HUNKY BEN AND CHARLIE GET BEYOND THEIR DEPTH, AND BUCK TOM GETS BEYOND
RECALL.
While hunting together in the woods near Traitor's Trap one day Charlie
Brooke and Hunky Ben came to a halt on the summit of an eminence that
commanded a wide view over the surrounding country.
"'Tis a glorious place, Ben," said Brooke, leaning his rifle against a
tree and mounting on a piece of rock, the better to take in the
beautiful prospect of woodland, river, and lake. "When I think of the
swarms of poor folk in the old country who don't own a foot of land,
have little to eat and only rags to cover them, I long to bring them out
here and plant them down where God has spread His blessings so
bountifully, where there is never lack of work, and where Nature pays
high wages to those who obey her laws."
"No doubt there's room enough here," returned the scout sitting down and
laying his rifle across his knees. "I've often thowt on them subjects,
but my thowts only lead to puzzlement; for, out here in the wilderness,
a man can't git all the information needful to larn him about things in
the old world. Dear, dear, it do seem strange to me that any man should
choose to starve in the cities when there's the free wilderness to roam
about in. I mind havin' a palaver once wi' a stove-up man when I was
ranchin' down in Kansas on the Indian Territory Line. Screw was his
name, an' a real kind-hearted fellow he was too--only he couldn't keep
his hand off that curse o' mankind, the bottle. I mentioned to him my
puzzlements about this matter, an' he up fist an' come down on the table
wi' a crack that made the glasses bounce as if they'd all come alive,
an' caused a plate o' mush in front of him to spread itself all over the
place--but he cared nothin' for that, he was so riled up by the thowts
my obsarvation had shook up.
"`Hunky Ben,' says he, glowerin' at me like a bull wi' the measles, `the
reason we stay there an' don't come out here or go to the other parts o'
God's green 'arth is 'cause we can't help ourselves an' don't know how--
or what--don't know nothin' in fact!'
"`That's a busted-up state o' ignorance, no doubt' said I, in a soothin'
sort o' way, for I see'd the man was riled pretty bad by ancient
memories, an' looked gittin' waxier. He wore a black eye, too, caught
in a free fight the night before, which didn't improve his looks. `You
said _we_ just now,' says I. `Was you one o' them?'
"`Of course I was,' says he, tamin' down a little, `an' I'd bin one o'
them yet--if not food for worms by this time--if it hadn't bin for a
dook as took pity on me.'
"`What's a dook?' says I.
"`A dook?' says he. `Why, he's a _dook_, you know; a sort o' markis--
somewheres between a lord an' a king. I don't know zackly where, an
hang me if I care; but they're a bad lot are some o' them dooks--rich as
Pharaoh, king o' J'rus'lem, an' hard as nails--though I'm bound for to
say they ain't all alike. Some on 'em's no better nor costermongers,
others are _men_; men what keeps in mind that the same God made us all
an' will call us all to the same account, an' that the same kind o'
worms 'll finish us all off at last. But this dook as took pity on me
was a true blue. He wasn't one o' the hard sort as didn't care a rush
for us so long as his own stummick was full. Neether was he one o' the
butter-mouths as dursen't say boo to a goose. He spoke out to me like a
man, an' he knew well enough that I'd bin born in the London slums, an'
that my daddy had bin born there before me, an that my mother had caught
her death o' cold through havin' to pawn her only pair o' boots to pay
my school fees an' then walk barefutt to the court in a winter day to
answer for not sendin' her boy to the board school--_her_ send me to
school!--she might as well have tried to send daddy himself; an' him out
o' work, too, an' all on us starvin'. My dook, when he hear about it
a'most bust wi' passion. I hear 'im arterwards talkin' to a overseer,
or somebody, "confound it," says he--no, not quite that, for my dook he
_never_ swore, only he said somethin' pretty stiff--"these people are
starvin'," says he, "an' pawnin' their things for food to keep 'em
alive, an' they can't git work nohow," says he, "an' yet you worry them
out o' body an' soul for school fees!" I didn't hear no more, for the
overseer smoothed 'im down somehows. But that dook--that good _man_,
Hunky Ben, paid my passage to Ameriky, an' sent me off wi' his blessin'
an' a Bible. Unfortnitly I took a bottle wi' me, an when I got to the
other side I got hold of another bottle, an' another--an' there stands
the last of 'em.'
"An' wi' that, Mr Brooke, he fetched the bottle in front of him such a
crack wi' his fist as sent it all to smash against the opposite wall.
"`Well done, Screw!' cried the boy at the bar, laughin'; `have another
bottle?'
"Poor Screw smiled in a sheepish way, for the rile was out of him by
that time, an', says he, `Well, I don't mind if I do. A shot like that
deserves another!'
"Ah me!" continued the scout, "it do take the manhood out of a fellow,
that drink. Even when his indignation's roused and he tries to shake it
off, he can't do it."
"Well do I know that, Ben. It is only God who can help a man in such a
case."
The scout gravely shook his head. "Seems to me, Mr Brooke, that
there's a screw loose some wheres in our theology, for I've heard
parsons as well as you say that--as if the Almighty condescended to help
us only when we're in bad straits. Now, though I'm but a scout and
pretend to no book larnin', it comes in strong upon me that if God made
us an' measures our movements, an' gives us every beat o' the pulse, an'
counts the very hairs of our heads, we stand in need of His help in
_every_ case and at _all_ times; that we can't save ourselves from
mischief under any circumstances, great or small, without Him."
