Dick Darvall now learned that, owing to the disturbed state of the
country, Captain Wilmot had left a small body of men to occupy Bull's
ranch for a time; hence their presence at the critical moment when
Jackson and his daughter stood so much in need of their assistance. He
also found that there were two letters awaiting the party at Traitor's
Trap--one for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mr S. Leather. They
bore the postmarks of the old country.
"You'd better not start back wi' them for three or four days, Dick,"
said Jackson, when they were seated that evening in the hall of the
ranch, enjoying a cup of coffee made by the fair hands of Mary.
Dick shook his head. "I'm acting post-boy just now" said he, "an' it
would ill become me to hang off an' on here waitin' for a fair wind when
I can beat into port with a foul one."
"But if the Redskins is up all round, as some o' the boys have reported,
it's not merely a foul wind but a regular gale that's blowin', an' it
would puzzle you to beat into port in the teeth o' that."
"I think," remarked Mary, with an arch smile, "that Mr Darvall had
better `lay to' until the troops return to-night and report on the state
of the weather."
To this the gallant seaman declared that he would be only too happy to
cast anchor altogether where he was for the rest of his life, but that
duty was duty, and that, blow high or blow low, fair weather or foul,
duty had to be attended to.
"That's true, O high-principled seaman!" returned Jackson; "and what
d'ye consider your duty at the present time?"
"To deliver my letters, O Roarin' Bull!" replied Dick.
"Just so, but if you go slick off when Redskins are rampagin' around,
you'll be sure to get nabbed an' roasted alive, an' so you'll _never_
deliver your letters."
"It's my duty to try," said Dick. "Hows'ever," he added, turning to
Mary with a benignant smile, "I'll take your advice, Miss Mary, an' wait
for the report o' the soldiers."
When the troopers returned, their report was, that the Redskins, after
being pretty severely handled, had managed to reach the woods, where it
would have been useless to follow them so close upon night; but it was
their opinion that the band, which had so nearly captured the boss of
the ranch and his daughter, was merely a marauding band, from the south,
of the same Indians who had previously attacked the ranch, and that, as
for the Indians of the district, they believed them to be quite
peaceably disposed.
"Which says a good deal for them," remarked the officer in command of
the troops, "when we consider the provocation they receive from Buck
Tom, Jake the Flint, and such-like ruffians."
"The moon rises at ten to-night, Dick," said Jackson, as they went
together to the stables to see that the horses were all right.
"That's so," said the sailor, who noticed something peculiar in the
man's tone; "what may be the reason o' your reference to that bit of
astronomy?"
"Why, you see," returned the other, "post-boys in these diggin's are
used to travellin' night an' day. An' the troopers' report o' the
weather might be worse. You was sayin' somethin' about duty, wasn't
you?"
"Right, Jackson," returned Dick, "but Black Polly is not used to
travellin' night an' day. If she was, I'd take her back to-night, for
moonlight is good enough for a man that has twice taken soundin's along
the road, an' who's well up in all the buoys, beacons, an' landmarks,
but it would be cruelty to the good mare."
"Duty first, Dick, the mare second. You don't need to trouble about
her. I'll lend ye one o' my best horses an' take good care o' Black
Polly till Hunky Ben claims her."
"Thank 'ee, Jackson, but I'll not part wi' Black Polly till I've
delivered her to her owner. I won't accept your invite to stop here
three or four days, but neither will I start off to-night. I've too
much regard for the good mare to do that."
"Ho! ho!" thought his host, with an inward chuckle, "it's not so much
the mare as Mary that you've a regard for, my young sailor!"
But in spite of his name the man was much too polite to express this
opinion aloud. He merely said, "Well, Dick, you know that you're
welcome to squat here as long or as short a time as you like, an' use
the best o' my horses, if so disposed, or do the postboy business on
Black Polly. Do as ye like wi' me an' mine, boy, for it's only fair to
say that but for your help this day my Mary an' me would have bin done
for."
