TODD'S PONY BRINGS BACK THE NEWS.
Carried away by the enthusiasm and excitement of the moment, Todd did
not in the least realize what he was doing, or remember that he was
disobeying his brother's clearly expressed orders. He only knew that the
first deer he had ever seen alive and in their native haunts were
scampering away from him, and that it seemed just then as though nothing
in the world could compare in importance with getting one of them.
So, bending low in the saddle and firing as he rode, he spurred his
broncho pony to frantic exertions, and dashed away up the ravine after
the flying animals. Several others of the party spurred after the boy as
though to join in the exciting chase; but after a short run, either
because they remembered their chief's orders or because they found
themselves hopelessly left behind, they returned to the train, and its
slow line of march was resumed.
More than five minutes elapsed after Todd was lost to view behind a
sharp bend of the ravine before Mortimer Chalmers, attracted by the
sound of firing, hastened back to learn the cause of disturbance. When
it was explained his face darkened, though more with anxiety than anger,
and he ordered the party to go into camp where they were, there to await
his return. Then calling to one of the best mounted of his assistants to
see that his canteen was full of water and to follow him, the chief of
the party clapped spurs to his own horse, and set off up the ravine in
the direction taken by his impetuous young brother.
Until nearly sunset of the following day did the party in camp await,
with ever-increasing anxiety, the return of those who had thus left
them. Then their leader and his companion rode wearily back into the
valley. They were haggard, covered almost beyond recognition with the
dust of desert sands, and utterly exhausted, while their steeds were
ready to drop with thirst and fatigue.
Mortimer Chalmers's first words announced the failure of his search, for
as he entered camp he asked, "Has the boy come back?" Upon being
answered in the negative, a look of utter despair settled over the man's
face, though he turned away to hide it from the pitying gaze of his men.
From his companion it was learned that when, on the preceding day, they
had emerged from the ravine, they found themselves on a vast plain of
shifting sands, void of vegetation and dotted with great fortresslike
mesas or lofty bluffs of the most vivid and varied coloring. In the
distance they had descried a rider whom they believed to be Todd, but
though they fired their rifles and waved sombreros to attract his
attention, he failed either to see them or took no notice of their
signals, and a few seconds later disappeared behind a distant butte.
Hastening to that point, they found and followed his trail until it was
lost in the wind-blown sands. Even then they kept on in the same general
direction, firing their rifles at short intervals, until darkness
compelled a halt. During the long cheerless night, without fire or food,
and comforted by only a few mouthfuls of water from their canteens, they
still fired occasional shots, but without receiving any answer.
At daybreak they were again in the saddle and moving in a great sweeping
arc that embraced many miles of the terrible desert, back toward the
river. Until reaching it they had hoped against hope that the missing
lad might in some way have been led back to the point from which he had
started. Now, however, there was no doubt that he was indeed lost in
that fearful wilderness of sand and towering rocks.
This was the opinion of the whole party; but though it was fully shared
by Mortimer Chalmers, he was off again before daylight of the following
morning, accompanied by five of his most experienced men. These were to
explore the desert by twos in different directions, as far as their
strength and that of their animals would allow them to penetrate, though
on no account were they to remain from camp longer than two days.
This expedition was as fruitless as the first, and when on the second
evening the six searchers returned to camp empty-handed there was no
longer a doubt but that poor Todd, lost and bewildered, had wandered
beyond recovery, and met his death amid the horrors of the Painted
Desert.
Although there was no longer any hope that he would ever again be seen
alive, the party remained encamped at that place another day before
moving on, and scouts were kept constantly posted along the edge of the
plateau, whence they could command a great sweep of the interior country
in case any tidings of the lost one should be miraculously wafted in
that direction.
Even when the sad little camp was finally broken and the expedition
resumed its melancholy march down the valley of the muddy river, these
same scouts followed the edge of the bluffs, though often being obliged
to make long and fatiguing detours to head precipitous cañons.
