A CHILD IN THE MIDST
The river Hishu was swift. It raced and swirled between its clay banks.
The water was cold--icy cold--for countless small streams from
snow-capped mountains contributed to its volume. It was a fascinating
monster, sinuous, terrible, beautiful. The most dangerous spot on the
whole river was the Klikhausia Rapids. Here the current struck hidden
rocks, which swirled, eddied and boiled down through a flinty channel,
to leap at last foaming and spuming into the steady stream below.
Skilled canoe men could bring their crafts safely through this turbulent
piece of water, but woe speedily overtook the voyager who made the
venture without a thorough knowledge of the place.
Norman Grey sat upon the bank a short distance below the rapids, with
his eyes fixed upon the flowing stream. It held him spellbound by its
mystic music and the clearness of its liquid depths. There beneath the
surface, down among those polished stones, was peace--a peace and rest
for which he ardently yearned. He might have been a stump for all the
movement he made. A few birds twittered in the jack pines, and a noisy
squirrel scolded from the branch of a nearby tree. But Grey heeded them
not. His rifle was thrown carelessly on the ground by his side. His
buckskin jacket and trousers were covered with dirt, and stained here
and there with fresh blood. Grey was sore and weary. The long ride, the
excitement of the day and the heavy fall from his horse were having
their effect. His whole body ached, and through his left shoulder surged
a numbing pain caused by the contact with the ground. The piece of bear
meat was lying by his side. He had matches, and could soon build a fire
and broil a slice of steak. But his energy had deserted him. He longed
to lie down and rest--rest forever. His one blanket had gone with
Blackbird. But what did it matter? He was accustomed to the open, and
his buckskin jacket would do instead. Yes, he would sleep, and forget
everything--bears and all.
Slowly he rose to his feet and began to climb the bank. Scarcely had he
reached the level above ere he gave a start and looked quickly
up-stream. What was that? A shout, a cry of terror, which winged its way
to his ears. He straightened himself up, shaded his eyes with his hand,
and scanned the river. The sun had been down for some time, but the long
northern twilight was still struggling with night, and it was not hard
to discern objects some distance away. As Grey's eyes rested upon the
rapids he beheld a boat--a frail craft--go to pieces upon a sunken rock
right in the centre of that swirling death. Then out from the midst of
the roaring mass of tumultuous billows darted a dark object. Rapidly it
was borne down the stream, and as it approached nearer Grey observed a
man clinging frantically with one hand to a fragment of the boat, while
with the other he was clutching the limp form of a little child. Grey
was all alert now. His weariness and pain were gone. His tall gaunt
figure was drawn to its full height, forming a dark silhouette against
the evening sky. The clinging man looked toward the shore. His face was
filled with agony, and twitched convulsively.
"Help! help!" he cried. "This icy water's killing me! I can't hold on
any longer!--oh--God!" and with a wild piercing yell he threw up his
hands and sank beneath the surface.
Quicker than words Grey tore off his buckskin jacket, and throwing
discretion to the wind hurled himself into the racing stream. Though a
powerful swimmer he was but a gnat in that terrible current. It seemed
the maddest of folly to attempt a rescue in such a place. The waters
were icy, and his soggy clothes impeded his progress. Why give up his
own life for a vague uncertainty? Why risk all in a hazardous throw? But
a little face--oh, so white--gleamed before him, and a curly head of
gold appeared. The sight nerved him almost to superhuman effort. With
lusty sinews and mighty strokes he clove the water like a Titan. He
reached the child, he clutched it, held its head above the surface, and
turned toward the shore. Fortunately the piece of broken boat floated
near. This he grasped with one hand, and the child with the other. No
longer now did he try to stem the stream, but simply allowed himself to
drift. On and on they sped, Grey becoming more numbed all the time.
Often he felt he could endure no longer, that he must give up and sink.
But the sight of that little child, lying so still in his arm, caused
him to grip the wreck more firmly. Only a short time before he had
cherished the idea of rest and peace beneath those same cold waters. Now
all was changed, and, instead of death, life was uppermost in his mind.
