HOW LITTLE BUSHIE FIGURED IN THE FIGHT.
But Bushie--where was poor little Bushie all this time? The moment the
fight had begun the boy, to keep clear of the conflicting giants, had
run with the speed of a frightened fawn to the shelter of the
neighboring thicket. Here, crouched down and peering out through the
openings of his covert, he had watched with fearful interest how
manfully and against such desperate odds his brave, his faithful Burl
had battled for his deliverance--his little heart sinking within him
whenever the combat seemed to be going against his champion. And when
the two giants, still locked together in the death hug, had rolled to
the foot of the hill, and he had seen his darling Burl's bare, yellow
soles, with a wide-wheeling fling, go vanishing over the river-bank,
then had the poor little fellow given up all as lost and cried as if his
heart would break. But when, some minutes after, he had spied the
bear-skin cap he knew so well heaving above the purple iron-weeds far
down there, then had he plucked up heart again. Now that the fight
seemed ended, with victory won and deliverance wrought, he was on the
point of running out, in the joy and thankfulness of the moment, to
seize his precious old chum by the hand, when a new danger, from an
altogether unexpected quarter, suddenly presented itself and checked him
in the act.
The Fighting Nigger was still standing on the brow of the hill, and with
his empty gun still sighting the river-bank where Black Thunder had
vanished, when all in the self-same instant he heard a cry from his
little master, a growl from Grumbo, and the venomous hiss of a tomahawk
which grazingly passed his nose and sunk with a vengeful quiver in the
trunk of a tree beside him. Wheeling about, he saw the young Indian
confronting him, and with his scalping-knife brandished aloft, in the
act of making a panther-like spring upon him. The bullet which had
passed through the body of the grim savage had pierced the young brave's
left arm and spent its remaining force on his ammunition-pouch, the
inner side of which, being made of thick, tough buffalo-hide, had stayed
its further progress--though the shock had been so severe as to lay him
senseless many minutes. Consciousness and the power of motion returning
to him at the close of the fight, he had leaped to his feet, and by
reason of the wound in his left arm disabled from wielding a rifle, had
snatched up the nearest tomahawk to hurl that at the Big Black Brave
with a Bushy Head, where he was still standing on the brow of the hill,
peering through his rifle smoke at the river-bank below.
Up to this moment Grumbo had kept his powerful jaws clenched
unrelentingly on the throat of the dead savage; but seeing the new
danger threatening his master, he had at last released his hold, and
with a growl and a bound was at the enemy's skirts, which he seized with
a violent backward tug, just as the tomahawk was on the point of being
hurled, and with a force and an aim which else had sent the black giant
rolling in his turn to the bottom of the hill. Again had the war-dog
turned the scale of battle in his leader's favor.
"I yi, you dogs!" And with his battle-cry resounding again through the
lonely wilds, the Fighting Nigger threw himself on his new antagonist,
whom the invincible Grumbo still held back by the skirts, and wresting
the scalping-knife from the young brave's hand, bore him with
resistless force to the ground--Indian, nigger, and dog, all in a
huddle together.
"Han's uff, Grumbo!" For the war-dog, now that his blood was up, could
hardly be restrained from falling tooth and nail on the prostrate foe.
"Han's uff! You's chawed up one uf de varmints; jes' let Burlman Rennuls
wind up dis one. Han's uff, I say; or I'll----." And with this the
Fighting Nigger made a sham thrust with the knife at his comrade's nose,
which forced him to fall back a few paces, where he sat doggedly down on
his tail, with the injured air of a faithful follower who had been
defrauded of his dues.
Big Black Burl looked down on the young Indian brave: the young Indian
brave, with unflinching bright, black eyes, looked up at Big Black Burl.
Slowly the victor raised the murderous knife aloft, his eyes still bent
on the young brave's face, and seeing there something that made his hand
less swift than was its wont in dealing the death-blow. But the knife
was on the point of descending when Bushie came running up to the spot,
crying out in beseeching accents as he came: "Don't, Burl, don't kill
that one! Please don't!"
This stayed the uplifted hand, and glancing around at his little master,
Burl, with a look of great surprise, exclaimed, "W'y, Bushie, taint
nothin' but a Injun!"
"But that one was good to me, Burl."
"A red varmint good to a little white boy! Git out!"
