It was a painful surprise both to Edwin Inwood and Jim Tubbs
when they met each other in captivity. They conversed together,
and acquainted themselves with their mutual history after their
separation during the day.
“Poor George will be anxious enough about us,” said the boy. “I feel
worse on his account than I do on my own.”
“What’s de matter wid him?” asked the negro, not exactly
comprehending the force of this remark.
“Nothing, so far as I know; but what will he think when he comes back
and finds nothing of us?”
“Tink we ain’t dere, I s’pose.”
“I don’t believe these people intend us any harm. They have treated
us both so kindly that they will let us go to-morrow.”
“Hope so.”
“I see among these who came with you, the same one that we had in the
cave the other day.”
“Yes; me an’ him are great friends,” replied Jim, with an important
air. “I kinder tink he always had a notion of me.”
They chatted together until toward morning, when, becoming sleepy,
both lay down upon the ground, and slept until daylight. The African
race is proverbial for its drowsy proclivities, and it required
some hard shaking upon the part of Edwin before he could arouse his
companion. But once awake, he was thoroughly so, and he arose to his
feet.
The Mohaves had the camp-fire burning, and a number of birds, which
resembled quails, cooking, while they had collected quite a quantity
of mesquite beans, very numerous more south in California, and
occasionally encountered further north. These furnished an abundant
and nourishing breakfast, much needed by our friends.
Daylight brought another surprise in the shape of a third prisoner--a
large, stalwart looking man, dressed in the garb of an Indian--in
fact, no other personage than he who had guarded the lake and the
Enchanted Island so zealously. He was sullen and obstinate, and
his hands had been tied behind him for the purpose of security.
He scowled at his fellow prisoners, as he was brought up, and
undoubtedly hated them as thoroughly as he did his captors.
On the other hand, the Mohaves were particularly vindictive toward
the man, and, from his appearance, had been subjecting him to
suffering and torture for their own amusement. Only two held him,
and they must certainly have secured him by strategy, as he was
almost as muscular as Jim, and would have been an ugly customer in a
hand-to-hand struggle.
“They’ve got quite a lot of us,” he remarked, addressing Inwood.
“Yes; dar am tree ob us.”
The stranger paid no heed to the negro, but spoke directly to Inwood.
“I s’pose you know what tribe these belong to?” he continued.
Edwin made answer that he did not.
“They are Mohaves--a villainous set of dogs. I consider ’em as bad as
the Apaches, and you know they are as ugly as ugly can be.”
“They have treated us kindly.”
“Yes,” replied the stranger, with a contemptuous expression, “you
will find out. You remember the Oatman family that were massacred,
except a boy and two girls, in ’49, in crossing the plains?”
“Yes; I saw the son in New York, and one of the sisters, with her
chin all tattooed with India ink, which they said the Indians did
when they had her with them.”
“Do you know what tribe murdered them?”
“I heard, but I have forgotten.”
“It was these same Mohaves, and there ain’t a more villainous set of
dogs this side of the Mississippi. You may make up your mind, as I
have, that you’ll never see that sun go down again.”
This was uttered coolly, but with such an air of conviction as to its
truth, as to send a chill to the hearts of the hearers.
“Bress de Lord! you don’t mean dat?” asked Jim, fairly quaking with
terror. The stranger turned toward him, and said:
“There’s no chance for _you_, for I never seen an Indian that didn’t
hate a nigger, and I’m with ’em there myself. If I could say the
word, I wouldn’t get _you_ out of this scrape, for you’ve no business
in these parts.”
“Bress your heart! nobody has axed you to say a word; I’d rather hab
de ill will ob such a miserable lookin’ darkey as you dan your lub,
an’ if you doesn’t like it, all I’ve got to say is, dat I’m at your
sarvice, an’ you can help yourself.”
The stranger glared at Jim like a wild beast, but as his own hands
were tied, and those of the African’s were not, he was unable to help
himself.
