Herbert and his companion drew near the forest cabin, which had been the
home of the former, without a suspicion that George Melville was in such
dire peril. The boy was, indeed, thinking of him, but it was rather of
the satisfaction his employer would feel at his good fortune.
“Somehow I feel in a great hurry to get there, Jack,” said Herbert. “I
shall enjoy telling Mr. Melville of my good luck.”
“He's a fine chap, that Melville,” said Jack Holden, meaning no
disrespect by this unceremonious fashion of speech.
“That he is! He's the best friend I ever had, Jack,” returned Herbert,
warmly.
“It's a pity he's ailing.”
“Oh, he's much stronger than he was when he came out here. All the
unfavorable symptoms have disappeared.”
“Maybe he'll outgrow it. I had an uncle that was given up to die of
consumption, when he was about Melville's age, and he died only last
year at the age of seventy-five.”
“That must have been slow consumption, Jack,” said Herbert, smiling.
“If Mr. Melville can live as long as that, I think neither he nor his
friends will have reason to complain.”
“Is he so rich, lad?”
“I don't know how rich, but I know he has plenty of money. How much
power a rich man has,” said Herbert, musingly. “Now, Mr. Melville has
changed my whole life for me. When I first met him I was working for
three dollars a week. Now I am worth twelve thousand dollars!”
Herbert repeated this with a beaming face. The good news had not lost
the freshness of novelty. There was so much that he could do now that
he was comparatively rich. To do Herbert justice, it was not of himself
principally that he thought. It was sweet to reflect that he could bring
peace, and joy, and independence to his mother. After all, it is the
happiness we confer that brings us the truest enjoyment. The selfish man
who eats and drinks and lodges like a prince, but is unwilling to share
his abundance with others, knows not what he loses. Even boys and girls
may try the experiment for themselves, for one does not need to be rich
to give pleasure to others.
“Come, Jack, let us ride faster; I am in a hurry,” said Herbert, when
they were perhaps a quarter of a mile distant from the cabin.
They emerged from the forest, and could now see the cottage and its
surroundings. They saw something that almost paralyzed them.
George Melville, with a rope round his neck, stood beneath a tree. Col.
Warner was up in the tree swinging the rope over a branch, while Brown,
big, burly and brutal, pinioned the helpless young man in his strong
arms.
“Good heavens! Do you see that?” exclaimed Herbert. “It is the road
agents. Quick, or we shall be too late!”
Jack had seen. He had not only seen, but he had already acted. Quick
as thought he raised his weapon, and covered Brown. There was a sharp
report, and the burly ruffian fell, his heart pierced by the unerring
bullet.
Herbert dashed forward, and, seizing the rope, released his friend.
“Thank Heaven, Herbert! You have saved my life!” murmured Melville, in
tones of heartfelt gratitude.
“There's another of them!” exclaimed Jack Holden, looking up into the
tree, and he raised his gun once more.
“Don't shoot!” exclaimed the man, whom we know best as Col. Warner;
“I'll come down.”
So he did, but not in the manner he expected. In his flurry, for he was
not a brave man, outlaw though he was, he lost his hold and fell at the
feet of Holden.
“What shall we do with him, Mr. Melville?” asked Jack. “He deserves to
die.”
“Don't kill him! Bind him, and give him up to the authorities.”
“I hate to let him off so easy,” said Jack, but he did as Melville
wished. But the colonel had a short reprieve. On his way to jail, a
bullet from some unknown assailant pierced his temple, and Jerry Lane,
the notorious road agent, died, as he had lived, by violence.