THE GREAT SLEEP
When Phil drew the warm leaves about him he felt a mighty sensation of
relief, accompanied by a complete mental and physical relaxation. The
supreme tension of the spirit that had borne him up so long was gone
now, when it was needed no longer, and he uttered a deep sigh of
content. Bill Breakstone put a hand upon his shoulder.
"Phil," he said simply, "I owe you so much that I can't ever repay it."
"Your chance will come," replied the boy. "You'll probably do more for
me than I've ever done for you."
"We'll see," said Bill Breakstone. "I'm thinking, Phil, that this is
about the best hiding place we could have found, so we'll just lie
quiet, as we'll see the edge of the day inside of half an hour."
The two remained perfectly still. Yet they could hear for awhile their
own strained breathing, and Phil felt his heart constrict painfully
after his long flight. But the breathing of both grew easier. In a
short while it was normal again. Then they saw a touch of gray in the
east, the rain ceased like a dissolving mist, a silver light fell over
the forest, turning presently to gold, and it was day in the east.
Some of the sunbeams entered the thick jungle of forest where they lay,
touching the leaves and grass here and there with gold, but in most
places the shadows still hovered. Phil and Breakstone looked at their
surroundings. They had left no trail in coming there, and the bushes
about them were so dense that even Indian eyes ten feet away could not
have seen them.
The sunlight was deepening. Birds in the trees began to sing. All the
beings of the wilderness, little and big, awoke to life. Trees and
grass dried swiftly under the strong fresh wind. Bill Breakstone
glanced at his youthful comrade.
"Phil," he said, "I'll take the rifle, and you go to sleep. You've had
a harder time than I have, and, when you wake up, I'll tell you how I
was captured."
"I think I'll do it, Bill," said the boy, putting his. arm under his
head and closing his eyes. The strain was gone from his nerves now, and
sleep came readily. In three minutes he was oblivious of Comanches and
all else that the world contained. Bill Breakstone could have slept if
he had tried, but he did not try. Under a manner nearly always light
and apparently superficial he concealed a strong nature and much depth
of feeling. It seemed to him that at the last moment a hand had been
stretched out to save him from the worst of fates. It seemed to him,
also, that it must have been a sort of inspiration, the direction of a
supreme will, for Phil to have come to him at such a time. It was a
brave deed, a wonderful deed, and it had been brilliantly successful.
The light was strong, and Bill Breakstone looked down at the boy who was
a younger brother to him now. He saw that the strain upon Phil had been
great. Even while he slept his face was very white, except where
fatigue and suspense had painted it black beneath the eyes. Phil
Bedford had done more than his share, and it was now for him, Bill
Breakstone, to do the rest. He slipped the muzzle of the rifle forward
in order that it might command the mouth of the hollow, and waited. He
would have pulled more leaves and brush before the entrance, but he knew
that any disturbance of nature would attract the eye of a passing
Comanche, and he allowed everything to remain exactly as it had been.
He lay comfortably among the leaves, and for a long time he did not
stir. Phil breathed regularly and easily, and Bill saw that he would be
fully restored when he awoke. Bill himself thought neither of hunger
nor thirst, the tension was too great for that, but he never ceased to
watch the sweep of trees and brush. It was half way toward noon when he
saw some bushes about ten yards in front of him trembling slightly. He
became at once alert and suspicious. He drew himself up in the attitude
of one who is ready for instant action, slipping the muzzle of the rifle
a little farther forward.
The bushes moved again, and something came into view. Bill Breakstone
sank back, and his apprehension departed. It was a timber wolf, gray
and long. A dangerous enough beast, if a man alone and unarmed met a
group of them, but Bill, with the rifle, had no fear. The wolf sniffed
the odor of flesh, sniffed again, knew that it was the odor of human
flesh, and his blood became afraid within him. Bill Breakstone laughed
quietly, but the boy slept placidly on. The incident amused Bill, and,
therefore, it was welcome. It broke the monotony of the long quiet,
and, just when he was laughing noiselessly for the fourth time over the
wolf's discomfiture, the bushes moved again. Bill, as before, slipped
the muzzle of his rifle farther forward and waited. A slight pungent
odor came to his nostrils. The bushes moved more than before, although
without noise, and a great yellow body came into view. The eyes were
green, the claws sharp and long, and the body lithe and powerful. It was
a splendid specimen of the southwestern puma, a great cat that could
pull down a deer. But Bill Breakstone was still unafraid. He raised
the rifle and aimed it at the puma, although he did not press the
trigger.
