Rover went almost wild over her recovery, even if she did look more
dead than alive, as they tenderly put her in Mr. Sukolt’s arms
and hastened back to the fort for medical aid. She soon recovered
consciousness. Though she was dizzy and faint from loss of blood and
fright, they saw, to their great relief, that their darling would be
all right in a few days.
Her father sat by her bedside all night, keeping her little hand in his
and listening to the babbling words she spoke in her feverish sleep.
The glaring eyes of the Indian and the hot breath of what she had
thought a panther seemed to be ever in her mind. It was not until the
following morning that he heard all the story about his little girl’s
escape.
“I was so afraid I would have to part with my scalp, like Tom, and have
to wear a black cap, instead of my hair, for the rest of my life. Oh, I
am so glad I shot him before he could take it,” she concluded, with a
smile and a sigh, as she nestled closer to her father.
[Illustration: ROVER WAS CAPERING LIKE MAD ABOUT HIM.]
Mr. Sukolt took her in his arms, thinking how near he had come to
losing her, and what a lonely life his little girl was leading.
They had been at Hold Up Fort three days when Mr. Sukolt called Bushy
to him and said: “You must not go far from the fort. It is unsafe now,
on account of more Indians moving northward.”
“Oh, Padre, how could I stop here all day long while you are away
drawing your old maps?” replied Bushy, with the most woe-begone face.
“Jip and I will both die, sure as we live.” This funny remark sent Mr.
Sukolt on his way, laughing most heartily.
For three days Bushy obeyed very faithfully, and did not lose sight
of the wagons. When she stepped out into the sunshine on the morning
of the fourth day, however, she felt as if she could not endure the
imprisonment any longer. The wound in her head did not trouble her very
much; it had been done up so carefully that now it seemed almost well.
Why should she stay in the fort all day? The singing birds were free,
the insects buzzing in the air were free, even the trees were free to
wave their branches as they liked, and she, the most active of all the
busy beings about, was told to sit down and keep still. She, who had
such swift feet, and a swifter pony when she got tired of walking--was
a prisoner.
“Ah!” argued Bushy, as she walked out to the stall where Jip fretted
and pawed and snorted to get out, “this is very wrong, indeed. Padre
has forgotten all about his little girl, Jip,” she murmured. “Don’t
you wish we could go out as we used to? I should like to go after some
flowers. The soldier captain said such beauties grew at the foot of the
mountain, and I am sure that Padre would like some to press in his old
botany book. I don’t think he would mind it much if we went out there,
do you, Jip? You know that Padre just loves flowers. I think that we
can go; shall we Jip?”
Jip neighed, stamped his feet, bowed his head, and showed such anxiety
to get out that it quite settled the question. So Bushy jumped on his
back, and tried to buckle her revolver into her belt, but in her hurry
broke the clasp. “Oh, well, never mind!” she said aloud. “I don’t need
a revolver to pick flowers, anyway,” and she thrust it into her blouse
waist and let it fall to the belt line, where it swung as if in a
pocket.
They galloped through the long grass, scaring the birds and chasing
the rabbits before them, both hilarious with joy, at their recovered
freedom.
“We have been in jail, Jip, haven’t we? And the sun seems brighter and
the grass fresher and greener than when the Indians played us the bad
tricks. And, oh, look, Jip, at the blue sky out there! It is beckoning
us to come on.”
She gave the reins to Jip, and he fairly flew forward. Not a twinge of
remorse disturbed Bushy, for was she not out solely to gather specimens
for her father’s botany book? In the woods she dismounted, and, leading
Jip by the bridle, walked briskly over the velvet moss, and ran and
skipped from stone to stone, often making it difficult for Jip to
follow her. She adorned the pony with flowers and then made a crown
for herself, keeping up a constant chatter, Jip answering in his own
peculiar way.
“Now, Jip,” said Bushy at last, as she sat down on the mossy mountain
side, “I am going to make a trimming of wild flowers to go all around
my blouse.” The joy of her freedom had blown Bushy’s usual good sense
to the four winds. Without realizing it she had wandered far out of
sight of the fort and the place was strange to her and time seemed to
fly on wings. It was not until the trimming grew into yards and yards
that she stopped to think.
Jip was making for the grass growing at a little distance--his dinner
was all ready for him, but little girls can’t make a dinner on grass;
and oh, she was so hungry! For some minutes she sat very still. All was
silent about her, with only the insect buzzing, and Jip nibbling the
grass, and a bough cracking here and there as a squirrel passed over
it. The sunbeams fell through the leaves overhead and drew ever-varying
patterns of light and shade on the grassy mound at her feet. Bushy
thought, “I can’t see the fort anywhere,” and she began to feel uneasy.
“Jip,” she called, and the pony, ever watchful, trotted up to her.
