LOST!
"We must have some board-nails and some lead," remarked Uncle Aleck,
one fine morning, as the party were putting the finishing touches to
the Whittier cabin. "Who will go down to the post and get them?"
"I", "I", "I", shouted all three of the boys at once.
"Oh, you will all go, will you?" said he, with a smile. "Well, you
can't all go, for we can borrow only one horse, and it's ten miles
down there and ten miles back; and you will none of you care to walk,
I am very sure."
The boys looked at each other and laughed. Who should be the lucky one
to take that delightful horseback ride down to the post, as Fort Riley
was called, and get a glimpse of civilization?
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Sandy, after some good-natured
discussion. "Let's draw cuts to see who shall go. Here they are. You
draw first, Charlie, you being the eldest man. Now, then, Oscar. Why,
hooray! it's my cut! I've drawn the longest, and so I am to go. Oh, it
was a fair and square deal, daddy," he added, seeing his father look
sharply at him.
The matter was settled, and next morning, bright and early, Sandy was
fitted out with his commissions and the money to buy them with.
Younkins had agreed to let him have his horse, saddle, and bridle.
Work on the farm was now practically over until time for harvesting
was come. So the other two boys accompanied Sandy over to the Younkins
side of the river and saw him safely off down the river road leading
to the post. A meal-sack in which to bring back his few purchases was
snugly rolled up and tied to the crupper of his saddle, and feeling in
his pocket for the hundredth time to make sure of the ten-dollar gold
piece therein bestowed, Sandy trotted gayly down the road. The two
other boys gazed enviously after him, and then went home, wondering,
as they strolled along, how long Sandy would be away. He would be back
by dark at the latest, for the days were now at about their longest,
and the long summer day was just begun.
At Younkins's cabin they met Hiram Battles, a neighbor who lived
beyond the divide to the eastward, and who had just ridden over in
search of some of his cattle that had strayed away, during the night
before. Mr. Battles said he was "powerful worrited." Indians had been
seen prowling around on his side of the divide: but he had seen no
signs of a camp, and he had traced the tracks of his cattle, three
head in all, over this way as far as Lone Tree Creek, a small stream
just this side of the divide; but there he had unaccountably lost all
trace of them.
"Well, as for the Indians," said Charlie, modestly, "we have seen them
passing out on the trail. But they were going hunting, and they kept
right on to the southward and westward; and we have not seen them go
back since."
"The lad's right," said Younkins, slowly, "but still I don't like the
stories I hear down the road a piece. They do say that the Shians have
riz."
"The Cheyennes have risen!" exclaimed Charlie. "And we have let Sandy
go down to the post alone!"
Both of the men laughed--a little unpleasantly, it seemed to the
boys, although Younkins was the soul of amiability and mildness. But
Charlie thought it was unkind in them to laugh at his very natural
apprehensions; and he said as much, as he and Oscar, with their
clothes on their heads, waded the Republican Fork on the way home.
"Well, Charlie," was Oscar's comforting remark, as they scrambled up
the opposite bank, "I guess the reason why they laughed at us was that
if the Cheyennes have gone on the warpath, the danger is out in the
west; whereas, Sandy has gone eastward to-day, and that is right in
the way of safety, isn't it? He's gone to the post; and you know that
the people down at Soldier Creek told us that this was a good place to
settle, because the post would be our protection in case of an Indian
rising."
Meanwhile, Sandy was blissfully and peacefully jogging along in the
direction of the military post. Only one house stood between
Younkins's and the fort; and that was Mullett's. They all had occasion
to think pleasantly of Mullett's; for whenever an opportunity came for
the mail to be forwarded from the fort up to Mullett's, it was sent
there; then Sparkins, who was the next neighbor above, but who lived
off the road a bit, would go down to Mullett's and bring the mail up
to his cabin; when he did this, he left a red flannel flag flying on
the roof of his house, and Younkins, if passing along the trail, saw
the signal and went out of his way a little to take the mail up to his
cabin. Somehow, word was sent across the river to the Whittier boys,
as the good Younkins soon learned to call the Boy Settlers, and they
went gladly over to Younkins's and got the precious letters and papers
from home. That was the primitive way in which the mail for the
settlers on the Republican Fork went up the road from Fort Riley, in
those days; and all letters and papers designed for the settlers along
there were addressed simply to Fort Riley, which was their nearest
post-office.
So Sandy, when he reached Mullett's, was not disappointed to be told
that there were no letters for anybody up the river. There had been
nobody down to the post very lately. Sandy knew that, and he was
confident that he would have the pleasure of bringing up a good-sized
budget when he returned. So he whipped up his somewhat lazy steed and
cantered down toward the fort.