"I can kill you, my friend, with a single bullet," he murmured, "but the
report of that rifle would probably bring the Comanches upon us.
Therefore, I will look you down."
The puma paused in doubt and indecision, restlessly moving his tail, and
staring with his great green eyes until they met the gray eyes of the
human creature, looking down the sights of the rifle barrel. That
steady, steel-like gaze troubled the puma. He was large and powerful.
He could have struck down the man at a single blow, but the heart within
that mass of bone and muscle became afraid. The green eyes looked
fearfully into the gray ones, and at last turned aside. The great beast
turned stealthily, and slid into the thicket, at first slowly, and then
in a run, as the terror that he could not see crowded upon his heels.
Bill Breakstone had laughed several times that morning, but now he
laughed with a deep unction.
"I'm proud of myself," he murmured. "It's something to outlook a
panther, but I don't know that I'd have looked so straight and hard if I
hadn't had the rifle ready, in case the eyes failed. Now I wonder who
or what will be the next invader of our premises."
His wonder lasted only until noon, when the sun was poised directly
overhead, and the open spaces were full of its rays. Then, as light as
the beasts themselves had been, two Comanches walked into full view.
Bill Breakstone was as still as ever, but his hand lay upon the trigger
of the rifle.
The Comanches were not a pleasant sight to eyes that did not wish to see
them. They were powerful men, naked save for the waist cloth, their
bodies painted with many strange symbols and figures. Although most of
their tribe were yet armed with bows and arrows, each carried a fine
rifle. Their faces were wary, cunning, and cruel. They were far more
to be dreaded than wolf or panther. Yet Bill Breakstone at that moment
felt but little fear of either. He was upheld by a great stimulus. The
boy who slept so peacefully by his side had saved him in the face of
everything, and, if the time had come, he would do as much for Phil. He
felt himself, with the rifle and pistol, a match for both warriors, and
his breathing was steady and regular.
The warriors stopped and stood in the bush, talking and pointing toward
the east. Bill Breakstone surmised that they were talking about him and
Phil, and it was likely from their pointing fingers that they believed
the fugitives had gone toward the east. As Bill watched them, his
suspense was mingled with a sort of curiosity. Would some instinct warn
them that Phil and he lay not ten yards away? The woods were vast, and
they and all their comrades could not search every spot. Would this be
one of the spots over which they must pass?
It took two minutes to decide the question, and then the warriors walked
on toward the east, their brown bodies disappearing in the foliage.
Bill drew a mighty breath that came from every crevice and cranny of his
lungs. He did not know until then how great his suspense had been. He
sank back a little and let the rifle rest softly on the leaves beside
him. He glanced at Phil. His face was less drawn now, and much of the
color had come back. While Bill awaited the crisis, his finger on the
trigger, the sleeping boy had grown stronger. Bill decided that he would
let him sleep on.
Bill Breakstone had been through much. He, too, began to feel sleepy.
The dangers of animal and man had come and passed, leaving his comrade
and him untouched. His nerves were now subdued and relaxed, and he felt
a great physical and mental peace. The day, too, was one calculated to
soothe. The air was filled with; the mildness of early spring. A
gentle wind blew, and the boughs and bushes rustled together, forming a
sound that was strangely like a song of peace.
But Bill Breakstone was a man watchful, alert, a sentinel full of
strength and resolution. He would not sleep, no, not he, not while so
much depended upon him, yet the song among the leaves was growing
sweeter and gentler all the time. He had never felt such a soothing
quiet in all his life. The complete relaxation after so much danger and
tension was at hand, and it was hard for one to watch the forest and be
troubled about foes who would no longer come. Yet he would remain awake
and keep faithful guard, and, as he murmured his resolution for the
fifth time, his drooping eyelids shut down entirely, and he slept as
soundly as the boy who lay by his side, his chest rising and falling as
he breathed long and regularly.