In this manner the party had proceeded but a few miles when Mortimer
Chalmers, who, alone with his grief and self-accusing reflections, rode
in advance, was seen to suddenly clap spurs to his horse and dash off
down the valley. He had discovered a riderless pony grazing on the
coarse herbage of the bottom, and was filled with a momentary hope that
by some means his dearly loved brother might after all have found his
way back to the river.
When the others overtook him they at once recognized the animal which
was cropping the tough grasses with starving avidity as the broncho that
had borne Todd Chalmers from their sight six days before. Its belly was
bloated with water, of which it had evidently drunk a prodigious
quantity, but it was otherwise gaunt from hunger. It still wore a broken
bridle, and the saddle was found at no great distance away. To this were
still attached the rifle, now broken, the roll of blankets, soiled and
torn, and the empty canteen, that had belonged to the poor lad, of whose
fate they brought melancholy tidings. A fragment of picket-rope still
remained attached to the pony's neck, but its frayed end, worn with long
dragging through sand and over rocks, showed that the animal must have
traversed many miles of desert since the time when last he bore his
young master.
The broncho's trail was discovered and followed to the distant brow of
the bluffs, but beyond that it had been obliterated by wind-swept sands,
and offered no further clew.
As no one of the party would ever care to use that broken saddle, and as
it was all that was left to them of the merry lad who was lost, they
buried it where they found it, with all its accoutrements. When they
turned silently from the little mound of earth that covered it, all felt
with Mortimer Chalmers as though they were leaving the grave of his
light-hearted, hot-headed, affectionate, and impetuous young brother.
And now let us see what had really become of the lad whom his recent
comrades mourned so sincerely, and who we left sometime since gazing
anxiously at the gaudily decked monuments of the Painted Desert.
When in his thoughtless race after the coveted prize of a black-tailed
deer, Todd emerged from the ravine that led to the plateau, and gained a
wide range of vision, he was sorely disappointed to see the animals he
was pursuing skimming across the sands more than a mile away and
approaching a tall mesa, behind which he knew they would in another
moment disappear. He was about to give over the chase with a sigh of
disappointment, when, to his surprise, one of the fleeing deer seemed to
fall, though it almost immediately regained its feet and followed after
its companions.
"Hurrah!" shouted Todd, again urging his pony to the chase. "One of them
is wounded, and I'll have it yet. Mort will forgive me when I bring
fresh venison into camp."
Just before reaching a rocky buttress of the mesa the lad heard shots
behind him and, with a backward glance, saw two horsemen in hot pursuit.
One of them he knew to be his brother, and both of them were waving to
him to come back.
"I won't go without something to show for my hunt if I can help it,"
muttered the boy to himself, as he dashed around a corner of the rocky
wall, and also disappeared from view. He had hoped to find his wounded
deer there, but neither it nor the others were in sight, though he could
still distinguish their tracks. Following these, he was led through a
narrow and crooked valley that finally divided into several branches.
The deer had taken one of these that led sharply to the right amid a
confused mass of rocks.
"They are making a circuit back toward the river," thought the young
hunter, "and that suits me exactly, for I shall be able to reach it and
regain camp without being caught by Mort like a naughty child. That I
couldn't stand, and I would rather stay out all night than submit to
anything so humiliating."
Thus thinking, the lad continued to ride in the direction he thought the
deer had taken, though he could no longer distinguish their tracks. Nor
did he discover any sign of the wounded one, which for more than an hour
he expected to do with each moment. By this time he was beginning to
feel a little uneasy at not coming to the river toward which he was
confident he was circling. The speed of his pony was now reduced to a
walk, and Todd was greatly bewildered by the labyrinth of walls,
columns, and fantastic rock forms into which he had wandered.
With the waning day the sky became overcast, and a strong wind, blowing
in gusts, so shifted the desert sands, piling them into ridges and
whirling their eddies, that when the boy finally determined to retrace
his own trail he found, to his dismay, that even a few paces behind him
it had wholly disappeared. At this discovery the terrible knowledge that
he was lost came into his mind like a flash, and for a full minute he
sat stunned and motionless.
