ANXIOUS FEARS FOLLOWED BY A JOYFUL SURPRISE--SAFE HOME AT LAST, AND
HAPPY HEARTS.
One fine afternoon, a few weeks after the storm of which we have given
an account in the last chapter, old Mrs Varley was seated beside her
own chimney corner in the little cottage by the lake, gazing at the
glowing logs with the earnest expression of one whose thoughts were far
away. Her kind face was paler than usual, and her hands rested idly on
her knee, grasping the knitting wires to which was attached a
half-finished stocking.
On a stool near to her sat young Marston, the lad to whom, on the day of
the shooting match, Dick Varley had given his old rifle. The boy had an
anxious look about him, as he lifted his eyes from time to time to the
widow's face.
"Did ye say, my boy, that they were _all_ killed?" inquired Mrs Varley,
awaking from her reverie with a deep sigh.
"Every one," replied Marston. "Jim Scraggs, who brought the news, said
they wos all lyin' dead with their scalps off. They wos a party o'
white men."
Mrs Varley sighed again, and her face assumed an expression of anxious
pain as she thought of her son Dick being exposed to a similar fate.
Mrs Varley was not given to nervous fears; but as she listened to the
boy's recital of the slaughter of a party of white men, news of which
had just reached the valley, her heart sank, and she prayed inwardly to
Him who is the husband of the widow that her dear one might be protected
from the ruthless hand of the savage.
After a short pause, during which young Marston fidgeted about and
looked concerned, as if he had something to say which he would fain
leave unsaid, Mrs Varley continued:--
"Was it far off where the bloody deed was done?"
"Yes; three weeks off, I believe. And Jim Scraggs said that he found a
knife that looked like the one wot belonged to--to--" the lad hesitated.
"To whom, my boy? Why don't ye go on?"
"To your son Dick."
The widow's hands dropped by her side, and she would have fallen had not
Marston caught her.
"O mother dear, don't take on like that!" he cried, smoothing down the
widow's hair as her head rested on his breast.
For some time Mrs Varley suffered the boy to fondle her in silence,
while her breast laboured with anxious dread.
"Tell me all," she said at last, recovering a little. "Did Jim see--
Dick?"
"No," answered the boy. "He looked at all the bodies, but did not find
his; so he sent me over here to tell ye that p'raps he's escaped."
Mrs Varley breathed more freely, and earnestly thanked God; but her
fears soon returned when she thought of his being a prisoner, and
recalled the tales of terrible cruelty often related of the savages.
While she was still engaged in closely questioning the lad, Jim Scraggs
himself entered the cottage, and endeavoured in a gruff sort of way to
re-assure the widow.
"Ye see, mistress," he said, "Dick is a oncommon tough customer, an' if
he could only git fifty yards start, there's not a Injun in the west as
could git hold o' him agin; so don't be takin' on."
"But what if he's bin taken prisoner?" said the widow.
"Ay, that's jest wot I've comed about. Ye see it's not onlikely he's
bin took; so about thirty o' the lads o' the valley are ready jest now
to start away and give the red riptiles chase, an' I come to tell ye; so
keep up heart, mistress."
With this parting word of comfort, Jim withdrew, and Marston soon
followed, leaving the widow to weep and pray in solitude.
Meanwhile an animated scene was going on near the block-house. Here
thirty of the young hunters of the Mustang Valley were assembled,
actively engaged in supplying themselves with powder and lead, and
tightening their girths, preparatory to setting out in pursuit of the
Indians who had murdered the white men, while hundreds of boys and
girls, and not a few matrons, crowded round and listened to the
conversation, and to the deep threats of vengeance that were uttered
ever and anon by the younger men.
Major Hope, too, was among them. The worthy major, unable to restrain
his roving propensities, determined to revisit the Mustang Valley, and
had arrived only two days before.
Backwoodsmen's preparations are usually of the shortest and simplest.
In a few minutes the cavalcade was ready, and away they went towards the
prairies, with the bold major at their head. But their journey was
destined to come to an abrupt and unexpected close. A couple of hours'
gallop brought them to the edge of one of those open plains which
sometimes break up the woodland near the verge of the great prairies.
It stretched out like a green lake towards the horizon, on which, just
as the band of horsemen reached it, the sun was descending in a blaze of
glory.
With a shout of enthusiasm, several of the younger members of the party
sprang forward into the plain at a gallop; but the shout was mingled
with one of a different tone from the older men.
"Hist!--hallo!--hold on, ye cat-a-mounts! There's Injuns ahead!"
The whole band came to a sudden halt at this cry, and watched eagerly,
and for some time in silence, the motions of a small party of horsemen
who were seen in the far distance, like black specks on the golden sky.
"They come this way, I think," said Major Hope, after gazing steadfastly
at them for some minutes.
Several of the old hands signified their assent to this suggestion by a
grunt, although to unaccustomed eyes the objects in question looked more
like crows than horsemen, and their motion was for some time scarcely
perceptible.
"I sees pack-horses among them," cried young Marston in an excited tone;
"an' there's three riders; but there's somethin' else, only wot it be I
can't tell."
"Ye've sharp eyes, younker," remarked one of the men, "an' I do b'lieve
yer right."