Phil Bedford and Bill Breakstone slept all that afternoon. It was a
mighty sleep, the great sleep following complete mental and physical
exhaustion, the sleep that comes at such times to strong, healthy
beings, in whom the co-ordination of brain, muscle, and nerve is
complete. By some unconscious method of keeping time they breathed in
perfect unison, and the gentle wind, which all the while was blowing
through the leaves, kept time with them, too. Thus the evening
shortened. Hour by hour dropped into the sandglass of time. The two,
rivals of the ancient seven of famous memory, slept on. Both the wolf
and the puma, driven by curiosity, came back. They crept a little
nearer than before, but not too near. They felt instinctively that the
mighty sleepers, mightily as they slept, could yet be awakened, and the
smell of man contained a quality that was terrifying. So they went
away, and, an hour after they were gone, the same two Comanches, naked
to the waist, painted hideously in many symbols and decorations, and
savage and cruel of countenance, came back in their places. But Bill
Breakstone and Phil lay safe in the leaves under the bank, sleeping
peacefully without dreams. So far as the Comanches were concerned, they
were a thousand miles away, and presently the two warriors disappeared
again in the depths of the forest, this time not to return.
Time went on. The two slept the great sleep so quietly that all the
normal life of the woods about them was resumed. Woodpeckers drummed
upon the sides of the hollow trees, a red bird in a flash of flame shot
among the boughs, quail scuttled in the grass, and a rabbit hopped near.
Midafternoon of a cloudless day came. The sun shot down its most
brilliant beams, the whole forest was luminous with light. The
Comanches ceased their search, confident that the fugitives were gone
now beyond their overtaking, and returned to their villages and other
enterprises, but Breakstone and Phil slept their great sleep.
Twilight came, and they were still sleeping. Neither had stirred an
inch from his place. The little animals that hopped about in the
thickets believed them dead, they were so quiet, and came nearer. Night
came on, thick and dark. An owl in a tree hooted mournfully, and an owl
in another tree a half mile away hooted a mournful answer. Phil and his
comrade did not hear, because they still lay in their great sleep, and
the doings of the world, great or small, did not concern them.
Phil awoke first. It was then about midnight, and so dark in the alcove
that he could not see. His eyes still heavy with sleep and his senses
confused, he sat up. He shook his head once or twice, and recollection
began to come back. Surely the daylight had come when he went to sleep!
And where was Bill Breakstone? He heard a regular breathing, and,
reaching out his hands, touched the figure of his comrade. Both had
slept, and no harm had come to them. That was evident because he also
touched the rifle and pistol, and they would have been the first objects
taken by a creeping enemy. But surely it could not have been a dream
about his going to sleep in the daylight! He remembered very well that
the sun was rising and that there were golden beams on the bushes. Now
it was so dark that he could see only a few faint stars in the sky, and
the bashful rim of a moon. He sat up and gave Bill Breakstone a
vigorous shake.
"Bill," he said, "wake up! It's night, but what night I don't know!"
Bill Breakstone yawned tremendously, stretched himself as much as the
narrow space would allow, and then slowly and with dignity sat up. He,
too, was somewhat confused, but he pretended wisdom while he was trying
to collect his senses. The two could barely see each other, and each
felt rather than saw the wonder in the other's eyes.
"Well," said Bill Breakstone at last, "I'd have you to know, Sir Philip
of the Dream and the Snore, though I can't prove that you've done either
any more than I can prove that I haven't done both, that we're the
genuine and true Babes in the Wood, only we've waked up. Here we've
been asleep, maybe a week, maybe a month, and the pitying little birds
have come and covered us up with leaves, and we've been warm and snug,
and the wild animals haven't eaten us up, and the bad men, that is to
say the Comanches, haven't found us. How do you feel, Phil?"
"Fine, never better in my life."
"That describes me, also, with beautiful accuracy. We'll never know,
maybe, how long we've slept, whether one day, two days, or three days,
but a good spirit has been watching over us; of that I'm sure.