They reached the stable as he was speaking, and Jackson at once turned
the conversation on the horses, thus preventing a reply from Dick--in
regard to which the latter was not sorry.
In the stall the form of Black Polly looked grander than ever, for her
head nearly touched the roof as she raised it and turned a gleaming eye
on the visitors, at the same time uttering a slight whinny of
expectation.
"Why, I do believe she has transferred her affections to you, Dick,"
said Jackson. "I never heard her do that before except to Hunky Ben,
and she's bin many a time in that stall."
"More likely that she expected Ben had come to bid her good-night,"
returned the sailor.
But the way in which the beautiful creature received Dick's caresses
induced Jackson to hold to his opinion. It is more probable, however,
that some similarity of disposition between Dick Darvall and Hunky Ben
had commended itself to the mare, which was, as much as many a human
being, of an amiable, loving disposition. She thoroughly appreciated
the tenderness and forbearance of her master, and, more recently, of
Dick. No doubt the somewhat rough way in which she had been thrown to
the ground that day may have astonished her, but it evidently had not
soured her temper.
That night Dick did not see much of Mary. She was far too busy
attending to, and providing for, the numerous guests at the ranch to be
able to give individual attention to any one in particular--even had she
been so disposed.
Buttercup of course lent able assistance to her mistress in these
domestic duties, and, despite her own juvenility--we might perhaps say,
in consequence of it--gave Mary much valuable advice.
"Dat man's in a bad way," said she, as, with her huge lips pouting
earnestly, she examined the contents of a big pot on the fire. The
black maiden's lips were so pronounced and expressive that they might
almost be said to constitute her face!
"What man?" asked Mary, who, with her sleeves tucked up to the elbows,
was manipulating certain proportions of flour, water, and butter.
"Why, Dick, oh course. He's de only man wuth speakin' about."
Mary blushed a little in spite of herself, and laughed hilariously as
she replied--
"Dear me, Butter, I didn't think he had made such a deep impression on
you."
"'S not on'y on me he's made a 'mpress'n," returned the maid,
carelessly. "He makes de same 'mpress'n on eberybody."
"How d'you know?" asked Mary.
"'Cause I see," answered the maid.
She turned her eyes on her mistress as she spoke, and immediately a
transformation scene was presented. The eyes dwindled into slits as the
cheeks rose, and the serious pout became a smile so magnificent that
ivory teeth and scarlet gums set in ebony alone met the gaze of the
beholder.
"Buttercup," exclaimed Mary, stamping her little foot firmly, "it's
boiling over!"
She was right. Teeth and gums vanished. The eyes returned, so did the
pout, and the pot was whipped off the fire in a twinkling, but not
before a mighty hiss was heard and the head of the black maiden was
involved in a cloud of steam and ashes!
"I told you so!" cried Mary, quoting from an ancient Manuscript.
"No, you di'n't," retorted her servitor, speaking from the depths of her
own consciousness.
We refrain from following the conversation beyond this point, as it
became culinary and flat.
Next day Dick Darvall, refreshed--and, owing to some quite inexplicable
influences, enlivened--mounted Black Polly and started off alone for
Traitor's Trap, leaving his heart and a reputation for cool pluck behind
him.
Of course he was particularly watchful and circumspect on the way up,
but saw nothing to call for a further display of either pluck or
coolness. On arriving at the cave he found his friends there much as he
had left them. Buck Tom, owing to the skilled attentions which he had
received from that amateur surgeon, Hunky Ben, and a long refreshing
sleep--the result of partial relief from pain--was a good deal better;
and poor Leather, cheered by the hope thus raised of his friend's
recovery, was himself considerably improved in health and spirits.
Fortunately for his own peace of mind, it never seemed to occur to Shank
that a return to health meant for Buck Tom, death on the gallows.
Perhaps his own illness had weakened Shank's powers of thought. It may
be, his naturally thoughtless disposition helped to render him oblivious
of the solemn fact, and no one was cruel enough to remind him of it.