Not life for himself alone, but for that helpless form pressed close to
his breast. Oh, for a friendly voice from the shore, and a strong hand
stretched out to lift them from the icy depths. Ere long his brain began
to whirl. He seemed to be battling in the midst of thousands of hideous
serpents. They were coiling about his legs, arms and body. They were
leaping up, trying to tear away the child from his breast, and to loosen
his hold upon the boards. How much longer would they torture him? Would
they soon gain complete possession and bear him down never to rise
again? No, he would fight them. He would conquer. He would beat them
back. They were worse than the grizzly, but he would win. And even as he
made another great determined struggle his feet struck something which
sent a thrill of hope through his heart. Was it merely a delusion? Was
it only a fond fancy of his reeling brain? No, it was true. His feet had
struck a sand-bar, which put out from the shore like a long finger
hidden beneath the surface. Relaxing his grip of the raft, and with the
child in his arms Grey feebly and with much difficulty made his way
through the swirling water. So numb was his body that his legs seemed
like two lifeless sticks as he staggered forward. It was all he could do
to reach the shore and climb the bank. Then his strength deserted him.
He trembled and sank upon the hard ground. It was only for a few
seconds, however, for the child lying there needed immediate attention.
Kneeling by his side he peered into the little white face, noticed the
wan, pinched features, the luxuriant curly hair dripping with water, and
the soaked clothes clinging like cerements to his body. "What was such a
lad doing there?" he wondered. That not more than three summers had
passed over his head was quite evident. He was no poor man's child, for
the garments betokened a home of means and loving care above the
ordinary. At his throat a small safety pin was fastened, and as Grey
peered down through the faint and uncertain light he saw engraved there
the one word "Donnie." An exclamation of astonishment escaped his lips.
His eyes were suddenly opened, and he beheld before him Silas Farwell's
little stolen child.
"Fool--more than fool," he muttered. "To think that I didn't realise it
before. And here I've been cursing my fate ever since that grizzly
unhorsed me, and it was all for a purpose. I begin to see now that
another Hand is having much to do with this affair."
At that instant a shiver shook the child's body. He looked up, began to
cry and to call for his mother.
"Hush, hush, dear," soothed Grey, bending over him. "You shall have your
mother."
Then the helplessness of his position swept upon him. In a vast
wilderness, leagues from any settlement, and night shutting down. Not a
shred of dry clothing did he have in which to enwrap the child, and not
even a fire. He was numb and chill himself. That he could stand, but not
this delicate lad. "What am I to do?" he groaned. "Is this sweet child
to die here slowly after all? Better to have left him to perish in the
river; it would have been quicker."
Rising to his feet he peered through the gloom, but no sign of human
life could he behold, nothing but the scrubby forest, silent and grim.
He lifted up his voice and called, once, twice, three times, but only a
far-off echo, ghost-like and hollow, sent back its mocking response.
Again he knelt by the side of the child.
"Are you cold, dear?" he asked.
"Ya, cold, cold," and the lad shivered. "I wants my mother. Why doesn't
she tum to her 'ittle boy-boy?"
Grey looked at his own clothes. They were very wet; not a dry stitch
upon him. Then he thought of the buckskin jacket he had thrown off ere
he leaped into the river. He believed there were several dry matches in
one of the pockets. Suppose they had fallen out during his tussle with
the bear! They were his only hope now. The liberal supply he had brought
with him, rolled up in his blanket, had gone with Blackbird. Never
before had he realised the value of a few tiny matches. Now they meant
life or death. He must have them if they were there, and at once.
"Are you afraid to stay here alone, little one?" he asked. "It will be
only for a short time, and I shall soon come back."
A startled look came into Donnie's face, as reaching out a small hand he
clutched the arm of his rescuer.
"No, no, don't go!" he cried, with tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Take me home. I wants my mother."
"I won't leave you, then," was the reassuring response. "You shall go
along, too."
Stooping down, he lifted the child tenderly in his arms and turned his
face up-stream. Could he make the journey? That was the question. Had he
the strength after his two fearful ordeals to struggle through that
dusky tangled underbrush, where no trail marked the way, and with his
feet stumbling at almost every step? Suppose he should fall and not be
able to rise again? He banished the thought. It was too horrible to be
entertained even for an instant. No, he must not fail. What would the
Major, who had entrusted him with such a sacred commission think? And
how would the Force regard it? "Constable N. Grey, Regiment No. ----
lost; supposed to have died on the trail, somewhere between Big Glen and
the river Hishu, while in search of a stolen child." How would words
such as these sound in the laconic Police Report when it appeared the
following year? Would their bones, bleached and white, at last be found
amid those tangled bushes? And the mother, what of her? Would she ever
know of the struggle he had made to save her darling child? There came
to him now her white, drawn face. Did not every man in the Barracks know
Mrs. Farwell? She was beautiful, cultured, and a general favourite in
the little social circle of Big Glen. But she was kind to all, and
greeted each constable she met with a pleasant smile. She had spoken to
him once, and congratulated him upon the capture of "One-eyed" Henry,
the Swede. He had never forgotten that, and her sparkling eyes and sunny
face had haunted him for months. For her sake now, at least, he must not
fail. He would save her child. He had taken but a few steps forward when
he stopped short in his tracks. A dark form had suddenly loomed up out
of the night right in front of him. It was an Indian tall and silent,
leaning upon his grounded rifle. For the space of ten heart throbs
neither spoke. Then,
"Who are you," Grey demanded, "and what do you want?"