Soon after leaving Mullett's he met a drove of sheep. The drivers were
two men and a boy of his own age, mounted on horseback and carrying
their provisions, apparently, strapped behind them. When he asked them
where they were going, they surlily replied that they were going to
California. That would take them right up the road that he had come
down, Sandy thought to himself. And he wondered if the boys at home
would see the interesting sight of five hundred sheep going up the
Republican Fork, bound for California.
He reached the fort before noon; and, with a heart beating high
with pleasure, he rode into the grounds and made his way to the
well-remembered sutler's store where he had bought the candy,
months before. He had a few pennies of his own, and he mentally
resolved to spend these for raisins. Sandy had a "sweet tooth", but,
except for sugar and molasses, he had eaten nothing sweet since
they were last at Fort Riley on their way westward.
It was with a feeling of considerable importance that Sandy surveyed
the interior of the sutler's store. The proprietor looked curiously
at him, as if wondering why so small a boy should turn up alone in
that wilderness; and when the lad asked for letters for the families
up the river, Mullett's, Sparkins's, Battles's, Younkins's, and his
own people, the sutler said: "Be you one of them Abolitioners that
have named your place after that man Whittier, the Abolition poet?
I've hearn tell of you, and I've hearn tell of him. And he ain't no
good. Do you hear me?" Sandy replied that he heard him, and to himself
he wondered greatly how anybody, away down here, ten miles from the
new home, could possibly have heard about the name they had given to
their cabin.
Several soldiers who had been lounging around the place now went out
at the door. The sutler, looking cautiously about as if to be sure
that nobody heard him, said: "Never you mind what I said just now,
sonny. Right you are, and that man Whittier writes the right sort of
stuff. Bet yer life! I'm no Abolitioner; but I'm a free-State man, I
am, every time."
"Then what made you talk like that, just now?" asked Sandy, his
honest, freckled face glowing with righteous indignation. "If you like
Mr. John G. Whittier's poetry, why did you say he wasn't any good?"
"Policy, policy, my little man. This yere's a pro-slavery guv'ment,
and this yere is a pro-slavery post. I couldn't keep this place one
single day if they thought I was a free-State man. See? But I tell you
right here, and don't you fergit it, this yere country is going to be
free State. Kansas is no good for slavery; and slavery can't get in
here. Stick a pin there, and keep your eye on it."
With some wonder and much disgust at the man's cowardice, Sandy
packed his precious letters in the bosom of his shirt. Into one end
of his meal-sack he put a pound of soda-biscuit for which his Uncle
Charlie had longed, a half-pound of ground ginger with which
Charlie desired to make some "molasses gingerbread, like mother's,"
and a half-pound of smoking-tobacco for his dear father. It seemed
a long way off to his father now, Sandy thought, as he tied up
that end of the bag. Then into the other end, having tied the bag
firmly around, about a foot and a half from the mouth, he put the
package of nails and a roll of sheet lead. It had been agreed that
if they were to go buffalo-hunting, they must have rifle-balls and
bullets for their shot-guns.
The sutler, who had become very friendly, looked on with an amused
smile, and said, "'Pears to me, sonny, you got all the weight at one
end, haven't you?"
Sandy did not like to be called "sonny," but he good-naturedly agreed
that he had made a mistake; so he began all over again and shifted
his cargo so that the nails and a box of yeast-powder occupied one
end of the meal-sack, and the other articles balanced the other. The
load was then tied closely to the crupper of the saddle and the boy
was ready to start on his homeward trip. His eyes roved longingly over
the stock of goodies which the sutler kept for the children, young and
old, of the garrison, and he asked, "How much for raisins?"
"Two bits a pound for box, and fifteen cents for cask," replied the
man, sententiously.
"Give me half a pound of cask raisins," said the boy, with some
hesitation. He had only a few cents to spare for his own purchases.
The sutler weighed out a half-pound of box raisins, did them up, and
handed them across the counter, saying, "No pay; them's for
Whittier."
Sandy took the package, shoved it into his shirt-bosom, and, wondering
if his "Thank you" were sufficient payment for the gift, mounted his
steed, rode slowly up the road to a spring that he had noticed
bubbling out of the side of a ravine, and with a thankful heart,
turning out the horse to graze, sat down to eat his frugal lunch, now
graced with the dry but to him delicious raisins. So the sutler at
Fort Riley was a free-State man! Wasn't that funny!
It was a beautifully bright afternoon, and Sandy, gathering his
belongings together, started up the river road on a brisk canter. The
old horse was a hard trotter, and when he slackened down from a
canter, poor Sandy shook in every muscle, and his teeth chattered as
if he had a fit of ague. But whenever the lad contrived to urge his
steed into an easier gait he got on famously. The scenery along the
Republican Fork is (or was) very agreeable to the eye. Long slopes of
vivid green stretched off in every direction, their rolling sides
dropping into deep ravines through which creeks, bordered with dense
growths of alder, birch, and young cottonwood, meandered. The sky was
blue and cloudless, and, as the boy sped along the breezy uplands, the
soft and balmy air fanning his face, he sung and whistled to express
the fervor of his buoyant spirits. He was a hearty and a happy boy.