"Yes, but he was, Burl. That one," pointing to the dead savage, "was
going to split my head open with his hatchet, when this one," pointing
to the young brave, "ran up to him and pushed him away from me, and said
something to him loud and mad which made him look scared and mean."
"What did de big Injun do to you, Bushie?" inquired Burl, now lowering
the knife.
"He didn't do nothing to me but look ugly at me, when this one would be
toting me on his back across the creeks and up the hills."
"Which one uf de varmints was it, Bushie, dat gobbled you up frum de
corn-fiel' fence, back yander?"
"That one," with a look toward the dead savage. "This one," with a nod
toward the young brave, "didn't want him to do it, I know he didn't,
because he walked on by talking to the other and shaking his head. And
when the other got tired of toting me and wanted to kill me, then it was
that this one ran up and took me away from him. Then he led me by the
hand till I got tired, then toted me on his back till I got rested. And
that's the way he was doing all the time. And when I got so tired and
sleepy I couldn't walk any longer, he took me up in his arms and carried
me so far, I don't know how far, through the dark woods. Then when they
stopped he gave me something to eat and made me a bed of pawpaw limbs,
and laid me down to sleep and slept by my side. And all the time he
wouldn't let the others come a-nigh me. And see here, Burl, what he gave
me," flourishing his old stone hatchet with a new handle before the eyes
of the still incredulous Burlman Reynolds. "And this, too," displaying
his little coon-skin cap, all splendid with the glory of the war-bird.
And with these visible proofs to back it, Bushie wound up his eloquent
little appeal.
"Did de young Injun shoot de eagle down yesterday whar you got dem
fedders?"
"Yes, and put them in my cap this morning."
The black hunter glanced over his shoulder to get a glimpse of the young
brave's lower limbs and reaessure himself that this was the one who had
left the slender foot-prints along the trail, side by side with which
had always appeared those of the boy. Slowly then rose the victor to his
feet, and like a black Colossus, standing astride his prostrate foe,
remained for many moments profoundly silent, as if lost in thought, and
uncertain, under circumstances so unexpected and peculiar, what course
he should pursue.
Never, since that unhappy night two years ago, had he lifted his hand
against an Indian; but that remembrance of his master's cruel death,
with the wail of the widowed mother and her fatherless child, had risen
before him, making his aim the surer, his blow the heavier. But here was
a new experience, calling for a new course of action. True was it that
his old master had been inhumanly treated by this people, but no less
true that the life of his young master had been preserved, in a signal
manner, too, by one of the same hated race. If he had owed vengeance for
the first, did he not now owe gratitude for the last? If, up to this
moment, he had been swift to meet the claims of vengeance, should he not
now be as ready to meet the claims of gratitude? The lion of him was
fast going to sleep within him; the Newfoundland of him was fast
becoming awake. And looking down at the young brave between his feet,
Burl attentively scanned him.
On hearing the voice of entreaty at his side, the young Indian had
turned his eyes from the face of our big black hero, and perceiving by
the boy's looks, tones, and gestures that an appeal was making in his
behalf, had fixed them earnestly on the face of our little white hero,
as if willing to look there for mercy, though disdaining to ask it of
the giant victor under whose grasp he lay. Now that he had taken a good
long look at him, Burl could not help being in some sort struck with the
wild and singular beauty of the young brave's whole appearance. Then
came back to his remembrance the pitying, good-humored smile, with which
the little captive had been regarded, as they had sat so sociably
chatting together on the log. Here the lion went fast asleep, and the
Newfoundland grew broad awake. Scratching his back with the knuckle of
his thumb, as was his habit in moments of perplexity, he at length
turned to his little master and broke the painful silence thus:
"An' is my little man shore de red varmint was good to him, an' toted
him on his back?"
"Yes, indeed, that I am!" replied the boy with glad eagerness, now that
he saw the light of mercy beginning to shine in the victor's eye. "And
if you don't let him up, I'll bellow like a buffalo-bull, so I will; and
won't never love you no more, so I won't." Generous little runaway.
"An' would my little man like fur us to take de young Injun home wid
us?"
"Yes, indeed, that I would!" The little man was delighted at the
thought, but immediately added, "If he would like to go." Considerate
little runaway.
"An' s'posin' ef he wouldn't; what den?"
"Then let him go home to his mother." Filial little runaway.
