Do and Dare — a Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune

CHAPTER XXIX. A NEW HOME IN THE WOODS

George Melville had no definite destination. He was traveling, not for pleasure, but for health, and his purpose was to select a residence in some high location, where the dry air would be favorable for his pulmonary difficulties.

A week later he had found a temporary home. One afternoon Herbert and he, each on horseback, for at that time public lines of travel were fewer than at present, came suddenly upon a neat, one-story cottage in the edge of the forest. It stood alone, but it was evidently the home of one who aimed to add something of the graces of civilization to the rudeness of frontier life.

They reined up simultaneously, and Melville, turning to Herbert, said: “There, Herbert, is my ideal of a residence. I should not be satisfied with a rude cabin. There I should find something of the comfort which we enjoy in New England.”

“The situation is fine, too,” said Herbert, looking about him admiringly.

The cottage stood on a knoll. On either side were tall and stately trees. A purling brook at the left rolled its silvery current down a gentle declivity, and in front, for half a mile, was open country.

“I have a great mind to call and inquire who lives here.” said Melville. “Perhaps we can arrange to stay here all night.”

“That is a good plan, Mr. Melville.”

George Melville dismounted from his horse, and, approaching, tapped with the handle of his whip on the door.

“Who’s there?” inquired a smothered voice, as of one rousing himself from sleep.

“A stranger, but a friend,” answered Melville.

There was a sound as of some one moving, and a tall man, clad in a rough suit, came to the door, and looked inquiringly at Melville and his boy companion.

Though his attire was rude, his face was refined, and had the indefinable air of one who would be more at home in the city than in the country.

“Delighted to see you both,” he said, cordially, offering his hand. “I don’t live in a palace, and my servants are all absent, but if you will deign to become my guests I will do what I can for your comfort.”

“You have anticipated my request,” said Melville. “Let me introduce myself as George Melville, an invalid by profession, just come from New England in search of health. My young friend here is Herbert Carr, my private secretary and faithful companion, who has not yet found out what it is to be in poor-health. Without him I should hardly have dared to come so far alone.”

“You are very welcome, Herbert,” said the host, with pleasant familiarity. “Come in, both of you, and make yourselves at home.”

The cottage contained two rooms. One was used as a bedchamber, the other as a sitting room. On the walls were a few pictures, and on a small bookcase against one side of the room were some twenty-five books. There was an easel and an unfinished picture in one corner, and a small collection of ordinary furniture.

“You are probably an artist,” suggested Melville.

“Yes, you have hit it. I use both pen and pencil,” and he mentioned a name known to Melville as that of a popular magazine writer.

I do not propose to give his real name, but we will know him as Robert Falkland.

“I am familiar with your name, Mr. Falkland,” said Melville, “but I did not expect to find you here.”

“Probably not,” answered Falkland. “I left the haunts of civilization unexpectedly, some months ago, and even my publishers don’t know where I am.”

“In search of health?” queried Melville.

“Not exactly. I did, however, feel in need of a change. I had been running in a rut, and wanted to get out of it, so I left my lodgings in New York and bought a ticket to St. Louis; arrived there, I determined to come farther. So here I have been, living in communion with nature, seeing scarcely anybody, enjoying myself, on the whole, but sometimes longing to see a new face.”

“And you have built this cottage?”

“No; I bought it of its former occupant, but have done something towards furnishing it; so that it has become characteristic of me and my tastes.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Three months; but my stay is drawing to a close.”

“How is that?”

“Business that will not be put off calls me back to New York. In fact, I had appointed to-morrow for my departure.”

Melville and Herbert exchanged a glance. It was evident that the same thought was in the mind of each.

“Mr. Falkland,” said George Melville, “I have a proposal to make to you.”

The artist eyed him in some surprise.

“Go on,” he said.

“I will buy this cottage of you, if you are willing.”

Falkland smiled.

“This seems providential,” he said. “We artists and men of letters are apt to be short of money, and I confess I was pondering whether my credit was good with anybody for a hundred dollars to pay my expenses East. Once arrived there, there are plenty of publishers who will make me advances on future work.”