Then he pulled himself together, laughed huskily, and said aloud: "Don't
lose your head, old man. Keep cool. Camp right where you are until
daylight, and then climb the highest point you can find. From it you
will surely be able to get your bearings, for the river can't be more
than a mile away."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
BEAR-HUNTING.
BY CASPAR WHITNEY.
Bear-hunting varies according to the kind of bear you are hunting. If
black bear, it is rather tame sport, but if it is grizzly, cinnamon, or
silver-tip, as the several species of the grizzly are called, then it
becomes big-game hunting indeed, and is sport for only the most
experienced.
Grizzly-bear hunting is not boys' play. It is men's work, and only for
the most experienced at that; no boy should be permitted to go
grizzly-bear hunting, either alone or in the company of other boys, or
even in the company of most men who claim to be sportsmen.
No boy of mine should ever go after a grizzly unless he was accompanied
by a hunter whose nerves had been tried by "Old Ephraim," and whose
experience was undoubted. The grizzly is such an uncertain beast in his
temperament, and is so ferocious and so dangerous when once his ugly
temper is aroused, that it is not safe to take any liberties with him,
and it is certainly not safe for boys to take any chances about
venturing into his country. For this reason I do not think boys ought to
go bear-hunting, even for the black, in localities frequented by the
grizzly. As a rule, grizzly and black bear do not live in the same
localities, although in some parts of the Rocky Mountains, in Colorado
and New Mexico, I have killed both within twenty-five miles of each
other.
If, having your father's permission to hunt grizzly, you set out with an
experienced sportsman, the latter will advise you as to your rifle.
There are many different opinions on this rifle question. I have always
used a .45-90-300 or a .45-110-340, preferably the latter. The dangerous
feature of grizzly-hunting is the bear's wonderful vitality. If you were
certain, absolutely, of putting a ball through his brain every time you
fired at him, there would be no need of such concern as to your rifle,
for a much smaller calibre would answer the purpose equally as well as
the larger; but rarely are you in a position to put a ball into his
brain, even if you are a sufficiently expert shot to do so. You may fire
at 75, 100, or 150 yards--you will more often see him at the shorter
distance than at the longer--but the chances of your dropping him in his
tracks are not good. Occasionally you may do so, but not often. Now this
is the danger. When you put that bit of lead into the grizzly, no matter
how thoroughly it may do its work, most frequently "Old Ephraim" is
going to make a bee-line for you; and, what is more disquieting, he is
likely to sustain life long enough to reach you, unless meanwhile you
stop him. I know of a case where a grizzly was shot through the heart
twice at close range, and yet got to the hunter and fearfully injured
him before the bear fell dead.
I have seen many illustrations of the inefficacy of lighter charges of
powder, and known several instances where, had men using them been
alone, they would have fared very badly from the wrath of the grizzly.
My own experience has taught me that the heavy charge is desirable. I
certainly should not go after a grizzly with anything less than a
.45-90. That is why I have always advocated plenty of powder back of the
ball when you come to tackle "Old Ephraim." Lately a cartridge has been
put on the market, a .30-40, of smokeless powder, which is said to be
very killing. Theodore Roosevelt has used it on antelope, and tells me
that it does splendid execution--certainly as good as, if not better
than, any of the heavier charges. Archie Rogers, who is a noted
bear-hunter, also used the gun out West last season, and killed a bear
with it. These are two of the most experienced sportsmen in the country;
but a gun in the hands of Archie Rogers after grizzly is a very
different matter from its being in the hands of the ordinary sportsman,
to say nothing of a tyro. The next time I go after bear I shall take
along one of these guns and try it, but it seems to me it has not yet
had sufficient trial against the grizzly to warrant its being advised
for inexperienced hunters or for boys. The boy who reads this article
and starts for grizzly, and values my advice, will provide himself with
the old reliable .45-110-340. For black bear the .45-90 is sufficiently
powerful, and many rifles of smaller calibre have been used on this
member of the bruin family.