Suddenly he came to a fork in the road which he had not noticed when
he came down that way in the morning. For a moment he was puzzled by
the sight. Both were broad and smooth tracks over the grassy prairie,
and both rose and fell over the rolling ground; only, one led to the
left and somewhat southerly, and the other to the right. "Pshaw!"
muttered Sandy, and he paused and rubbed his head for an idea. "That
left-hand road must strike off to some ford lower down on the Fork
than I have ever been. But I never heard of any ford below ours."
[Illustration: FILLING IN THE CHINKS IN THE WALLS OF THE LOG-CABIN.]
With that, his keen eyes noticed that the right-hand road was cut and
marked with the many hoof-tracks of a flock of sheep. He argued to
himself that the sheep-drivers had told him that they were going to
California. The California road led up the bank of the Republican Fork
close to the trail that led him from Younkins's to the ford across the
river. The way was plain; so, striking his spur into the old sorrel's
side, he dashed on up the right-hand road, singing gayly as he went.
Absorbed in the mental calculation as to the number of days that it
would take that flock of sheep to reach California, the boy rode on,
hardly noticing the landmarks by the way, or taking in anything but
the general beauty of the broad and smiling landscape over which the
yellow light of the afternoon sun, sinking in the west, poured a flood
of splendor. Slackening his speed as he passed a low and sunken little
round valley filled with brush and alders, he heard a queer sound like
the playful squealing of some wild animal. Slipping off his saddle and
leading his horse by the bridle over the thick turf, Sandy cautiously
approached the edge of the valley, the margin of which was steep and
well sheltered by a growth of cottonwoods. After peering about for
some time, the lad caught a glimpse of a beautiful sight. A young doe
and her fawn were playing together in the open meadow below,
absolutely unconscious of the nearness of any living thing besides
themselves. The mother-deer was browsing, now and again, and at times
the fawn, playful as a young kitten, would kick its heels, or butt its
head against its mother's side, and both would squeal in a comical
way.
Sandy had never seen deer in a state of living wildness before, and
his heart thumped heavily in his breast as he gazed on the wonderful
sight. He half groaned to himself that he was a great fool to have
come away from home without a gun. What an easy shot it was! How
nicely he could knock over the mother, if only he had a shot-gun! She
was within such short range. Then he felt a sinking of the heart, as
he imagined the horror of death that would have overtaken the innocent
and harmless creatures, sporting there so thoughtless of man's hunting
instincts and cruelty. Would he kill them, if he had the weapon to
kill with? He could not make up his mind that he would. So he crouched
silently in the underbrush, and watched the pretty sight as if it were
a little animal drama enacted here in the wilderness, mother and child
having a romp in their wildwood home.
"Well, I'll give them a good scare, anyhow," muttered the boy, his
sportive instincts getting the better of his tender-heartedness at
last. He dashed up noisily from the underbrush, swung his arms, and
shouted, "Boo!" Instantly deer and fawn, with two or three tremendous
bounds, were out of the little valley and far away on the prairie,
skimming over the rolls of green, and before the boy could catch his
breath, they had disappeared into one of the many dells and ravines
that interlaced the landscape.
But another animal was scared by the boy's shout. In his excitement he
had slipped the bridle-rein from his arm, and the old sorrel,
terrified by his halloo, set off on a brisk trot down the road. In
vain Sandy called to him to stop. Free from guidance, the horse
trotted along, and when, after a long chase, Sandy caught up with his
steed, a considerable piece of road had been covered the wrong way,
for the horse had gone back over the line of march. When Sandy was
once more mounted, and had mopped his perspiring forehead, he cast his
eye along the road, and, to his dismay, discovered that the
sheep-tracks had disappeared. What had become of the sheep? How could
they have left the trail without his sooner noticing it? He certainly
had not passed another fork of the road since coming into this at the
fork below.
"This is more of my heedlessness, mother would say," muttered Sandy to
himself. "What a big fool I must have been to miss seeing where the
sheep left the trail! I shall never make a good plainsman if I don't
keep my eye skinned better than this. Jingo! it's getting toward
sundown!" Sure enough, the sun was near the horizon, and Sandy could
see none of the familiar signs of the country round about the Fork.
But he pushed on. It was too late now to return to the fork of the
road and explore the other branch. He was in for it. He remembered,
too, that two of their most distant neighbors, Mr. Fuller and his
wife, lived somewhere back of Battles's place, and it was barely
possible that it was on the creek, whose woody and crooked line he
could now see far to the westward, that their log-cabin was situated.