Presently the horsemen approached, and soon there was a brisk fire of
guessing as to who they could be. It was evident that the strangers
observed the cavalcade of white men, and regarded them as friends, for
they did not check the headlong speed at which they approached. In a
few minutes they were clearly made out to be a party of three horsemen
driving pack-horses before them, and _somethin'_ which some of the
hunters guessed was a buffalo calf.
Young Marston guessed too, but his guess was different. Moreover, it
was uttered with a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest of
all the savages. "Crusoe!" he shouted, while at the same moment he
brought his whip heavily down on the flank of his little horse, and
sprang over the prairie like an arrow.
One of the approaching horsemen was far ahead of his comrades, and
seemed as if encircled with the flying and voluminous mane of his
magnificent horse.
"Hah! ho!" gasped Marston in a low tone to himself, as he flew along.
"Crusoe! I'd know ye, dog, among a thousand! A buffalo calf! Ha! git
on with ye!"
This last part of the remark was addressed to his horse, and was
followed by a whack that increased the pace considerably.
The space between two such riders was soon devoured.
"Hallo! Dick,--Dick Varley!"
"Eh! why, Marston, my boy!"
The friends reined up so suddenly, that one might have fancied they had
met like the knights of old in the shock of mortal conflict.
"Is't yerself, Dick Varley?"
Dick held out his hand, and his eyes glistened, but he could not find
words.
Marston seized it, and pushing his horse close up, vaulted nimbly off
and alighted on Charlie's back behind his friend.
"Off ye go, Dick! I'll take ye to yer mother."
Without reply, Dick shook the reins, and in another minute was in the
midst of the hunters.
To the numberless questions that were put to him he only waited to shout
aloud, "We're all safe! They'll tell ye all about it," he added,
pointing to his comrades, who were now close at hand; and then, dashing
onward, made straight for home, with little Marston clinging to his
waist like a monkey.
Charlie was fresh, and so was Crusoe; so you may be sure it was not long
before they all drew up opposite the door of the widow's cottage.
Before Dick could dismount, Marston had slipped off, and was already in
the kitchen.
"Here's Dick, mother!"
The boy was an orphan, and loved the widow so much that he had come at
last to call her mother.
Before another word could be uttered, Dick Varley was in the room.
Marston immediately stepped out, and softly shut the door. Reader, we
shall not open it!
Having shut the door, as we have said, Marston ran down to the edge of
the lake, and yelled with delight--usually terminating each paroxysm
with the Indian war-whoop, with which he was well acquainted. Then he
danced, and then he sat down on a rock, and became suddenly aware that
there were other hearts there, close beside him, as glad as his own.
Another mother of the Mustang Valley was rejoicing over a long-lost son.
Crusoe and his mother Fan were scampering round each other in a manner
that evinced powerfully the strength of their mutual affection.
Talk of holding converse! Every hair on Crusoe's body, every motion of
his limbs, was eloquent with silent language. He gazed into his
mother's mild eyes as if he would read her inmost soul (supposing that
she had one). He turned his head to every possible angle, and cocked
his ears to every conceivable elevation, and rubbed his nose against
Fan's, and barked softly, in every imaginable degree of modulation, and
varied these proceedings by bounding away at full speed over the rocks
of the beach, and in among the bushes and out again, but always circling
round and round Fan, and keeping her in view!
It was a sight worth seeing, and young Marston sat down on a rock,
deliberately and enthusiastically, to gloat over it. But perhaps the
most remarkable part of it has not yet been referred to. There was yet
another heart there that was glad--exceeding glad--that day. It was a
little one too, but it was big for the body that held it. Grumps was
there, and all that Grumps did was to sit on his haunches and stare at
Fan and Crusoe, and wag his tail as well as he could in so awkward a
position! Grumps was evidently bewildered with delight, and had lost
nearly all power to express it. Crusoe's conduct towards him, too, was
not calculated to clear his faculties. Every time he chanced to pass
near Grumps in his elephantine gambols, he gave him a passing touch with
his nose, which always knocked him head over heels; whereat Grumps
invariably got up quickly and wagged his tail with additional energy.
Before the feelings of those canine friends were calmed, they were all
three ruffled into a state of comparative exhaustion.
Then young Marston called Crusoe to him, and Crusoe, obedient to the
voice of friendship, went.
"Are you happy, my dog?"
"You're a stupid fellow to ask such a question; however, it's an amiable
one. Yes, I am."
"What do _you_ want, ye small bundle o' hair?"
This was addressed to Grumps, who came forward innocently, and sat down
to listen to the conversation.
On being thus sternly questioned, the little dog put down its ears flat,
and hung its head, looking up at the same time with a deprecatory look
as if to say, "Oh, dear! I beg pardon; I--I only want to sit near
Crusoe, please, but if you wish it I'll go away, sad and lonely, with my
tail _very_ much between my legs--indeed I will, only say the word,
but--but I'd _rather_ stay if I might."
"Poor bundle!" said Marston, patting its head, "you can stay then.
Hooray! Crusoe, are you happy, I say? Does your heart bound in you
like a cannon ball that wants to find its way out and can't--eh?"
Crusoe put his snout against Marston's cheek, and, in the excess of his
joy, the lad threw his arms round the dog's neck and hugged it
vigorously, a piece of impulsive affection which that noble animal bore
with characteristic meekness, and which Grumps regarded with idiotic
satisfaction.