The best time to hunt bear is in the spring, when they have just come
out of their winter's holes, in which they have been sleeping away the
coldest months. They are then very hungry, and constantly on the move,
and to be seen in the open more than at any other season of the year.
This is the time, too, when their fur is long and silky, and of very
much better quality than later, for very soon after coming out of their
holes the fur becomes thinner and coarser. It is at this time of the
year that the bear is a meat-eater; and, in fact, he is almost any kind
of an eater, being so ravenous as to take what he can. If in the
neighborhood of a ranch, he will prey on the live-stock, particularly on
pigs and chickens. A few months later, when summer comes on, he goes up
from the foot-hills into the high mountain plateaus, where he lives on
vegetable matter, grasses, and weeds, and becomes a very diligent seeker
after beetles, and all the insect life that lives under stones and logs.
The true time of plenty for bear, and certainly when you are most likely
to get a shot at him, is in the last of the summer, during the berry
season. This is when you must hunt for him on the sloping sides of the
hills that are covered with berry bushes, and frequently they are so
absorbed in devouring the luscious fruit as to be rather easy of
approach, although do not get the idea it is too easy; a bear is never
easy to approach, and approach is only a small part of the game. Later
on in the autumn he again goes up on the high plateaus, where game is
plenty, and again becomes a meat-eater. When the winter sets in, and the
heavy snows come, he seeks a cavernous hole in the hill-side, or some
natural cave in the mountains, among rocks, where he remains sleeping
until spring.
It is very difficult to still hunt bear; in fact, it is the experience
of most hunters that bear have been more frequently come upon
unexpectedly when out hunting for other game. You will probably have to
make many trips before you see signs or before you get sight of a bear,
and yet again you are apt to go out and stumble on to one. It takes the
most careful hunting, because a bear, once aware of your presence in his
vicinity, is very difficult to approach; he is certain to secure a
position from which he can view an approaching enemy. And when you are
looking for bear be very careful how you go through brush. It is not
often a bear will charge you without your molesting him, unless it
happens to be a female who has cubs near by. But nevertheless, as I have
said, the grizzly is so uncertain in his temperament that he is just as
apt to charge you as not to do so; and, at any rate, it is best not to
run any chances, and therefore advisable to be very careful in going
through heavy brush or any place in which he might be lurking.
Bear-hunting is not popular with the average man who goes out with a
rifle, because reward is so long delayed; it takes lots of time and
plenty of patience and experience and skill to get your bear, and it is
not every hunter who has this combination.
[Illustration: A GRIZZLY AT BAY.]
Bear are baited, but I have never cared very much for that sort of
sport. It seems to me that to lay behind a stump awaiting the approach
of your victim to the bait you have put out to lure him takes all the
hunting out of it. You are simply there to kill, and all the pleasure of
pitting your woodcraft and skill against the animal is entirely lost.
See that your rifle is clean and in good working order, and be very
chary how you follow a wounded grizzly into cover. It is an old dodge of
"Ephraim's," when he does not attack openly, to slink into cover and lie
in wait for the hunter who rushes in after him in the thought that he is
retreating. Go slow; and do not do any hurried shooting. You should not
hunt grizzly unless you are a good shot; and being so, take careful aim
before you press the trigger. A painfully wounded grizzly is a dangerous
beast.
ARTIN THE KURD.
BY G. B. BURGIN.
I.
"I am not afraid of you," said the Rev. William P. Marsh. "You know very
well that I am an American missionary and that you dare not touch me."
Karin the son of Artog looked somewhat ruefully at Oglou the son of
Kizzil. "The infidel dog speaks truth," said he. "We must be careful, or
the Vali's soldiers will hear of it, and it will take much _bakshish_ to
free us. What shall we do with him?"