"You call?" came the calm reply.
"Yes, indeed, I did call. Look you. This child is wet, cold, freezing.
Got in river. See? You savvey cabin--fire, eh?"
At once the Indian took a step nearer, and peered keenly into the white
man's face.
"Ah, ah," he remarked. "Me savvey. Come."
Turning abruptly he plunged into the thicket of jack pines and cotton
wood trees. He had not gone far, however, ere he paused and looked back.
"Me take bah-bee," he said; "you cally gun, eh?"
But when he reached out his hands Donnie shrank back with a little
sobbing cry, and threw his arms tightly around his preserver's neck.
"Don't want to leave me, little man?" Grey asked, while his heart
thrilled with a new-found joy at the child's confiding action.
"Ya, me tay," whimpered the boy. "You carry baby."
"All right, dear, you shall stay with me as long as I have any strength
left," and he motioned the Indian to advance.
Silently they threaded their way through the chilly night, Grey using
every exertion to keep up with his dusky guide. Donnie was a
considerable weight to him in his weakened condition. Once he felt he
should be forced to relinquish his burden to the Indian, no matter how
badly the child might feel. But the pressure of that little body and the
hand laid so trustingly against his shoulder nerved him to greater
action, and painfully he stumbled forward. After what seemed to Grey to
be an interminable distance, although in reality it was not far, a
bright light suddenly pierced the darkness. It came from a camp fire
directly ahead, around which he observed someone moving. In another
minute the place was reached, and gladly he laid the child down in front
of the cheerful blaze.
It was only a temporary brush camp erected there in the wilderness, but
to Grey no place had ever seemed half so welcome. Seated on a blanket
spread over some fir boughs was an Indian woman with hair, jet black and
straight, falling over not unshapely shoulders. Nearby stood a girl of
fifteen years, whose eyes sparkled with curiosity as she turned them
upon the stranger and the little form at his feet. One glance at the
sympathetic faces before him told Grey that he was in the midst of
friends. A few brief words in the rhythmical native tongue passed
between the Indian man and woman, and immediately the rude camp was
converted into a hive of industry. The child was stripped of his wet
clothes, his cold body thoroughly rubbed and then enwrapped in a soft
grey blanket which the girl had brought forth from a mysterious corner
of the camp.
Donnie had no fear of the woman, but sat contentedly on her lap,
alternately watching the blazing fire and the animated face of the young
maiden kneeling by his side. Then, after he had taken some of the
savoury ptarmigan soup which the girl had dipped from a kettle near the
fire, he laid his tired little head against the Indian woman and was
soon fast asleep.
All this Grey noted with much satisfaction as he lay close to the fire
trying to dry his own wet garments. How his heart warmed toward these
dusky waifs as he watched their care of the child. He saw the little
head droop, the eyes close, and observed how gently the Indian woman
laid him down upon the brush bed, and tenderly placed over him a thick
warm blanket. The thoughtfulness and dignity of these people surprised
him. Formerly he had very little use for the natives, and considered
them with a certain degree of pity, mingled with contempt. Most of the
Indians he had seen in this northern land were weak, inferior
creatures, fond of hanging about towns and mining camps, and trying to
imitate the ways of the whites. But these were different, and he fell
asleep there on the hard ground wondering if all the Indians in the
Hishu region were of this same superior class.
A cry fell upon his ears, and he awoke with a start. He sat quickly up,
and looked around in a dazed manner. He glanced toward Donnie, and
instantly realised the nature of the trouble. The icy water had done its
work, and he saw the poor little form racked with a terrible cough. The
Indian woman had the boy on her lap, and was rubbing his chest with oil
which was warming near the fire. But still the child cried, stopping
only as the painful, wheezing cough swept upon him.