“Then we can probably make a bargain,” said Mr. Melville. “Please name your price.”

Now, I do not propose to show my ignorance of real estate values in Colorado by naming the price which George Melville paid for his home in the wilderness. In fact, I do not know. I can only say that he gave Falkland a check for the amount on a Boston bank, and a hundred in cash besides.

“You are liberal, Mr. Melville,” said Falkland, gratified. “I am afraid you are not a business man. I have not found that business men overpay.”

“You are right, I am not a business man,” answered Melville, “though I wish my health would admit of my being so. As to the extra hundred dollars, I think it worth that much to come upon so comfortable a home ready to my hand. It will really be a home, such as the log cabin I looked forward to could not be.”

“Thank you,” said Falkland; “I won’t pretend that I am indifferent to money, for I can’t afford to be. I earn considerable sums, but, unfortunately, I never could keep money, or provide for the future.”

“I don’t know how it would be with me,” said Melville, “for I am one of those, fortunate or otherwise, who are born to a fortune. I have sometimes been sorry that I had not the incentive of poverty to induce me to work.”

“Then, suppose we exchange lots,” said the artist, lightly. “I shouldn’t object to being wealthy.”

“With all my heart,” answered Melville. “Give me your health, your literary and artistic talent, and it is a bargain.”

“I am afraid they are not transferable,” said the artist, “but we won’t prolong the discussion now. I am neglecting the rites of hospitality; I must prepare supper for my guests. You must know that here in the wilderness I am my own cook and dishwasher.”

“Let me help you?” said Melville.

“No, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, “it is more in my line. I have often helped mother at home, and I don’t believe you have had any experience.”

“I confess I am a green hand,” said Melville, laughing, “but, as Irish girls just imported say, ‘I am very willing.’”

“On the whole, I think the boy can assist me better,” said Falkland. “So, Mr. Melville, consider yourself an aristocratic visitor, while Herbert and myself, sons of toil, will minister to your necessities.”

“By the way, where do you get your supplies?” asked Melville.

“Eight miles away there is a mining camp and store. I ride over there once a week or oftener, and bring home what I need.”

“What is the name of the camp?”

“Deer Creek. I will point out to Herbert, before I leave you, the bridle path leading to it.”

“Thank you. It will be a great advantage to us to know just how to live.”

With Herbert’s help an appetizing repast was prepared, of which all three partook with keen zest.

The next day Falkland took leave of them, and Melville and his boy companion were left to settle down in their new home.

CHAPTER XXX. A TERRIBLE MOMENT

Melville’s purchase comprised not only the cottage, but its contents, pictures and books included. This was fortunate, for though Herbert, who was strong, and fond of outdoor sports, such as hunting and fishing, could have contented himself, Melville was easily fatigued, and spent at least half of the day in the cabin. The books, most of which were new to him, were a great and unfailing resource.

Among the articles which Falkland left behind him were two guns, of which Herbert and Melville made frequent use. Herbert had a natural taste for hunting, though, at home, having no gun of his own, he had not been able to gratify his taste as much as he desired. Often after breakfast the two sallied forth, and wandered about in the neighboring woods, gun in hand. Generally Melville returned first, leaving Herbert, not yet fatigued, to continue the sport. In this way our hero acquired a skill and precision of aim which enabled him to make a very respectable figure even among old and practiced hunters.

One morning, after Melville had returned home, Herbert was led, by the ardor of the chase, to wander farther than usual. He was aware of this, but did not fear being lost, having a compass and knowing his bearings. All at once, as he was making his way along a wooded path, he was startled by hearing voices. He hurried forward, and the scene upon which he intruded was dramatic enough.

With arms folded, a white man, a hunter, apparently, stood erect, and facing him, at a distance of seventy-five or eighty feet, was an Indian, with gun raised, and leveled at the former.

“Why don’t you shoot, you red rascal!” said the white man. “You’ve got the drop on me, I allow, and I am in your power.”

The Indian laughed in his guttural way; but though he held the gun poised, he did not shoot. He was playing with his victim as a cat plays with a mouse before she kills it.