But Buck himself never forgot it; yet he betrayed no symptom of
despondency, neither did he indicate any degree of hope. He was a man
of resolute purpose, and had the power of subduing--at least of
absolutely concealing--his feelings. To those who nursed him he seemed
to be in a state of gentle, colourless resignation.
Charlie Brooke and Hunky Ben, having been out together, had returned
well laden with game; and Leather was busy at the fire preparing a
savoury mess of the same for his sick friend when Dick arrived.
"News from the old country!" he exclaimed, holding up the letters on
entering the cave. "Two for Charles Brooke, Esquire, and one for Mister
Leather!"
"They might have been more polite to me. Hand it here," said the
latter, endeavouring to conceal under a jest his excitement at the sight
of a letter from home; for his wild life had cut him off from
communication for a very long time.
"One of mine is from old Jacob Crossley," said Charlie, tearing the
letter open with eager interest.
"An' mine is from sister May," exclaimed Shank.
If any one had observed Buck Tom at that moment, he would have seen that
the outlaw started and rose almost up on one elbow, while a deep flush
suffused his bronzed countenance. The action and the flush were only
momentary, however he sank down again and turned his face to the wall.
Charlie also started and looked at Shank when the name of May was
mentioned, and the eye of Hunky Ben was on him at the moment. But Hunky
of course could not interpret the start. He knew little of our hero's
past history--nothing whatever about May. Being a western scout, no
line of his mahogany-looking face indicated that the start aroused a
thought of any kind.
While the recipients of the letters were busily perusing their missives,
Dick Darvall gave the scout a brief outline of his expedition to the
ranch, reserving the graphic narration of incidents to a more fitting
occasion, when all the party could listen.
"Dick, you're a trump," said the scout.
"I'm a lucky fellow, anyhow," returned Dick.
"In very truth ye are, lad, to escape from such a big bunch o' Redskins
without a scratch; why--"
"Pooh!" interrupted the sailor, "that's not the luck I'm thinkin' of.
Havin' overhauled Roarin' Bull an' his little girl in time to help
rescue them, that's what I call luck--d'ee see?"
"Yes, I see," was Hunky Ben's laconic reply.
Perhaps the scout saw more than was intended, for he probably observed
the glad enthusiasm with which the bold seaman mentioned Roaring Bull's
little girl. We cannot tell. His wooden countenance betrayed no sign,
and he may have seen nothing; but he was a western scout, and accustomed
to take particular note of the smallest signs of the wilderness.
"Capital--first-rate!" exclaimed Charlie, looking up from his letter
when he had finished it.
"Just what I was going to say, or something of the same sort," said
Leather, as he folded his epistle.
"Then there's nothing but good news?" said Charlie.
"Nothing. I suppose it's the same with you, to judge from your looks,"
returned Shank.
"Exactly. Perhaps," said Charlie, "it may interest you all to hear my
letter. There are no secrets in it, and the gentleman who writes it is
a jolly old fellow, Jacob Crossley by name. You know him, Dick, as the
owner of the _Walrus_, though you've never seen him."
"All right. I remember; fire away," said Dick.
"It is dated from his office in London," continued our hero, "and runs
thus:--
"MY DEAR BROOKE,--We were all very glad to hear of your safe arrival
in New York, and hope that long before this reaches your hand you will
have found poor Leather and got him to some place of comfort, where he
may recover the health that we have been given to understand he has
lost.
"I chanced to be down at Sealford visiting your mother when your
letter arrived; hence my knowledge of its contents. Mrs Leather and
her daughter May were then as _usual_. By the way, what a pretty girl
May has become! I remember her such a rumpled up, dress-anyhow,
harum-scarum sort of a girl, that I find it hard to believe the tall,
graceful, modest creature I meet with now is the same person! Captain
Stride says she is the finest craft he ever saw, except that wonderful
`Maggie,' about whose opinions and sayings he tells us so much.
