A SAD SIGHT.
A day later, while the wagon-train was slowly winding through a mountain
defile, they encountered a sight which made even the stout-hearted
leader look grave. Stretched out stiff and stark were two figures, cold
in death. They were men of middle age, apparently. From each the scalp
had been removed, thus betraying that the murderers were Indians.
"I should like to come across the red devils who did this," said
Fletcher.
"What would you do with them?" asked Ferguson.
"Shoot them down like dogs, or if I could take them captive they should
dangle upon the boughs of yonder tree."
"I hope I shall be ready to die when my time comes," said Ferguson; "but
I want it to be in a Christian bed, and not at the hands of a dirty
savage."
Just then Lawrence Peabody came up. He had been lagging in the rear, as
usual.
"What have you found?" he inquired, not seeing the bodies at first, on
account of the party surrounding them.
"Come here, and see for yourself, Peabody," said one of the company.
Lawrence Peabody peered at the dead men--he was rather near-sighted--and
turned very pale.
"Is it the Indians?" he faltered.
"Yes, it's those devils. You can tell their work when you see it. Don't
you see that they are scalped?"
"I believe I shall faint," said Peabody, his face becoming of a greenish
hue. "Tom, let me lean on your shoulder. Do--do you think it has been
done lately?"
"Yesterday, probably," said Ferguson. "The bodies look fresh."
"Then the Indians that did it must be near here?"
"Probably."
"These men were either traveling by themselves, or had strayed away from
their party," said Fletcher. "It shows how necessary it is for us to
keep together. In union there is strength."
The bodies were examined. In the pocket of one was found a letter
addressed to James Collins, dated at some town in Maine. The writer
appeared to be his wife. She spoke of longing for the time when he
should return with money enough to redeem their farm from a heavy
mortgage.
"Poor woman!" said Ferguson. "She will wait for her husband in vain. The
mortgage will never be paid through his exertions."
Tom looked sober, as he glanced compassionately at the poor emigrant.
"He came on the same errand that I did," he said. "I hope my journey
will have a happier ending."
"Always hope for the best, Tom," said his Scotch friend. "You will live
happier while you do live, and, if the worst comes, it will be time
enough to submit to it when you must."
"That is good philosophy, Mr. Ferguson."
"Indeed it is, my lad. Don't borrow trouble."
"We must bury these poor men," said Fletcher. "We can't leave them out
here, possibly to be devoured by wild beasts. Who will volunteer for the
service?"
"Come, Peabody," said John Miles, a broad-shouldered giant, who had a
good-natured contempt for the young man from Boston. "Suppose you and I
volunteer."
Lawrence Peabody shrank back in dismay at the unwelcome proposition.
"I couldn't do it," he said, shivering. "I never touched a dead body in
my life. I am so delicate that I couldn't do it, I assure you."
"It's lucky we are not all delicate," said Miles, "or the poor fellows
would be left unburied. I suppose if anything happens to you, Peabody,
you will expect us to bury you?"
"Oh, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Miles," entreated Peabody, showing
symptoms of becoming hysterical. "I really can't bear it."
"It's my belief that nature has made a mistake, and Peabody was meant
for a woman," said Miles, shrugging his shoulders.
"I will assist you, my friend," said the Scotchman. "It's all that
remains for us to do for the poor fellows."
"Not quite all," said Tom. "Somebody ought to write to the poor wife. We
have her address in the letter you took from the pocket."
"Well thought of, my lad," said Fletcher. "Will you undertake it?"
"If you think I can do it properly," said Tom modestly.
"It'll be grievous news, whoever writes it. You can do it as well as
another."
In due time Mrs. Collins received a letter revealing the sad fate of her
husband, accompanied with a few simple words of sympathy.
Over the grave a rude cross was planted, fashioned of two boards, with
the name of James Collins, cut out with a jack-knife, upon them. This
inscription was the work of Miles.
"Somebody may see it who knows Collins," he said.
It happened that, on the second night after the discovery of Collins and
his unfortunate companion, Lawrence Peabody's turn came to stand watch.
He was very uneasy and nervous through the day. In the hope of escaping
the ordeal he so much dreaded he bound a handkerchief round his head.
"What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher.
"I've got a fearful headache," groaned Peabody. "It seems to me as if it
would split open."
"Let me feel of it," said Fletcher.
"It doesn't feel hot; it doesn't throb," he said.
"It aches terribly," said Peabody. "I'm very subject to headache. It is
the effect of a delicate constitution."
"The fellow is shamming," said Fletcher to himself; and he felt disgust
rather than sympathy.
"It's a little curious, Mr. Peabody, that this headache should not come
upon you till the day you are to stand on watch," remarked the leader,
with a sarcasm which even the young man from Boston detected.
"Yes, it's strange," he admitted, "and very unlucky, for of course you
won't expect a sick man to watch."
"You don't look at it in the right light, Mr. Peabody. I regard it as
rather lucky than otherwise."
Lawrence Peabody stared.
"I don't understand you, Mr. Fletcher," he said.
"If you have the headache, it will prevent you from going to sleep, and
you remember you expressed yourself as afraid that you might. If you
were quite well, I might feel rather afraid of leaving the camp in your
charge. Now, I am sure you won't fall asleep."
Mr. Peabody listened in dismay. The very plan to which he had resorted
in the hope of evading duty was likely to fasten that duty upon him.
"He'll be well before night," thought Fletcher shrewdly; and he
privately imparted the joke to the rest of the party. The result was
that Mr. Peabody became an object of general attention.
In half an hour the young man from Boston removed his handkerchief from
his head.
"Are you feeling better, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom.
"Very much better," said Peabody.
"Your headache seems to pass off suddenly."
"Yes, it always does," said the young Bostonian. "I am like mother in
that. She had a delicate constitution, just like mine. One minute she
would have a headache as if her head would split open, and half an hour
afterward she would feel as well as usual."
"You are very fortunate. I was afraid your headache would make it
uncomfortable for you to watch to-night."
"Yes, it would; but, as the captain said, it would have kept me awake.
Now I don't believe I can keep from sleeping on my post."
"Why don't you tell Fletcher so?"
"Won't you tell him, Tom? He might pay more attention to it if you told
him."
"No, Mr. Peabody. You are certainly the most suitable person to speak to
him. What makes you think he would pay more attention to me, who am only
a boy?"
"He seems to like you, Tom."
"I hope he does, but really, Mr. Peabody, you must attend to your own
business."
Fletcher was at the head of the train, walking beside the first wagon.
Hearing hurried steps, he turned, and saw Mr. Lawrence Peabody, panting
for breath.
"Have you got over your headache, Mr. Peabody?" he asked, with a quiet
smile.
"Yes, Mr. Fletcher, it's all gone."
"I am glad to hear it."
"It would have kept me awake to-night, as you remarked," said Peabody.
"Now, I am really afraid that I shall fall asleep."
"That would be bad for you."
"Why so?"
"You remember those two poor fellows whom we found scalped the other
day?"
"I shall never forget them," said Lawrence Peabody, with a shudder.
"Better think of them to-night. If you go to sleep on watch, those very
Indians may serve you in the same way."
"Oh, good gracious!" ejaculated Peabody, turning pale.
"They or some of their tribe are, no doubt, near at hand."
"Don't you think you could excuse me, Mr. Fletcher?" stammered Peabody,
panic-stricken.
"No!" thundered Fletcher, so sternly that the unhappy Bostonian shrank
back in dismay.
For the credit of Boston, it may be said that John Miles--a
broad-shouldered young giant, who did not know what fear was--more
honorably represented the same city.