Before Oglou the son of Kizzil could reply, the Rev. William P. Marsh
took a small Bible from his pocket. "The subject of my discourse," he
remarked, tucking a horse-blanket over his feet to keep off the cold,
and comfortably resting his back against the side of the mountain--"the
subject of my discourse this evening will be on the sinfulness of taking
what does not belong to us. I shall be enabled to put more vigor into my
remarks from the fact that you have robbed me of all my money, have
likewise stolen my horse and saddle-bags. As I came to this country just
to look after your miserable souls, it's pretty mean of you. However, we
will now consider the subject in its primary aspects; thence we will
touch upon original sin; and after that I propose to present for your
prayerful consideration the subject of Kurdish sin, which seems to be a
pretty big variety in itself."
He deliberately turned over the leaves of his well-thumbed Bible in
search of an appropriate text for these two ruffians who had waylaid and
robbed him within five miles of Kharput. Karin the son of Artog looked
irresolutely at Oglou the son of Kizzil.
"It would be simpler to cut this missionary pig's throat," he suggested,
stroking his long mustache. "Perhaps the Vali would be only too glad to
get rid of him."
"I should like to; I have not killed any one for a week," rejoined Oglou
the son of Kizzil, with much fervor. "But--" He hesitated.
The missionary did not understand Kurdish, and spoke in Armenian. "It
would be more becoming," he remarked, "for you to sit down and listen to
me without interruption. You may never have such another chance."
The quick eyes of Karin the son of Artog caught a glimmer of arms in the
plain below them. All around the mountain pass was flecked with snow.
"Proclaimed by all the trumpets of the sky," fresh masses began to fall.
Their own village was a good many miles away. This mad hodga would
continue to preach until he talked them to death. The Turkish zaptiehs,
winding slowly up from the plain below, might ask inconvenient questions
and appropriate all the plunder.
"After all, it is only four liras," suggested Oglou the son of Kizzil.
"If we cut his throat, the zaptiehs will come after us, and our horses
are done up. Better tell him we repent and give him back the money."
"When Allah, the All Great, has given us this money," sententiously said
Karin the son of Artog, "it is showing ourselves thankless to throw it
aside. But--perhaps it is as well. We can always catch him again when
there aren't any zaptiehs about. Let us repent and get away before we
are caught by these sons of burnt mothers, the zaptiehs."
Hence it was the Rev. William P. Marsh felt that his efforts at
conversion had been suddenly blessed. "Maybe I was a bit hard on you,"
he said, affably, as the two Kurds helped him into the saddle. "If ever
you show yourselves in Kharput, just come and see me and let me know how
you're getting on. I don't want either of you to backslide after this
act of grace, for I know how badly you must feel at giving back this
money. I could see just now that nothing but the fear of the Lord
prevented you from cutting my throat. If that stops you from cutting
your neighbors' throats in your usual hasty fashion, you'll be very glad
you tried to rob me by the way, and were brought to repentance. Now
here's this Bible of mine, beautifully printed in Armenian. Maybe some
one could read it to you when you feel inclined to go out and plunder
your neighbors after the fashion of these parts. If you like to have it
just say so, and I'll make you a present of it."
"Some day we will bring it back to you, Effendi," obsequiously said
Karin the son of Artog, as the two picturesque-looking villains helped
the infirm old missionary into the saddle. "Where is your house?"
"By the big college; you can't mistake it," said the old missionary,
cheerfully. "Just ask for me, and you shall have a square meal first and
some square truth afterwards. But I must get on." He jogged his patient
old horse with one spurless heel, and shuffled away in the direction of
Kharput, lifting up his voice in a hymn of praise as he disappeared in
the gathering night.
Karin the son of Artog and Oglou the son of Kizzil watched the receding
old man with a grin. "Four liras!" said the one. "Four liras!" echoed
the other. "Now for the zaptiehs." The two cronies turned in the
direction of the approaching force, but it was not to be seen.
"They've turned off, and are not coming up the mountain at all,"
mournfully suggested Karin the son of Artog.
"Oh, if we had only known, sons of dead asses that we are!" wrathfully
replied Oglou the son of Kizzil.
"We would have cut his throat and kept the money," they added,
simultaneously.
But the good old missionary jogged up the steep incline to Kharput,
feeling that he had not lived in vain, and that the mission report for
that year of grace, 1880, would contain the first authentic instance of
the sudden conversion to Christianity of two Kurd desperadoes.