"But this is a double digression. To return: your letter of course
gave us all great pleasure. It also gave your mother and May some
anxiety, where it tells of the necessity of your going up to that
wild-west place, Traitor's Trap, where poor Leather is laid up. Take
care of yourself, my dear boy, for I'm told that the red savages are
still given to those roasting, scalping, and other torturing that one
has read of in the pages of Fenimore Cooper.
"By the way, before I forget it, let me say, in reference to the
enclosed bill, it is a loan which I have obtained for Leather, at very
moderate interest, and when more is required more can be obtained on
the same terms. Let him understand this, for I don't wish that he
should think, on the one hand, that he is drawing on his mother's
slender resources, or, on the other hand, that he is under obligation
to any one. I send the bill because I feel quite sure that you
started on this expedition with too little. It is drawn in your name,
and I think you will be able to cash it at any civilised town--even in
the far west!
"Talking of Captain Stride--was I talking of him? Well, no matter.
As he is past work now, but thinks himself very far indeed from that
condition, I have prevailed on him to accept a new and peculiar post
arising out of the curious evolutions of the firm of Withers and
Company which satisfies the firm completely and suits the captain to a
T. As the work can be done anywhere, a residence has been taken for
him in Sealford, mid-way between that of your mother and Mrs Leather,
so that he and his wife and little girl can run into either port when
so disposed. As Mrs L, however (to use his own phraseology), is
almost always to be found at anchor in the Brooke harbour, he usually
kills both with the same visit. I have not been to see him yet in the
new abode, and do not know what the celebrated Maggie thinks of it.
"When you find Leather, poor fellow, tell him that his mother and
sister are very well. The former is indefatigable in knitting those
hundreds of socks and stockings for poor people, about which there has
been, and still is, and I think ever will be, so much mystery. The
person who buys them from her must be very deep as well as honest, for
no inquiries ever throw any fresh light on the subject, and he--or
she, whichever it is--pays regularly as the worsted work is
delivered--so I'm told! It is a little old lady who pays--but I've
reason to believe that she's only a go-between--some agent of a
society for providing cheap clothing for the poor, I fancy, which the
poor stand very much in need of, poor things! Your good mother helps
in this work--at least so I am told, but I'm not much up in in the
details of it yet. I mean to run down to see them in a few days and
hear all about it.
"Stride, I forgot to say, is allowed to smoke a pipe in your mother's
parlour when he pays her a visit. This is so like her amiability, for
she hates tobacco as much as I do. I ventured on a similarly amiable
experiment one day when the worthy Captain dined with me, but the
result was so serious that I have not ventured to repeat it. You
remember my worthy housekeeper, Mrs Bland? Well, she kicked over the
traces and became quite unmanageable. I had given Stride leave to
smoke after dessert, because I had a sort of idea that he could nor
digest his food without a pipe. You know my feelings with regard to
_young_ fellows who try to emulate chimneys, so you can understand
that my allowing the Captain to indulge was no relaxation of my
principles, but was the result of a strong objection I had to spoil
the dinner of a man who was somewhat older than myself by cramming my
principles down his throat.
"But the moment that Mrs Bland entered I knew by the glance of her
eye, as well as by the sniff of her nose, that a storm was brewing
up--as Stride puts it--and I was not wrong. The storm burst upon me
that evening. It's impossible, and might be tedious, to give you all
the conversation that we had after Stride had gone, but the upshot was
that she gave me warning.