“O, you needn’t look so lubbin’ at me!” said Jim, “I ain’t afeerd ob
you; I’ll try an’ coax ’em to ontie your hands, an’ den we’ll hug
each other, if you want to.”
The stranger’s feelings were inexpressible, and in his supreme
contempt, he turned his back upon the negro, and addressed himself
directly to Edwin.
“My name is Gaylor, and I’ve been out in these parts about a year,
with a lot of others. We’ve had to dodge and fight the Indians all
the time, and they know me well enough I reckon, and there ain’t any
great amount of love atween us. I’ve played some purty smart tricks
upon ’em, but they got ahead of me at last. I was so tired last night
that I lay down to sleep, and when I woke up, a couple of ’em had me
fast, sure, and--well, you see I’m here with you.”
Inwood gave the particulars of their own misfortune, and then
inquired:
“What have you been doing here?”
Gaylor hesitated a moment, showed some confusion, but quickly
rallying himself, replied:
“The same as yourself, I suppose; we have been looking for gold.”
“You must have found something, or you would not have remained so
long.”
“Well, yes, we have had tolerable luck--putty good I may say toward
the last--but what good is it going to do me?”
“Not much, I am afraid, nor us either; but you had a number of
friends with you, will they not attempt your rescue?”
Gaylor shook his head.
“No use of looking there; they’ll be sure I’ve been rubbed out, and
won’t take the trouble to hunt me up.”
“How many are there?”
“Three beside myself. They think enough of me, too, and, if they
thought there was a chance, they would be here in a jiffy; but what’s
the use? They even don’t know that I’ve been run off with, but
likely enough imagine that I have gone off on a hunt, and they won’t
look for me back under a week.”
All three prisoners were seated on the ground close together, the
Mohaves allowing them opportunity to converse without molestation,
although several scowled at Gaylor, as if unwilling to grant this
small boon.
“I see you are dressed as an Indian,” remarked Edwin, in an inquiring
voice to Gaylor, who smiled for a moment, and did not reply.
Finally, he looked down at his leggins and stained skin, as if their
appearance were a new thing to him.
“Well, I don’t see as there is any harm in telling you. This is the
style of dress we have all adopted. You see we’ve got particular
reasons for not wishing any white men to know we are here, and it was
my plan to get ourselves up in this rig, so that if anybody should
see us, they would think they was looking at Mohave Indians.”
Edwin forebore to ask the reason for all this, for it was
impertinent, but he concluded that Gaylor and his three companions
were criminals fleeing from justice.
“I shouldn’t tink such a rapscallion as you would want folks to
know dat you was white--don’t blame you fur paintin’ ob yourself,”
remarked Jim Tubbs, who was an attentive listener to the conversation.
“See here,” said Gaylor, fairly white with passion, “I’ve had enough
of you! I’d like to--I’d like to see these dogs burn you. _I hate
you!_”
“All right,” replied Jim, and was about uttering some more badinage,
when Edwin requested him to keep still.
Before the conversation could be resumed, the Mohave who was brought
so prominently into notice at the beginning of our narrative, walked
up to Jim and Edwin and motioned to them to stand up. They did so,
the boy still holding his gun. He then led them about a rod away,
halted, pointed to the northward, placed his left hand on the back of
Edwin, and gave him a gentle shove, and then did the same with Jim.
“Golly, dat means _trabbel_, an’ here’s de gemman what’s goin’ to
frow himself out all kinder loose like!” exclaimed the delighted
African, as he straightway began what may be termed “tall walking.”
“Hallo!” he exclaimed, abruptly halting after a few steps, “I forgot
to tank you. Much obliged. Good-bye.”
Edwin expressed his thanks as well as he could by pantomime and
hurried after his sable friend.
The Golden Rule! Golden, indeed, and the true measure by which to
mark our steps to Heaven. Here were two lives saved by the one
“little deed of kindness.”
