NEAR TO DEATH’S DOOR.
For a minute none of the three said a word, then Señor Cisneros
suggested that perhaps the lad had remained behind.
“No. That’s not his way. He would be with us unless hurt, or——”
Hope-Jones could not find the word for the alternative; his voice
choked. “Let’s hurry back,” he added.
They did so, going as fast as when in pursuit of the enemy, and not
stopping until they had reached the fort. Outside they saw their boy
companion lying beside a large stone not a hundred yards from the
opening. An arrow was fastened in his breast.
Hope-Jones dropped on his knees. Ferguson reached over to pull out the
arrow, but was restrained by the captain.
“Don’t,” he said. “It might cause a fatal hemorrhage if there is not one
already. Wait until we see how far it has entered;” and he commenced
unfastening Harvey’s coat, which had been buttoned close, that it might
not impede his action.
“I fear it has reached his heart,” said the Englishman, in a whisper.
“See, it penetrated the left side.”
“His hands are cold,” Ferguson added. “I cannot feel the pulse.”
All three were quite pale and were trembling. It seemed probable that
life had left the boy’s body.
“Bring some water, quickly,” said the captain. “I will do the best I
can.”
Ferguson darted off to the fort and returned at once with the skin bag
filled.
“Help me turn him over. There, that’s right; not too much,” and the
captain loosened another button, then carefully inserted his hand
beneath the coat. He felt in the region where the arrow had penetrated,
and touching the shaft moved his fingers cautiously downward. Then a
puzzled expression came over his face, and he muttered: “Something hard.
I don’t quite understand. There isn’t any blood.”
He withdrew his hand, looked at it, then inserted it again and caught
the shaft firmly. The dart turned to one side, but did not come out. The
captain jumped to his feet.
“That arrow isn’t in Harvey’s body!” he exclaimed. “It’s fast in
something that he has in the pocket of his flannel shirt. He’s fainted;
got a knock on his head or something. Throw some water on his face!”
Ferguson did as directed, and Harvey immediately sat upright, then began
pawing the air, as if warding off a blow, and tried to rise to his feet.
Desisting suddenly from this effort he exclaimed: “What’s all the rumpus
about? And—and—where are the Majeronas?”
Ferguson and Hope-Jones were too overjoyed to speak. They clapped the
boy on the back, rubbed his arms, and asked him where he was hurt. For
reply he put his hand to his head, and they found there another lump.
“I stumbled, I guess, and struck my head,” he said. “I can remember
falling, and I saw a lot of stars and—but say, where are the savages?”
“Yes; and when you were falling, this was shot into you.” The captain
pointed to the arrow, which was drooping, but still was held firmly.
Harvey looked at it in surprise, then reached under his coat. As he
touched the shaft his cheeks turned a fiery red. He endeavored to
withdraw the dart by pulling at it from the outside, but it would not
come, so Ferguson bent down and helped him unfasten the remaining
buttons of his coat and remove the garment. But even with the weight of
that on the shaft, the arrow held firmly to the something that was in
Harvey’s pocket, and he was at last compelled to cut the flannel. Then
all saw that the point was embedded firmly in a pincushion, no larger
than a plum, a pincushion well stuffed with cotton and which had barred
the way to the boy’s heart.
“How on earth did you happen to be carrying such a thing in your
pocket?” asked Hope-Jones.
He did not answer. He was looking at the little article, and his face
turned pale as he thought of his narrow escape from death; and at the
same time he thought of those he had left behind and of the giver of
that which had so strangely saved his life, Señorita Bella Caceras,
niece of the famous Captain Grau, who, the evening before the departure
of the three from Callao, had made this little present to the lad, that
he might have some token to carry with him into the wilds of Peru. Thus
a girl’s thoughtful gift and a boy’s romantic manner of carrying the
keepsake had resulted in the arrest of a Majerona arrow, aimed at the
heart.
He did not explain all this to his companions, who pressed closer,
congratulating him and patting him on the back, for every moment they
realized more and more what a narrow escape he had had; no, he kept his
secret and later he sewed up the pocket, replaced the little pincushion,
and vowed that he would carry it with him so long as he lived. He also
saved the arrow, so that when he returned to Callao he could present it
to the señorita.
The men attempted to assist him into the fort, but Harvey protested that
he was as well and as able to be about as ever in his life.
“Then let’s start for the white rock,” said Ferguson.
“No, indeed,” was Señor Cisneros’s rejoinder. “I for one favor a good
rest.”
“Perhaps that would be a better plan.”
“Indeed it would,” assented Hope-Jones. “I confess that I am played
out.”
“First, let’s give these bodies some sort of burial,” said the Peruvian,
and he pointed to the corpses that were strewn over the ground.
They dug a trench with their picks, and gathering the dead Majeronas
from near the fort and from several hundred yards away, they placed them
in the shallow opening and covered them with earth. Fourteen were thus
interred. How many savages had been wounded they never knew. A few of
those who had been struck by bullets and not killed during the battle,
had been helped away by their comrades; others, who were mortally
wounded, had been killed, as was the custom of the tribe.