"I have thought of that too, sometimes," said Charlie, sitting down on
the rock beside his companion, and looking at him in some perplexity,
"but does not the view you take savour somewhat of fatalism, and seek to
free us from responsibility in regard to what we do?"
"It don't seem so to me," replied the scout, "I'm not speakin', you see,
so much of doin' as of escapin'. No doubt we are _perfectly_ free to
_will_, but it don't follow that we are free to _act_. I'm quite free
to _will_ to cut my leg off or to let it stay on; an' if I carry out my
will an' _do_ it, why, I'm quite free there too--an' also responsible.
But I ain't free to sew it on again however much I may will to do so--
leastwise if I do it won't stick. The consekinces o' my deed I must
bear, but who will deny that the Almighty could grow on another leg if
He chose? Why, some creeters He _does_ allow to get rid of a limb or
two, an' grow new ones! So, you see, I'm responsible for my deeds, but,
at the same time, I must look to God for escape from the consekinces, if
He sees fit to let me escape. A man, bein' free, may drink himself into
a drunkard, but he's _not_ free to cure _himself_. He can't do it. The
demon Crave has got him by the throat, forces him to open his mouth, and
pours the fiery poison down. The thing that he is free to do is to
will. He may, if he chooses, call upon God the Saviour to help him; an'
my own belief is that no man ever made such a call in vain."
"How, if that be so, are we to account for the failure of those who try,
honestly strive, struggle, and agonise, yet obviously fail?"
"It's not for the like o' me, Mr Brooke, to expound the outs an' ins o'
all mysteries. Yet I will p'int out that you, what they call, beg the
question, when you say that such people `honestly' strive. If a man
tries to unlock a door with all his might and main, heart and soul,
honestly tries, by turnin' the key the wrong way, he'll strive till
doomsday without openin' the door! It's my opinion that a man may get
into difficulties of his own free-will. He can get out of them only by
applyin' to his Maker."
During the latter part of this conversation the hunters had risen and
were making their way through the trackless woods, when the scout
stopped suddenly and gazed for a few seconds intently at the ground.
Then he kneeled and began to examine the spot with great care. "A
footprint here," he said, "that tells of recent visitors."
"Friends, Ben, or foes?" asked our hero, also going on his knees to
examine the marks. "Well, now, I see only a pressed blade or two of
grass, but nothing the least like a footprint. It puzzles me more than
I can tell how you scouts seem so sure about invisible marks."
"Truly, if they was invisible you would have reason for surprise, but my
wonder is that you don't see them. Any child in wood-craft might read
them. See, here is the edge o' the right futt making a faint impression
where the ground is soft--an' the heel; surely ye see the heel!"
"A small hollow I do see, but as to its being a heel-print I could not
pronounce on that. Has it been made lately, think you?"
"Ay, last night or this morning at latest; and it was made by the futt
of Jake the Flint. I know it well, for I've had to track him more than
once an' would spot it among a thousand."
"If Jake is in the neighbourhood, wouldn't it be well to return to the
cave? He and some of his gang might attack it in our absence."
"No fear o' that," replied the scout, rising from his inspection, "the
futt p'ints away from the cave. I should say that the Flint has bin
there durin' the night, an' found that we kep' too sharp a look-out to
be caught sleepin'. Where he went to arter that no one can tell, but we
can hoof it an' see. Like enough he went to spy us out alone, an' then
returned to his comrades."
So saying, the scout "hoofed it" through the woods at a pace that tested
Charlie Brooke's powers of endurance, exceptionally good though they
were. After a march of about four miles in comparative silence they
were conducted by the footprints to an open space in the midst of dense
thicket where the fresh ashes of a camp fire indicated that a party had
spent some time.
"Just so. They came to see what was up and what could be done, found
that nothin' partiklar was up an' nothin' at all could be done, so off
they go, mounted, to fish in other waters. Just as well for us."
"But not so well for the fish in the other waters," remarked Charlie.
"True, but we can't help that. Come, we may as well return now."
While Charlie and the scout were thus following the trail, Buck Tom,
lying in the cave, became suddenly much worse. It seemed as if some
string in his system had suddenly snapped and let the poor human wreck
run down.
"Come here, Leather," he gasped faintly.
Poor Shank, who never left him, and who was preparing food for him at
the time, was at his side in a moment, and bent anxiously over him.
"D'you want anything?" he asked.
"Nothing, Shank. Where's Dick?"
"Outside; cutting some firewood."
"Don't call him. I'm glad we are alone," said the outlaw, seizing his
friend's hand with a feeble, tremulous grasp. "I'm dying, Shank, dear
boy. You forgive me?"
"Forgive you, Ralph! Ay--long, long ago I--" He could not finish the
sentence.
"I know you did, Shank," returned the dying man, with a faint smile.
"How it will fare with me hereafter I know not. I've but one word to
say when I get there, and that is--_guilty_! I--I loved your sister,
Shank. Ay--you never guessed it. I only tell you now that I may send
her a message. Tell her that the words she once said to me about a
Saviour have never left me. They are like a light in the darkness now.
God bless you--Shank--and--May."
With a throbbing heart and listening ear Shank waited for more; but no
more came. The hand he still held was lifeless, and the spirit of the
outlaw had entered within the veil of that mysterious Hereafter.