"Allah is with him" (an Eastern equivalent for stating that a man is
mad), said Karin the son of Artog, leaping on his wiry pony and digging
his shovel-shaped stirrups into its hairy sides.
"We must have been mad too," suggested Oglou the son of Kizzil, as he
galloped down the mountain-side after his friend, "to give him back four
liras when I would have cut his throat for a medjidieh!"
II.
[Illustration: HE MADE A VICIOUS THRUST AT HIS FRIEND'S HEART.]
A few days later Karin the son of Artog had a slight difference of
opinion with Oglou the son of Kizzil. No one knew how the quarrel
originated, but it ended in Karin the son of Artog drawing an extremely
sharp and crooked sword and rushing upon Oglou the son of Kizzil with
the indecorous observation that he would slice out his liver. Although
Karin the son of Artog was theoretically acquainted with the position of
the human liver he had no practical knowledge of the fact, and,
consequently, made a vicious thrust at his old friend's heart.
Fortunately for Oglou the son of Kizzil, the point of the sword caught
in the cover of the old missionary's Bible, and whilst Karin the son of
Artog futilely endeavored to get it out again, Oglou the son of Kizzil,
with the neat and effective back-stroke which was his one vanity, cut
off the head of Karin the son of Artog. Oglou the son of Kizzil had
placed the Bible over his heart as an amulet; hence, this providential
instance of its powers more than ever convinced him of its utility as a
charm to ward off misfortune. However this may have been, it could not
protect the son of Kizzil from the somewhat inopportune attentions of
his late friend's clan. The relations, with that blind haste which
generally distinguishes the actions of relatives, promptly assumed that
Oglou the son of Kizzil had been the aggressor, and demanded
"blood-money." Here again arose another difference of opinion. Oglou the
son of Kizzil, whilst willing to testify to the admirable qualities of
his late friend Karin the son of Artog, felt inclined to rate those
qualities at a lower market value than seemed becoming to the dead
man's friends. Three liras and a pony seemed to Oglou the son of Kizzil
an adequate tribute to the virtues of the defunct warrior. He was
willing, as a concession to sentiment, to throw in a praying-carpet with
the pony, but was not prepared to do more. As a tribute to old
friendship, however, he would marry the widow and take over the
household. To this ultimatum the widow, through the medium of a
white-haired old chief, her father, replied that Oglou the son of Kizzil
had insulted her by supposing that she could ever have married a man
whose "blood-money" would scarcely suffice for the funeral expenses, and
that it would be well, in view of the circumstances, for Oglou the son
of Kizzil to put his house in order and bid farewell to a world which he
had too long disgraced by his presence.
With feminine unfairness, the widow of Karin the son of Artog did not
give Oglou the son of Kizzil a start, for his relations were scattered
about on different plundering expeditions, and were much too busy to
attend to their kinsman's sudden call for aid. One morning, that darkest
hour before the dawn in which ill deeds are done, Oglou the son of
Kizzil was awakened by a smell of burning thatch.
"Ugh!" he grunted, feeling to see whether his yataghan was in order.
"She's set her relations on to me. I should like to marry that woman. I
wonder how many of them are outside."
Whilst he was still pondering, a bullet came through the wall of the
hut, and scattered little pellets of mud all round. This seemed to Oglou
the son of Kizzil a hint that it was about time for him to be off. With
characteristic forethought he had tethered his pony in the hut. Picking
up his small one-year-old son, the joy of his heart and the pride of his
eyes, Oglou the son of Kizzil mounted his pony, rushed through the crazy
door, tumbling against a crowd of Kurds who were waiting to receive him,
and the next moment was madly galloping through the darkness in the
direction of Kharput.