"Phil and Bill,
To sleep they went;
Phil and Bill
From sleep they came.
Phil and Bill,
They had no tent;
But Phil and Bill,
They are true game.
Phil and Bill,
The leaves, a bed,
Phil and Bill,
They took no ill.
That's Phil and Bill.
"I don't think that's a bad poem, Phil, considering the short time I've
had for its composition, and you'll observe that, with a modesty not
common among poets, I've put you first."
"It's all right for the time," said Phil, "but don't do it too often.
But, Bill, I'd trade a whole slab of poetry for an equal weight in beef
or venison. I'm beginning to feel terribly hungry."
"I'd make the trade, too," said Bill Breakstone, "and that's not holding
poetry so cheap, either. It's pleasant for the Babes in the Wood to
wake up again, but there's a disadvantage; you've got to eat, and to eat
you've got to find something that can be eaten. I'm like King Richard,
'A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!' But I wouldn't ride that
horse; I'd eat him."
"What time o' night would you say it is, Bill?"
Bill Breakstone attentively studied the few stars to be seen in the
extremely dusky heavens.
"I'd say it was somewhere between six o'clock in the evening and six
o'clock in the morning, with the emphasis on the 'somewhere.' I wonder
what's happened around in these woods since we went to sleep last week,
Phil; but I suppose we'll never know."
Bill stood up, and with his fingers combed the leaves out of his hair.
"Phil," he said, "I'll tell you the story of my life for the last day or
two. It doesn't make a long narrative, but while it was happening it
was tremendously moving to me. When I left you I skipped along through
the edge of the woods and came to the plain. Then I saw the Indian
village and the Indian horses grazing on the meadows. I looked them
over pretty thoroughly, concluded I didn't like 'em, and started back to
tell you about 'em. I thought I was mighty smart, but I wasn't smart
enough by half."
"What happened?"
"Just as I turned around to start upon my worthy mission, three large,
unclothed Comanches laid rude hands upon me. I didn't have much chance,
one against three, and surprise on their side, too. They soon had me by
the neck and heels, and carried me off to their village, where they gave
me the welcome due to a distinguished stranger. Black Panther was
especially effusive. He wanted to know all about me and my friends, if
any, perchance, were near by. It was the same band that had attacked
our wagon train and that was beaten off. Their scouts had warned them
that we were on the other side of the big forest, but they were afraid
to attack again. I gathered from what Black Panther said--he understands
English, and I understand some Comanche--that they believed me to be
lost, strayed, or stolen--that is, I had wandered away in some manner,
or had been left behind. The chief tried to get all sorts of information
out of me, but I didn't have any to tell. Finding that I was born dumb,
he began to talk about punishments."
"What were they going to do to you, Bill?"
"There was a lot of lurid talk. I say 'lurid' because I seem to
remember something about flames. Anyway, it was to be unpleasant, and I
suppose if you hadn't come, Phil, at the right time, I shouldn't ever
have had the great sleep that I've enjoyed so much, at least not that
particular kind of sleep. Phil, it looks to me as if you came when I
called, and I'm not joking, either."
"We'll put that aside," said Phil, "and hunt something to eat."
"Yes, it's our first duty to provision this army of two," said Bill
Breakstone, "and I think we can do it. The woods are full of game, but
we'll have to wait till morning for a shot. As for the Indians hearing
the reports of our rifles, we must take the chance of that, but I don't
think they'll roam very far from the village, and we'll spend the rest
of the night going toward the point where we left the wagon train, which
is directly away from the Comanches. Toward morning we'll sit down by
the bank of a stream if we can find one, and wait for the game to come
to drink."
"That seems to me to be our best plan," said Phil.
Both had a good idea of direction, and, despite the darkness, they
advanced in a fairly straight line toward the point they sought. But
they found it rough traveling through the thick undergrowth, among
briers and across ravines and gulleys. Meanwhile, old King Hunger,
bristling and fearsome, seized them and rent them with his fangs. There
was no resisting. They must even suffer and stand it as best they
could.