"I yi, my larky!" cried the Fighting Nigger, with an emphatic snap of
finger and thumb, then added: "But Bushie, why didn't you holler fur me
when de dead varmint ober yander gobbled you up?"
"Because he slipped up behind me while I was watching the squirrels and
crows, and before I knew it clapped his hand over my mouth."
"Ah, Bushrod, Bushrod!" with a sad shake of the head; "didn't I tole you
dar's Injuns in de woods wid stickin' knives an' splittin' tomahawks fur
bad little boys as don't mind der mudders an' runs away frum home an'
hain't got nothin' to say fur 'emselves but beca'se? Heh, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did!" acknowledging the fact with sheepish frankness.
"Well, ef I let dis young Injun up, will you eber do de like ag'in--run
away wid de red varmints an' make yo'r pore mudder mizzible?"
"No, indeed; that I won't! 'Indeed, and double 'deed,' I won't!" his
eyes now filling with tears. Remorseful little runaway.
"Lef' her settin' dar, I did, at de doo'," continued Burl, now
modulating his voice into a sort of dolorous tune: "pore mudder all by
herself at de doo'. Couldn't speak a word, couldn't walk a step, so
mizzible--so onsituwated, fur dar she's a-settin' yit, I know, a-lookin'
an' a-lookin', a-prayin' an' a-prayin', to see her pore ol' nigger
comin' home a totein' her pore little boy on his back. How could you,
Bushie, how could you leave yo' pore mudder so onsituwated? I wouldn't
be 'stonished----"
"O don't, Burl! Please don't; it hurts me so--it nearly kills me!" And
with the loved pictures of home--the motherly face, with its white cap;
the mother's bed, with his own little trundle-bed underneath; the table,
with its white cloth folded and laid upon it; the hickory-bound cedar
water-bucket, with its crooked handled gourd; the red corner-cupboard,
with its store of Johnny-cakes and cold potatoes for quiet enjoyment
between meals; old Cornwallis; the red rooster; the speckled hen; the
yellow tomcat--with all these loved images passing with sudden vividness
before his remembrance at the sound of the old home voice in that lonely
place, the delinquent Bushie, now thoroughly penitent, lifted up his
voice and wept aloud. "The little sinner had come to his milk." Yes,
though a runaway, he had in him the good, sound stuff for making the
good, sound man. Burl remained silent for some moments, that wholesome
repentance might have its way and start the penitent toward the better
life; then, making a big pretense of yielding the point, and wishing to
hide, under a show of obedience to his baby superior, what he deemed an
unwarrior-like weakness of feeling, he wound up the matter thus: "Well,
Bushie, dar's reason in all things. You's my little marster, I's yo' ol'
nigger. Bein' yo' ol' nigger, I mus' do what my little marster tells me
to do, an' let de young Injun up. But mind you now, I'm doin' it beca'se
he was good to my little marster. But who'd a thought it was in de red
rubbish to do de like?" And with this closing observation, spoken in an
under-tone, and meant only for the private ear of Burlman Rennuls, the
Fighting Nigger stepped from over the prostrate foe, giving, as he did
so, a wide, upward wave of the hand, with a huge, upward nod of the
head, which said as plainly as ever had chivalry said it: "Vanquished
warrior, rise and live!"
The young Indian rose to his feet, and going directly up to his little
preserver, shook him with gentle earnestness by the hand, evincing in
the simple act and the look attending it the utmost thankfulness of
heart, mixed with respect and admiration. Then he went to the log,
against which still leaned a loaded rifle, and was picking it up when
Burl, suspecting treachery, sprung forward to frustrate the hostile
design. But too quick for him, the young savage gathering up the weapon
and wielding it in his right-hand, discharged it into the air. Then,
with grave composure, as though he had not noticed the movement of
alarm, he surrendered the empty rifle to his victor, in token of his
entire submission; though, as he did so, he pointed to Bushie, his
captive but the hour before, thus signifying that he wished to be
regarded as the prisoner of his little preserver.
Without seeming to know what he was doing, Burl took the rifle and,
resting it on the ground, stood motionless for many moments, staring
fixedly at the young Indian with a look of unqualified astonishment and
unmitigated bewilderment, as if his senses had told him something that
had given the lie to his leading and abiding conviction--that eternal
truth embodied in the words, "Dar's reason in all things." Burlman
Rennuls was in a fog; the Fighting Nigger was in a fog; in a fog was the
entire man of Big Black Burl.