“Guess we had better run home, old fellow, and get something to eat
besides grass. I am awful hungry.” Jip neighed a yes and knelt for her
to mount him. Off they went again, right down toward the valley; at
least, that is what Bushy thought. But after they had gone on and on
to her great surprise she came to a brook that leaped merrily over the
stones, making beautiful little waterfalls that Bushy could never have
seen before and forgotten. “How lovely!” she exclaimed; yet at the same
time her face grew serious, and checking the pony she looked all about
her.
“I do declare, Jip, we have taken the wrong way! Oh, of course, we
ought to have gone to the left of the pine-tree. How stupid of you,
Jip, to let me go wrong. Didn’t you know we were trying to get back to
the fort?”
So back they went, but no pine-tree was to be found.
“Where is it, Jip? It was here a few minutes ago. We must have gone
wrong again. How very careless!” It was something new to Bushy to be in
a country where she could not travel as far as she wished yet never be
out of sight of some landmark that would point out to her the location
of Great Pine Mine. But now, after endless turning and walking, she
confessed that she was hopelessly lost.
“Oh, Jip,” she sobbed, “how I wish I had minded the Padre! After dark
the bears and maybe other dreadful animals will come after us, and I
have nothing but one revolver and no belt to carry it in to be ready
to shoot quick.” Remorse and grief such as she had not felt since she
carried Pete to the fort against her father’s orders now stormed her
heart.
After a few minutes’ thinking, some of her good sense came back to her,
and she understood that she would never get back to camp unless she
trusted to Jip or stayed where she was until some one came out to hunt
her. “If Jip doesn’t seem to know what to do, I’ll stay just here and
trust to Tom’s hunting me in the right place.
“Jip,” she said, patting his head and talking distinctly, “go home, go
back to the Padre, do you understand? Go back to your dinner and stall;
go hunt the Padre and take me home!” She jumped on him, threw down the
bridle and gave him a smart cut with the whip, a thing she had not done
ten times in the months she had possessed him. The horse whirled about
as if frightened; danced and capered as if undecided what to do.
“Jip, dear old Jip, see if you can find the way back to the Padre now.
I am sure you can.”
He whinnied intelligently, and Bushy, taking this as a token that he
understood her, trusted to him and good fortune.
Bushy soon felt faint with hunger. It must be about four o’clock, she
thought, looking at the sun. In two hours her father would come home
and miss her. Her heart beat loud. What would he think?
All of a sudden Jip stopped and began sniffing and neighing joyfully,
but before Bushy could think what was the matter with him off he
started at a flying gallop, faster and faster, hardly touching the
ground with his feet. Bushy clung to his mane breathless, never had the
pony acted in this way before. A feeling of relief came over her. “Jip
has smelled the way back and is running for dear life to get me home
safe,” she thought.
But surely that white mass in the distance with dark figures walking to
and fro was no soldiers’ fort. A cold shiver ran over her as they drew
nearer. Jip was taking her to an Indian camp! “Whoa, Jip, whoa, old
fellow!” but Jip did not seem to hear. Bushy knew that she was lost.
The pony had evidently scented some old friend in the group, and was
taking the little girl with him, a prey to her enemies. She was unable
to get at her revolver, even should there be any good in defending
herself. What service would killing one or even two Indians do her,
she quickly reasoned as Jip dashed onward. Nothing would be gained by
jumping off, for already her approach was observed.
Jip galloped in among the wigwams, Bushy clinging to his mane, pale
with fright, and staring wildly at the redskins she feared so much.
What a commotion followed! What jabbering! How the Indians crowded
about! What caresses Jip got, and how surprised the savages were over
the child’s appearance. The squaws fingered her blouse and pulled off
some of the flowers. The young bucks noticed her saddle and felt of the
bridle and bits. She was lifted from the pony by the young chief, who
had evidently at some time been the master of Jip, and he handed her
over to a cross old squaw, who was to hold her in safe-keeping.
“Oh, Jip!” wailed Bushy as she disappeared into the wigwam and faithful
Jip tried to go to her, but the chief prevented him. Night was closing
in and the thought of her poor father’s anxiety made her tears start
afresh. Her sobs stirred the pity of a young Indian girl, sitting near
the entrance of the wigwam. She gave Bushy a drink, and reassured her
as much as she could. Bushy was soon left alone. The excitement of the
day had made her feverish, and the wound on her head began to sting,
but notwithstanding the grief and pain she began to plan to get away.
She didn’t want to be roasted alive, or pierced with arrows. Of the
loss of her scalp she was almost sure, so she thought it was no use
fretting any more over her fluffy hair.
The more she thought the less she could conceive of any way to escape.
The Indians set a watch over her--this seemed very serious. If they
didn’t kill or scalp her now, they would certainly take her with them
in their first attack on the miners and kill her before their very
eyes. Indeed, now that she came to think of it, she was sure they would
do that.
Fatigue and pain had exhausted her, and the sickening fear of a cruel
death was too much. Brave Bushy for the second time showed weakness and
fainted away on the little bed of leaves where the squaw had placed
her.