"I think it's at least a thousand hours until day," said Bill Breakstone
at last. "Do you know, Phil, I've got to the point where I'd enjoy one
of those stage banquets that I've often had. You don't really eat
anything. The plates are empty, the glasses are empty, and, empty as
they all are, they're generally whisked away before you can get a good
long look at them. But there's something soothing and filling about
them anyway. Maybe it's an illusion, but if an illusion is of the right
kind, it's just the right kind of thing that you ought to have."
"An illusion may be all right for you, Bill," returned Phil, "but what
about some of those dinners you can get in New Orleans. Oyster soup,
Bill; fish fresh from the gulf, Bill; nice old Virginia ham, Bill;
stuffed Louisiana: turkey, Bill; a haunch of venison, Bill; fried
chicken, Bill; lamb chops, Bill; and a lot of other things that money
can buy in New Orleans, Bill?"
"If you weren't my best friend, Phil, and if you hadn't just saved my
life, I might make an attack upon you with the intent of bodily harm.
You surely make me sour with your talk about the whole provision train
that can be bought in New Orleans with money. Hear that old owl
hooting! He's just laughing at us. I'd stop and shoot him if we had
light enough for a shot."
"Never mind the owl, Bill," said Phil. "Perhaps when we get that good
juicy deer we're looking for we can hoot back at him, if we feel like
it."
"That's so," said Bill, although he said it gloomily.
They advanced in silence another hour, and then Phil, who was a little
in advance, stopped suddenly. He had seen the gleam of water, and he
pointed it out to his comrade.
"A spring," said Bill Breakstone, "and it's been trampled around the
edges by many hoofs and paws."
He stooped and tasted the water. Then he uttered a mighty sigh of
satisfaction.
"A salt spring, too," he said. "We're in luck, Phil. I see our
breakfast coming straight toward us at this spring, walking briskly on
four legs. The wild animals always haunt such places, and if we don't
have savory steaks before the sun is an hour high, then I'm willing to
starve to death. We must find an ambush. Here it is! Luck's a funny
thing, Phil. It goes right against you for awhile, and nothing seems
able to break it. Then it turns right around and favors you, and no
fool thing that you do seems to change it. But I guess it evens up in
the long run."
They found a dense clump of bushes about twenty yards from the salt
spring, and sat down among them.
"There's no wind at all," whispered Bill Breakstone, "so I don't think
that any animal eager for his salt drink will notice us. I've got my
heart set on deer, Phil, and deer we must have. Now which of us shall
take the rifle and make the shot? The rifle is yours, you know, and you
have first choice."
But Phil insisted upon the older and more experienced man taking the
weapon, and Breakstone consented. Then they lay quiet, eagerly watching
every side of the spring. The darkness soon thinned away, and the
bushes and trees became luminous in the early morning light.
"Something will come soon," said Breakstone.
They waited a little longer, and then they heard a rustling among the
bushes on the far side of the spring. The bushes moved, and a
black-tailed deer, a splendid buck, stepped into the opening. He paused
to sniff the air, but nothing strange or hostile came to his nostrils.
The deadly figure, crouching in the bushes with the loaded rifle at his
cheek, might have been a thousand miles away, for all the deer knew.
Phil and Bill Breakstone might have admired the deer at another time,
but now other emotions urged them on. The deer stepped down to the
water. Breakstone looked down the sights, and Phil trembled lest he
should miss. He tried to look along the barrel himself and see what spot
Bill had picked out on the animal's body. Then he watched the
marksman's finger curl around the trigger and at last press hard upon
it. The flash of flame leaped forth, the report sounded startlingly
loud in the clear morning, and the deer jumped high in the air.
But when the big buck came down he ran into the forest as if he had not
been touched. Phil uttered a gasp of despair, but Bill Breakstone only
laughed.
"Don't you fret, Phil," he said. "My heart was in my mouth, but my
bullet didn't miss. He's hit hard, and we've got nothing to do but
follow him by the plain trail he'll leave. We'll come to our breakfast
in less than ten minutes."