Recovering from their momentary panic, the relations of Karin the son of
Artog charged after their former friend, headed by the widow, who, lance
in hand and mounted _en cavalier_, resolved to revenge the slights which
her pride had suffered. But Oglou the son of Kizzil had a good pony, the
shovel edges of his stirrups were sharp enough to rake even that
much-enduring animal's hide, and he sped up the mountain, guiding the
animal with his knees, holding his little son on the saddle before him
with one hand, and brandishing his yataghan with the other, as if he
were slicing an imaginary foe with the same famous stroke which had
killed Karin the son of Artog.
But the way was long, the ascent steep, and the one-year-old Artin, so
rudely awakened from slumber, began to cry.
"Hush, little warrior," said his father, tenderly. "Little sheep's
heart, be still."
As they toiled up the steep mountain path, the wiry pony going at each
sudden rise in the broken ground with an impetuous rush, the clatter of
falling stones served as a guide to the pursuers, and they came on,
headed by the widow, brandishing her husband's lance.
"I shall have to turn and fight them presently," said Oglou to his son.
"They'll never let me alone now."
Suddenly he gave a wild yell, and mercilessly prodded the pony.
"The house next the college! That is the place. Inshallah, I shall have
time to get there and back to the top of the pass before they catch up
with me. But unless I can get back in time I'm done for. It all depends
upon the pony."
In answer to this appeal the gallant little beast bounded up the
precipitous path like a wild goat. The piercing shriek of the widow died
away, and the loud breathing of the pony, as he neared the top of the
pass alone, broke the stillness. Once on the level ground, Oglou the son
of Kizzil gave a peculiar cry, and the pony skimmed along, his belly
almost touching the earth.
Hastily taking off his thick lamb-skin coat, Oglou the son of Kizzil
wrapped it round the child, tied the missionary's Bible to his breast,
sprang from his pony, hammered vigorously on the door of a little house
next the college, and left the boy there. When the Rev. William P. Marsh
opened the window, Oglou the son of Kizzil was already moving away.
"What does the rascal mean by having religious doubts at this hour of
the morning," grumbled the good missionary, preparing to shut down the
window. "Perhaps he has brought back the Bible I gave him."
Little Artin, snugly wrapped up in the lamb-skin, rolled off the
door-step and began to howl. "When a baby howls," thought the good
missionary, "the best thing is to call one's wife." He awoke his better
half and explained the circumstances to her. "What would you advise me
to do?" he inquired, as she sat up in bed.
"Fetch the child, and bring it up to our warm bed," she said, promptly.
"Fancy wasting all this time, and on such a bitter night."
As Oglou the son of Kizzil reached the top of the pass, the gray dawn
began to break. Only one of his pursuers was in sight; whereupon, Oglou
the son of Kizzil urged the tired pony forward, took a firmer grip of
his yataghan, and prepared to demolish his plucky adversary.
"Stop," shouted the widow of Karin the son of Artog. "I've changed my
mind; a live donkey is better than a dead lion. Kill your son, and I
will marry you. You shall be the head of our tribe."
"You are stronger than Rustam, fairer than a gazelle," said Oglou the
son of Kizzil. "Inshallah, but it is _kismet_. My son dropped over the
precipice as I rode along."
And they went back together.
III.
Sixteen years later Oglou the son of Kizzil, much stouter and a little
dirtier than of yore, cautiously rose from his couch without awakening
his spouse, slipped out from the hut, and rode swiftly away through the
darkness towards Kharput. Oglou the son of Kizzil was much troubled, for
his interests lay in different directions. The little boy Artin had
grown up to be a fine stalwart lad, with a strong vocation for the
ministry, and an equally strong affection for the old cutthroat, who
dare not openly acknowledge his son. Three or four times a year the Kurd
galloped up to Kharput, whistled beneath his son's window, and the two
would ride away together, the lad longing for the wild life of his
father's folk, and yet restrained by his knowledge that he would one day
be called to minister to them.
On this particular night Oglou the son of Kizzil was much perturbed.
"These Armenian pigs will all be slaughtered to-morrow like sheep," he
said. "It is the Sultan's will. We begin early in the morning, and the
looting is to last for three days. But if the old hodga hears of it, he
will go to the Vali, and the Vali will know that he has been betrayed."