He had seen Mr. Fuller over at the Fork once or twice, and he
remembered him as a gentle-mannered and kindly man. Surely he must
live on this creek! So he pushed on with new courage, for his heart
had begun to sink when he finally realized that he was far off his
road.
The sun was down when he reached the creek. No sign of human
habitation was in sight. In those days cabins and settlements were
very, very few and far between, and a traveller once off his trail
might push on for hundreds of miles without finding any trace of human
life.
In the gathering dusk the heavy-hearted boy rode along the banks of
the creek, anxiously looking out for some sign of settlers. It was
as lonely and solitary as if no man had ever seen its savageness
before. Now and then a night-bird called from a thicket, as if
asking what interloper came into these solitudes; or a scared
jack-rabbit scampered away from his feeding-ground, as the steps of
the horse tore through the underbrush. Even the old sorrel seemed
to gaze reproachfully at the lad, who had dismounted, and now led
the animal through the wild and tangled undergrowths.
[Illustration: LOST!]
When he had gone up and down the creek several times, hunting for some
trace of a settlement, and finding none, he reflected that Fuller's
house was on the side of the stream, to the west. It was a very
crooked stream, and he was not sure, in the darkness, which was west
and which was east. But he boldly plunged into the creek, mounting his
horse, and urging the unwilling beast across. Once over, he explored
that side of the stream, hither and yon, in vain. Again he crossed,
and so many times did he cross and recross that he finally had no idea
where he was. Then the conviction came fully into his mind: He was
lost.
The disconsolate boy sat down on a fallen tree and meditated. It was
useless to go farther. He was tired in every limb and very, very
hungry. He bethought himself of the soda-biscuits in his sack. He need
not starve, at any rate. Dobbin was grazing contentedly while the lad
meditated, so slipping off the saddle and the package attached to it,
Sandy prepared to satisfy his hunger with what little provisions he
had at hand. How queerly the biscuits tasted! Jolting up and down on
the horse's back, they were well broken up. But what was this so hot
in the mouth? Ginger? Sure enough, it was ginger. The pounding that
had crushed the biscuits had broken open the package of ginger, and
that spicy stuff was plentifully sprinkled all over the contents of
the sack.
"Gingerbread," muttered Sandy, grimly, as he blew out of his mouth
some of the powdery spice. "Faugh! Tobacco!" he cried next. His
father's package of smoking-tobacco had shared the fate of the ginger.
Sandy's supper was spoiled; and resigning himself to spending the
night hungry in the wilderness, he tethered the horse to a tree, put
the saddle-blanket on the ground, arranged the saddle for a pillow,
and, having cut a few leafy boughs from the alders, stuck them into
the turf so as to form a shelter around his head, and lay down to
pleasant dreams.
"And this is Saturday night, too," thought the lost boy. "They are
having beans baked in the ground-oven at home in the cabin. They are
wondering where I am. What would mother say if she knew I was lost out
here on Flyaway Creek?" And the boy's heart swelled a little, and a
few drops of water stood in his eyes, for he had never been lost
before in his life. He looked up at the leaden sky, now overcast, and
wondered if God saw this lost boy. A few drops fell on his cheek.
Tears? No; worse than that; it was rain.
"Well, this is a little too much," said Sandy, stoutly. "Here goes for
one more trial." So saying, he saddled and mounted his patient steed,
and, at a venture, took a new direction around a bend in the creek. As
he rounded the bend, the bark of a dog suddenly rung from a mass of
gloom and darkness. How sweet the sound! Regardless of the animal's
angry challenge, he pressed on. That mass of blackness was a
log-barn, and near by was a corral with cows therein. Then a light
shone from the log-cabin, and a man's voice was heard calling the
dog.
Fuller's!
The good man of the house received the lad with open arms, and cared
for his horse; inside the cabin, Mrs. Fuller, who had heard the
conversation without, had made ready a great pan of milk and a loaf of
bread, having risen from her bed to care for the young wanderer. Never
did bread and milk taste so deliciously to weary traveller as this!
Full-fed, Sandy looked at the clock on the wall, and marked with
wondering eye that it was past midnight. He had recounted his trials
as he ate, and the sympathizing couple had assured him that he had
been deceived by the sheep-driver. It was very unlikely that he was
driving his flock to California. And it was probable that, coming to
some place affording food and water, the sheep had left the main road
and had camped down in one of the ravines out of sight.
As Sandy composed his weary limbs in a blanket-lined bunk opposite
that occupied by Fuller and his wife, he was conscious that he gave a
long, long sigh as if in his sleep. And, as he drifted off into
slumber-land, he heard the good woman say, "Well, he's out of his
troubles, poor boy!" Sandy chuckled to himself and slept.