JOHNNY STARK.
Norman McNiel did not possess an excitable nature, and his thoughts did
not flow with that acute swiftness so common to some persons, but he
more than made up for this by a clearer comprehension of matters. The
sight of the wildcat, preparing to give its fatal spring, did not rob
him of his presence of mind, though he realised that in a hand-to-hand
encounter with the brute he was likely to become its victim. Still,
the possibility of deserting Rilma was something he did not for a
moment consider. He would defend her until the last. Accordingly, as
the second growl of the aroused animal grated harshly on his ears, he
caught his gun by its barrel and stood ready to use it as a club.
Then the long tail of the creature lashed its sides, and its lissom
form shot toward him like a cannon ball. But, as the wildcat left its
perch, there was a flash so near Norman’s head that he was almost
blinded, and the report of a firearm rang out. Another and louder
growl came from the catamount, as it fell at his feet in the throes of
death.
“Look out she don’t get her claws on you!” cried a voice at his elbow,
a warning Norman quickly obeyed, pulling Rilma away with him.
“She dies hard,” affirmed the newcomer, advancing to the side of
Norman, “but I reckon that lead was run for her. If I had been a minute
later you would have had a tussle old Woodranger himself might not have
cared for.”
The speaker, who made this remark with the unconcern and cool criticism
of a man with years of experience as a hunter, was in reality but a boy
of eleven years of age, though as large as the majority are at thirteen
or fourteen. He was not prepossessing in his looks. His countenance
was marred by a beaked nose and chin inclined to meet it, while his
skin was abundantly tattooed with freckles, and his coarse hair verged
on an unhappy reddish hue. But the dark blue eyes redeemed somewhat
the plainness of the other features, and his independent, perfect
self-control of spirit more than made up for the slight Dame Nature
had given him in other respects. He was familiarly called Johnny or
Jack Stark by his playmates and companions, and he afterward became the
celebrated General Stark, the hero of Bennington.
“You are right, Johnny,” exclaimed Norman, “and if your hand had not
been steady and eye true neither Rilma nor I would ever have lived to
thank you for your coming. Poor lassie! I fear she has been――no! She
opens her eyes,――she lives! You have no more to fear, dear sister; they
are both dead. Don’t move if it hurts you. Jack and I will carry you
home.”
Though not inclined to show deep emotion, Norman exhibited great joy at
the returning consciousness of Rilma, whom he loved with all the tender
regard of one who feels that another is all the world to him. Gently
he placed the tattered dress about the bleeding form and with his hand
wiped away the blood from the wounds made by the wildcat.
“Old Mother Hester!” cried Rilma, quickly gaining her feet, “did the
horrid creature kill her?”
Norman understood that “Mother Hester” was the name she had given
to the poor goose, whose mangled body, torn and lacerated beyond
recognition, lay a short distance away.
“She is dead, Rilma, but let us be thankful that you, too, were not
killed. If I had been a minute later you would have been overpowered by
the fearful cat, and then Jack saved us both from the other. But they
are dead, and we have no more to fear from them.”
Although grieved over the loss of her favourite goose, Rilma felt
thankful that she had escaped with even the dreadful scratches of the
wildcat, none of which had been very deep.
“I can walk, dear brother; and I want to get away from this place as
soon as possible. Jack will look after the other goose for us.”
Taking the hint, Norman led her gently along the path, saying as he did
so:
“Won’t you come with us, Jack?”
“I think I will, Norman, as I have something I want to say to you as
soon as you feel like hearing it. I was on my way to your house when
I heard your shot, and hurried to your assistance. I will make myself
useful, too, by carrying home the body of the dead goose and driving
the other along. Some one can come up and look after the wildcats
later.”
“You are very thoughtful, Jack, as well as brave. I do not believe
there is another boy of your age who could have shot that wildcat as
you did.”
“You say that because you do not know Rob Rogers. He shot a big black
bear, that was nosing around his father’s house, when he was only
seven, and you know I am almost eleven. Robby, since he has begun to
go with Woodranger, has become a mighty hunter, and he’s only fourteen
now.”
The conversation was checked at this point by the appearance of Mr.
MacDonald, who had heard the firing and was greatly excited over the
affair.
“Oh, my bairns!” he cried, “hoo gled I am tae find that ye hae na
been―― Why, my wee lassie! What hae they been doing to ye?”
Norman gave a brief account of the encounter with the wildcats, his
grandfather catching up Rilma in his arms and bearing her toward
the house as he finished, forgetful of his infirmities. The old
Highlander sobbed like a child at intervals, while alternately he would
burst forth into expressions of endearment and thankfulness in his
picturesque speech.
Seeing that Rilma was being cared for, Norman started back to help
Johnny Stark find the surviving goose, which was found skulking in the
bushes nearly frightened to death. Catching it after some trouble,
Norman carried it homeward in his arms, while Johnny bore the body of
its dead mate.
“I will get father to send Goodman Roberts to look after the carcasses
of the wildcats, as soon as I get home,” said the latter, as he walked
at the heels of Norman, the path being too narrow at places for a
couple to walk abreast. “What I wanted to speak to you about,” he
continued, “was the canoe match which is talked of to take place on
the river next month. You know three Scotch boys are to race against
three English boys. Brother Bill and Robby Rogers have been chosen to
represent our side, and we want another. We have spoken to father
about it, and he agrees with us that you are the one. Now will you do
it?”