Then young Artin thought for a moment. "Is there no way of stopping the
massacre?" he asked. "You know people think I am an Armenian."
Oglou the son of Kizzil shrugged his shoulders. "There will be much
plunder. We shall walk our horses through blood," he said, as if that
settled the matter.
"And what shall I do?" inquired Artin.
"If the hodgas (schoolmasters) keep within their houses they will be
safe; but we shall kill all their servants, and not leave an Armenian
alive in the place, the dogs."
Artin knew that it would be useless to argue with the old robber, his
father. "I suppose I had better get away with Mr. Marsh, or else take
refuge with the British Consul at Sivas? He is staying with Mr. Marsh,
but leaves to-morrow."
"It is the will of Allah that these dogs should die the death," said the
Kurd, with pious resignation for other people's sufferings. "Joy of my
heart, get away early in the morning, or you might be hurt when we
attack the place. If we didn't obey orders we should have the troops let
loose on us; and even my wife is afraid of that."
He embraced Artin fondly, shook his shaggy hair, and galloped swiftly
away, leaving the young man in a brown study. Artin went back to the
college, roused up every slumbering pupil, and hunted among the Consul's
travelling things for one particular article. When Mr. Marsh came down
to breakfast, three hours later, there were fifteen thousand Armenians
huddled together within the Mission walls.
"What does this all mean?" asked the English Consul, as he entered the
breakfast-room. "I can hear firing in the town."
"The Sultan has ordered a massacre of all the Armenians to be found
here," said Artin, quietly. "The Kurds are beginning now."
"I'll go to the Vali," cried Mr. Marsh, starting up in horror.
"It is no good," said Artin, with a touch of fatalism. "What will be,
will be. I have done all I could. We have several thousands here
already."
"But these cutthroat scoundrels will soon break into the college
grounds," said the Consul. "Why didn't you warn people to fly, if you
knew what was coming?"
"It was too late. There was only one thing to be done."
"And that was--?"
"To collect as many as the place would hold."
"Of course you will interfere to protect these poor people," suggested
Mr. Marsh to the Consul.
"I have no instructions," said the Consul. "My action might bring about
a war between Turkey and England."
"But if you do not, you will have the blood of thousands of innocent
people on your soul;" and the good missionary paced the room in his
agitation. "Then you must act!"
"The Consul has already interfered," said Artin.
"What do you mean?" testily asked the Consul.
"The English flag is flying from the top of the college," said Artin. "I
took it out of your baggage and put it up. Now, for the honor of your
country, you can't haul it down again."
The Consul's face cleared. "It's a fearful responsibility you've forced
on me."
Accompanied by Mr. Marsh and Artin, he went into the court-yard. The
Kurds were already beginning to batter in the gates.
The gates soon came down with a crash, the Turkish regulars outside
looking on with an amused grin, and licking their lips at the thought of
what was to follow.
But the English Consul strode out through the gates. He was unarmed, and
his life hung on a thread. Then a Turkish officer came forward.
"Effendi, this is no business of yours. You had better leave."
The Consul pointed to the British flag flying from the college tower.
"Whilst that flag is flying here," he said, proudly, "this is English
ground. Now enter if you dare."
After a hurried consultation with the Turkish officer the disappointed
Kurds drew off, and rode into the town to continue their butchery.
"I did all I could directly I knew what was going on," said Artin the
Kurd, to Mr. Marsh the American.
The missionary put his hand affectionately on the lad's shoulder. "To
think," he mused--"to think that one small Bible should have been the
means of saving the lives of all this multitude of people! If your
father hadn't carried that Bible, his enemy's sword would have pierced
his heart, and he would never have brought you here. Now we must try to
feed the women and children until this slaughter ceases."
But Oglou the son of Kizzil, in the very act of shearing off an
Armenian's head with his characteristic back stroke, sighed as if all
the savor of slaughter had gone out of him. "Alas that I should raise up
seed for the wife of mine enemy, and my own son rides not at his
father's bridle-hand!"
A LOYAL TRAITOR.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.