only long
enough for dinner, sundown found them in a small wood near the
emigrant-trail, and not far east of the pass.
“If they have gone ahead of us, it will be unfortunate,” said Kent, as
they wound along through the woods.
“They hain’t,” said Wild Nat, clambering over a huge log, rather than go
round it, as Kent was forced to do, being mounted. “From whar ye said
they war when ye left ’em, they hain’t more’n got here. Emigrants must
allers camp in these woods, ef they git along here anywhar near night,
’cause, ye see, they couldn’t git through the pass by night. No danger
but what we’ll find ’em.”
“I dare say they will be surprised to see me, as no doubt they have
given me up for lost,” said Kent, his thoughts reverting to Marion
Verne, and wondering if she would sorrow if she should never see him
again.
“Don’t doubt it,” said Nat. “I rather think— Hark, what’s that?”
Both men stopped and listened attentively. The sun was down, and the
forest beginning to grow shadowy. At first they could hear nothing, and
then suddenly a slight crashing of brush at a little distance drew their
attention. For a moment all was still; then they heard the noise again,
this time accompanied with the sound of footsteps, which rapidly
approached, and, in another minute, an unmistakable son of Ham, of the
darkest type, came in view, tearing along at a two-forty pace, oblivious
of them and every thing else, apparently, and muttering away to his
familiar spirit, in the very extremity of fear.
“Hello, thar!” shouted Nat, “whar are ye precipitatin’ yerself tew, at
thet rate?”
The darkey never looked up, only muttered something unintelligible, and,
if possible, increased his gait.
“Hold on, I say,” cried the trapper; “what on airth are ye locomotin’ so
fast for? Jest stop a bit!”
Seeing that the negro made no motion toward halting, the trapper, with a
bound, cleared the distance between them, and grasped him by the collar.
“What’s the matter? What ye runnin’ so for? Ye needn’t be so all-fired
scart; I ain’t an Injun, but a full blooded white man, an’ a hansum one,
at thet. Jist down brakes, an’ ease up a leetle on yer speed!”
“Hol—hold on, sah—I mean, let go!” roared the darkey. “Dar’s more’n ten
hundred Injuns back yender, an’ dis chile hain’t any notion to lose his
sculp. It’s de solemn fac’, sah. O-o-h! dar’s one ob de ’fernal cussess
now, an’ dis chile am a goner!” he cried, catching sight of Kent, who
was laughing till he could hardly keep his saddle.
“Nonsense, Scip,” said the young man, as soon as he could speak, “don’t
you know me?”
The darkey straightened himself up, and rolling his eyes toward Kent
with a laughable look of relief, in which terror yet had a prominent
part, ejaculated:
“Am it reely you, sah? Laws, I thort you was an Injun. Anyhow, sah, dar
is lots of ’em behind. Mass’r Vic is dar, an’ I hain’t no sort o’ doubt
but what he’s dewoured long ’go. Hi, dar dey comes!” and the frightened
African made a frantic plunge, as the sound of footsteps was heard
approaching.
The trapper held him fast, and in an instant Vic Potter strode into the
opening. Seeing Kent, he stopped at once, his face expressive of his
glad surprise.
“Hello, my boy! I’m mighty glad tew see ye. I war ’beout sartin that the
Injuns had done for ye. If yer comrad’ thar— Varmints! Is that yer,
Nathan Rogers?”
“Wal, I reckon it _are_,” replied Nat, loosening his hold of the darkey,
and advancing with a broad grin; “an’ ef that ain’t Vic Potter, then
skin me for a grizzly! How are ye?”
“Hearty,” replied Vic, grasping the extended hand; “did ye ever know Vic
tew be any thing else? How do ye come on, arter three years?”
“Smilin’ as a May mornin’,” replied Nat. “What was it scart this fellar
out of his seven senses? Injuns?”
“Wal,” said Vic, “I’ve a notion thar’s some ’bout, an’ has been for
sev’ral days; but we didn’t see any thing only some tracks; an’ that, on
top of a raisin’-ha’r story I’ve jist been gittin’ off, started him.
Varmints! but he measured sile without wastin’ time!”
“I should rather think he did,” said Wild Nat, laughing. “Whar’s yer
camp?”
“’Bout forty rods off,” was the reply; “let’s turn toes that way. Jist
’tween us, now, I shouldn’t wonder if we had a scrimmage ’fore mornin’.
_They’re round._”
“Seen any, Vic?” asked Kent.
“No hain’t _seen_ any, but I’ve seen signs, which are all the same. I
told the train they’d better be cautious, an’ not wander off fur, an’
keep track of the young ones. They are not fur off, an’ I know it.”
“I shouldn’t wonder ef it war the same ones thet sarved me thet
ongentlemanly trick,” said Nat. “Ef it are, an’ I git at ’em, they’ll
wish they’d not made my acquaintance.”
“Hark!”
It was the wild, piercing scream of a female, for help, and sounded in
the direction of the emigrant-camp.
Twice it was repeated—each time more wild and despairing than before;
then all was still.