Phil soon saw that Breakstone was right. The trail on the other side of
the salt spring was plain and red, and presently they found the great
stag in a thicket, lying upon his side, stone dead, Bill Breakstone was
an adept at cleaning and dressing, and soon the ugly work was over.
They always carried matches, and Phil quickly lighted a fire of dry
sticks that burned up rapidly and that soon made a fine heap of glowing
coals.
"Now," said Breakstone, "we'll cook and eat, then we'll cook and eat
again, then we'll cook and eat once more."
"And I don't care very much whether Comanches heard the rifle shot or
not," said Phil. "It seems to me that when I eat as much as I want I
can whip the whole Comanche nation."
"I feel that way, too," said Bill Breakstone, "but the Comanches didn't
hear. I know it in my bones. Didn't I tell you about that streak of
luck? Luck's coming our way now, and the streak will last for awhile."
They cut long twigs, sharpened them at the ends, and fried over the
coals strips of the deer, which gave out such a rich aroma as they
sputtered that the two could scarcely restrain themselves. Yet they did
it, they remained white men and gentlemen, and did not guzzle.
"Phil," said Bill, before he took a single bite, "I remember about that
dinner in New Orleans you were talking of so long ago. I remember about
those beautiful oysters, those splendid fish from the gulf, the gorgeous
Virginia ham, the magnificent Louisiana turkey; yes, I remember all
those magnificent fripperies and frummeries, but it seems to me if they
were all set down before us, spread on a service of golden plate, they
wouldn't be finer than what is now awaiting us."
"Bill," said Phil with deep emphasis and unction, "you never spoke truer
words in your life."
"Then lay on, Macduff, and the first who cries 'hold, enough'--well, he
won't be much of a trencherman."
They fell to. They did not eat greedily, but they ate long and
perseveringly. Strip after strip was fried over the coals, gave out its
savory odor, and disappeared. Phil occasionally replenished the fire,
adding to the bed of coals, but keeping down the smoke. Bill,
stretching his long body on the ground and then propping himself up on
his elbow, concluded that it was a beautiful world.
"Didn't I tell you our luck would hold for awhile?" he repeated. "Since
we got into the woods, things have come easy. A good bed put itself
right in our way, then a deer walked up and asked to be eaten.
"The deer
It was here.
One shot--
In our pot.
"We haven't any pot, but you can use things in a metaphorical sense in
order to get your rhyme. That's what poetry is for."
"I'm beginning to feel satiated," said Phil.
"'Satiated' is a good word," said Bill Breakstone, "but it isn't used
much on the plains. Still, I'm beginning to feel that way myself, too,
and I think we'd better begin to consider the future, which is always so
much bigger than the present."
"We must find our horses."
"Of course, and after that we must find the train, which will be our
chief problem. It may be where we left it or it may have gone on,
thinking that we had been killed by some outlying party of Comanches.
But I don't believe Middleton and Arenberg would move without us. They
may now be somewhere in these woods looking for us."
"Can you figure out the direction of the valley in which we left our
horses?"
Breakstone studied the sun attentively.
"It's southeast from here," he replied, "and I fancy it's not more than
three or four miles. Two likely lads like you and me ought to find it
pretty soon, and, nine chances out of ten, the horses will be there.
We'll take some of the best portions of the deer with us, and start at
once."
They chose the choicest pieces of the meat and started, now strong of
body and light of heart. Phil's own judgment about the direction agreed
with Breakstone's, and in less than an hour they saw familiar ground.
"I'm a good prophet to-day," said Breakstone. "I've got the gift for a
few hours at least. I predicted truly about the deer, and now I am
going to predict truly about the horses. We'll have them by the bridle
inside of half an hour."
In fifteen minutes they were in the little valley, in three minutes they
found the horses grazing peacefully, and in two more minutes they caught
them.
"We've done the work and with ten minutes to spare," said Bill
Breakstone, triumphantly, "and now, Phil, another wonderful change in
our fortunes has come. If a camel is the ship of the desert, then a
horse is the boat of the plains, the long boat, the jolly boat, the row
boat, and all the rest of them. Now for the wagon train!"
"Now for the wagon train!" repeated Phil.