They walked rapidly some distance, and then Edwin placed his slight
hand upon the colossal shoulder of the negro.
“Well, what be it?” demanded Jim, looking down in his pale face.
“I’m afraid they are going to kill Gaylor.”
“I hope so----”
“O, Jim, don’t talk that way.”
“I dunno as I hope so, but I don’t care; he’s an ugly darkey, an’
orter have de gold trick come ober him.”
“I don’t feel right in going off and leaving him this way, _and it
isn’t right_.”
“Well, what you goin’ do?” asked the African, betraying some
uneasiness.
“We must go back, and try and get them to let him off.”
“Dey won’t do dat.”
“How do you know they won’t?”
“I don’t tink so.”
“We can try.”
“I’ll wait here while you go.”
The boy ran back, and in a few moments reached the camp. Gaylor was
standing with his back toward him and did not notice his approach.
The Mohaves were all standing near him, and in their looks was great
evil. They all turned inquiringly toward Edwin, who walked rapidly
up to the prisoner, then dropped on his knees, made a supplicating
motion, and then, placing his arm within his, started off. A half
dozen Indians sprang forward to prevent it. He dropped on his knees
again, and, with tears in his eyes besought his release. He could
not be misunderstood, but his answer was scowls, and one who was
quite angry, drew his knife; but before he could do harm, our first
acquaintance sprang forward and, leading him quite forcibly a few
steps, pointed earnestly in the direction whence he came.
“You understand that,” said Gaylor, speaking for the first time,
“it’s no use; I’m much obliged to you for your good will, but these
dogs don’t like me, and you’re only fooling away your time to bother
with ’em.”
Edwin’s heart was overflowing, and, unable to speak, he broke into a
rapid run, and speedily reached the spot where the trembling Jim was
awaiting him.
“I couldn’t do anything, Jim,” he faltered.
“Sorry--’cause dey’ll be kind ob heavy on him.”
“Jim, you must go try them.”
“Oh! I can’t! I can’t!”
“But you must.”
“What’s de use?”
“That Indian that was in the cave thinks a great deal of you. Go and
plead with him.”
“But dat ’ere Gaylor said he hated me.”
“What if he did; if you can save his life, don’t you wish to do it?”
Jim was greatly agitated, and rubbed a tear from his eye.
“You’re right Ned; dar’s sumfin’ in me dat tells me I ought to do it,
an’ by de help ob God _I will_!”
“Be quick then, for there is no time to lose.”
The negro needed no urging, for he was prompted by the most powerful
of motives--Conscience, the “still small voice,” which, if listened
to, guides us all aright.
When he reached the camp, matters were about the same as Inwood had
left them.
“Mr. Gaylor,” said Jim, speaking abruptly, “I’ve come to see if I can
sabe you.”
The man turned around and looked at him silently for a moment, as if
unable to comprehend what he meant. Then he slowly shook his head
from side to side.
“No use; you’d better go back.”
“I’m goin’ to coax these fellers, an’ if dey won’t do it, we’ll pitch
in an’ fight.”
The Mohaves stood in a sort of irregular circle, their expression
forbidding enough. Jim walked straight up to his first acquaintance,
and, leading him to where Gaylor stood, pointed at him, and motioned
toward Inwood, whose great anxiety had brought him within sight
and hearing. The Indian shook his head, and looked around at his
companions in a manner that showed _he_ had no particular objections,
if they would give their consent.
Jim repeated his request, and he again swayed his head, but he was
solicited more vehemently than before, whereupon the savage withdrew,
and began an earnest conference with his friends. The consultation
was long, earnest and stormy--but the end was victory. The Indian was
a man of authority--Gaylor was loosed from his bonds, and he and Jim
walked away side by side, and, rejoining Edwin Inwood, all three took
their departure.
“We do not make our thoughts; they grow in us,
Like grain in wood; the growth is of the skies,
Which are of nature; nature is of God.
The world is full of glorious likenesses.”