“Of course I am willing to do anything I can, but I am afraid I have
not had as much practice as I need. You know I have not been here as
long as the rest of you, though nothing suits me better than a paddle
on the water.”
“You’ll have over a month in which to practise. I’ll risk you, and
so will the others. I understand John Goffe is to be one of their
crew, though no one seems to know who the others will be. Johnny is a
good one with the paddles, but he is nowhere with Rob. Bill will beat
anybody else they can get, and with you to help our side will be safe.”
“You mustn’t be overconfident, Johnny, but if I take hold I will do the
best I can.”
By the time they had reached the house Norman had decided to accept the
invitation to take part in the canoe match, and Johnny Stark, having
performed his errand successfully, lost no further time in running home
to tell the good news.
Mr. MacDonald dressed Rilma’s wounds as best he could, with the simple
means at his command, though she bravely declared that she did not
suffer any pain.
It was then getting to be quite dark, and, lighting his corn-cob pipe,
Mr. MacDonald took his favourite position in the doorway to smoke and
meditate over the events of his checkered life. These had ever been
hallowed occasions to Norman and Rilma, who had sat at his feet for
many an hour listening to the pathetic tales of which he seemed to have
no end. In these twilight talks they had heard him tell over and over
again, until every word was familiar to them, the stories of the fate
of the brave MacDonalds in the Pass of Glencoe, and the downfall of the
last of the McNiels.
On this evening Rilma had lain down on her simple couch for rest and
release from the pain of her wounds, so that Norman was alone with his
grandfather.
“Ha, ma laddie!” broke in Mr. MacDonald. “Ye’re that glum ye dinna seem
like yersel’ the nicht. Trouble na ower the few scratches o’ a cat, the
bonnie lassie wull sune be hersel’,” he continued, attributing Norman’s
silence to thoughts of Rilma.
“I must confess, grandfather, I was not thinking of poor Rilma, though
I ought to be ashamed to own it. I was thinking of a little affair
which happened this afternoon, and how best I could break it to you. I
would have spoken of it before, but I did not wish to arouse Rilma’s
fears.”
With the characteristic reserve of his nature, the old Highlander
removed his pipe from his lips without speaking, signifying as plainly
by his silence as he might have done by words his desire for an
explanation. At a loss how to begin, Norman hesitated for a time, the
only sound heard above the steady roar of Namaske being the mournful
cries of a whippoorwill in the direction of Rock Rimmon, until finally
he gave a detailed account of his arrest by Gunwad for hunting deer out
of season.
“Ha, ma laddie!” exclaimed his grandfather, when he had finished. “Ye
dinna want tae be low-speerited wi’ anxiety ower that, though it does
look a bit squally for ye. I’m gled ye telt the auld man, for noo he’ll
ken just hoo tae trim his licht. Then, tae, an auld man’s coonsel may
na cum amiss wi’ a young heid.”
“Grandfather, I had no more to do with hunting or killing that deer
than you did.”
“In intent, my braw laddie. But ye maun remember I never crossed the
brawlin’ stream. But avaunt wi’ sic nonsense! It behooves us tae see
what can be dune for ye, noo ye hae fa’en in the net.”
“Can they do anything with me, grandfather? Woodranger bade me be
hopeful.”
“Wha is this Woodranger, laddie, that ye speak sae freely o’? I dinna
ken but I may hae heard the name afore.”
“He is a man who lives by hunting and scouting, grandfather. During the
Indian troubles he did great service to the families who were molested
by the red men, and everybody seems to like him. He has been all over
the country, and he is very friendly to me.”
“Is he Scotch, laddie? That maks a’ the difference in the warld in this
affair.”
“I am not sure, though I should say he is. He seems very honest.”
“Hoot! awa wi’ yer nonsense if ye canna tell an Englishman frae a
Scotchman. Let me but get my auld een on him an’ I’ll tell ye if he’s a
true laddie. What’s his name?”
“Just what I told you, grandfather,――Woodranger. At least that is all
he would give me.”
“A bit against him, laddie. But allooin’ he is yer freend, I am a bit
feart ye’re nae pleasant fixed. This Gunwad ye say is an Englishman?”
“I have no doubt of that. I can see that this foolish feeling between
the colonists is going to be against me.”
“Ah, ma laddie, that’s whaur the shoe grips! Every Englishman, wumman,
and bairn looks on us as intruders, as they dae every Presbyterian, wha
they hate waur than wildcats. I see noo I did mak’ a bit o’ a mistak’
in droppin’ here, but auld Archie Stark thocht it was best for us. I
dinna ken whaur this misunderstandin’ is gaen tae end. Seems tae me it
will be the destruction o’ baith pairties. But dinna ye lat this little
maitter cum intae yer dreams, my laddie. Sleep gie’s ane a clear heid,
an’ it’s a clear heid ye’ll need the morn amang the Britishers at
Chelmsford.”
Taking this hint, Norman, after having seen that Rilma was as
comfortable as could be expected, sought his humble couch under the
rough rafters of his pioneer home.