"`But, my good woman,' I began--
"`It's of no use good-womaning me, Mr Crossley,' said she, `I
couldn't exist in a 'ouse w'ere smokin' is allowed. My dear father
died of smokin'--at least, if he didn't, smokin' must 'ave 'ad
somethink to do with it, for after the dear man was gone a pipe an' a
plug of the nasty stuff was found under 'is piller, so I can't stand
it; an' what's more, Mr Crossley, I _won't_ stand it! Just think,
sir, 'ow silly it is to put a bit of clay in your mouth an' draw smoke
through it, an' then to spit it out again as if you didn't like it; as
no more no one _does_ on beginnin' it, for boys only smoke to look
like men, an' men only smoke because they've got up the 'abit an'
can't 'elp it. W'y, sir, you may git up _any_ 'abit. You may git the
'abit of walkin' on your 'ands an' shakin' your legs in the hair if
you was to persevere long enough, but that would only prove you a fool
fit for a circus or a lunatic asylum. You never see the hanimals
smokin'. They knows better. Just fancy! what would you think if you
saw the cab 'osses all a-settin' on their tails in the rank smokin'
pipes an' cigars! What would you think of a 'oss w'en 'is cabby
cried, "Gee-up, there's a fare a 'owlin' for us," an' that 'oss would
say, "Hall right, cabby, just 'old on, hold man, till I finish my
pipe"? No, Mr Crossley, no, I--'
"`But, my good soul!' I burst in here, `do listen--'
"`No use good-soulin' me, Mr Crossley. I tell you I won't stand it.
My dear father died of it, an' I _can't_ stand it--'
"`I _hate_ it, Mrs Bland, myself!'
"I shouted this interruption in such a loud fierce tone that the good
woman stopped and looked at me in surprise.
"`Yes, Mrs Bland,' I continued, in the same tone, `I detest smoking.
You know I always did, but now more than ever, for your reasoning has
convinced me that there are _some_ evil consequences of smoking which
are almost worse than smoking itself! Rest assured that never again
shall the smell of the noxious weed defile the walls of this house.'
"`Lauk, sir!' said Mrs Bland.
"I had subdued her, Charlie, by giving in with dignity. I shall try
the same role next breeze that threatens.
"I almost feel that I owe you an apology for the length of this
epistle. Let me conclude by urging you to bring poor Leather home,
strong and well. Tell him from me that there is a vacant situation in
the firm of Withers and Company which will just suit him. He shall
have it when he returns--if God spares me to see him again. But I'm
getting old, Charlie, and we know not what a day may bring forth."
"A kind--a very kind letter," said Leather earnestly, when his friend
had finished reading.
"Why, he writes as if he were your own father, Brooke," remarked Buck
Tom, who had been listening intently. "Have you known him long?"
"Not long. Only since the time that he gave me the appointment of
supercargo to the _Walrus_, but the little I have seen of him has
aroused in me a feeling of strong regard."
"My sister May refers to him here," said Leather, with a peculiar smile,
as he re-opened his letter. "The greater part of this tells chiefly of
private affairs which would not interest any of you, but here is a
passage which forms a sort of commentary on what you have just heard:--
"`You will be amused to hear,' she writes, `that good Captain Stride
has come to live in Sealford. Kind old Mr Crossley has given him
some sort of work connected with Withers and Company's house which I
can neither understand nor describe. Indeed, I am convinced it is
merely work got up on purpose by Mr Crossley as an excuse for giving
his old friend a salary, for he knows that Captain Stride would be
terribly cast down if offered a _pension_, as that would be equivalent
to pronouncing him unfit for further duty, and the Captain will never
admit himself to be in that condition till he is dying. Old Jacob
Crossley--as you used to call him--thinks himself a very sagacious and
"deep" man, but in truth there never was a simpler or more transparent
one. He thinks that we know nothing about who it is that sends the
old lady to buy up all the worsted-work that mother makes, but we know
perfectly well that it is himself, and dear mother could never have
gone on working with satisfaction and receiving the money for it all
if we had not found out that he buys it for our fishermen, who are
said really to be very much in need of the things she makes.
"`The dear old man is always doing something kind and considerate in a
sly way, under the impression that nobody notices. He little knows
the power of woman's observation! By the way, that reminds me that he
is not ignorant of woman's powers in other ways. We heard yesterday
that his old and faithful--though rather trying--housekeeper had
quarrelled with him about smoking! We were greatly surprised, for we
knew that the old gentleman is not and never was, a smoker. She
threatened to leave, but we have since heard, I am glad to say, that
they have made it up!
"H'm! there's food for meditation in all that," said Dick Darvall, as he
knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his vest pocket.