“Is white man afraid?” said the Indian, not tauntingly, but with real curiosity, for among Indians it is considered a great triumph if a warrior can inspire fear in his foe, and make him show the white feather.

“Afraid!” retorted the hunter. “Who should I be afraid of?”

“Of Indian.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you pesky savage,” returned the white man, coolly, ejecting a flood of tobacco juice from his mouth, for though he was a brave man, he had some drawbacks. “You needn’t think I am afraid of you.”

“Indian shoot!” suggested his enemy, watching the effect of this announcement.

“Well, shoot, then, and be done with it.”

“White man no want to live?”

“Of course I want to live. Never saw a healthy white man that didn’t. If I was goin’ to die at all, I wouldn’t like to die by the hands of a red rascal like you.”

“Indian great warrior,” said the dusky denizen of the woods, straightening up, and speaking complacently.

“Indian may be great warrior, but he is a horse thief, all the same,” said the hunter, coolly.

“White man soon die, and Indian wear his scalp,” remarked the Indian, in a manner likely to disturb the composure of even the bravest listener.

The hunter’s face changed. It was impossible to reflect upon such a fate without a pang. Death was nothing to that final brutality.

“Ha! White man afraid now!” said the Indian, triumphantly—quick to observe the change of expression in his victim.

“No, I am not afraid,” said the hunter, quickly recovering himself; “but it’s enough to disgust any decent man to think that his scalp will soon be dangling from the belt of a filthy heathen like you. However, I suppose I won’t know it after I’m dead. You have skulked and dogged my steps, you red hound, ever since I punished you for trying to steal my horse. I made one great mistake. Instead of beating you, I should have shot you, and rid the earth of you once for all.”

“Indian no forget white man’s blows. White man die, and Indian be revenged.”

“Yes, I s’pose that’s what it’s coming to,” said the hunter, in a tone of resignation. “I was a ‘tarnal fool to come out this mornin’ without my gun. If I had it you would sing a different song.”

Again the Indian laughed, a low, guttural, unpleasant laugh, which Herbert listened to with a secret shudder. It was so full of malignity, and cunning triumph, and so suggestive of the fate which he reserved for his white foe, that it aggravated the latter, and made him impatient to have the blow fall, since it seemed to be inevitable.

“Why don’t you shoot, you red savage?” he cried. “What are you waiting for?”

The Indian wished to gloat over the mental distress of his foe. He liked to prolong his own feeling of power—to enjoy the consciousness that, at any moment, he could put an end to the life of the man whom he hated for the blows which he felt had degraded him, and which he was resolved never to forget or forgive. It was the same feeling that has often led those of his race to torture their hapless victims, that they may, as long as possible, enjoy the spectacle of their agonies. For this reason he was in no hurry to speed on its way the fatal bullet.

Again the Indian laughed, and, taking aim, made a feint of firing, but withheld his shot. Pale and resolute his intended victim continued to face him. He thought that the fatal moment had come, and braced himself to meet his fate; but he was destined to be disappointed.

“How long is this goin’ to last, you red hound?” he demanded. “If I’ve got to die, I am ready.”

“Indian can wait!” said the savage, with a smile of enjoyment.

“You wouldn’t find it prudent to wait if I were beside you,” said the hunter. “It’s easy enough to threaten an unarmed man. If some friend would happen along to foil you in your cowardly purpose—-”

“White man send for friend!” suggested the Indian, tauntingly.

Herbert had listened to this colloquy with varying emotions, and his anger and indignation were stirred by the cold-blooded cruelty of the savage. He stood motionless, seen by neither party, but he held his weapon leveled at the Indian, ready to shoot at an instant’s warning. Brought up, as he had been, with a horror for scenes of violence, and a feeling that human life was sacred, he had a great repugnance to use his weapon, even where it seemed his urgent duty to do so. He felt that on him, young as he was, rested a weighty responsibility. He could save the life of a man of his own color, but only by killing or disabling a red man. Indian though he was, his life, too, was sacred; but when he threatened the life of another he forfeited his claim to consideration.

Herbert hesitated till he saw it was no longer safe to do so—till he saw that it was the unalterable determination of the Indian to kill the hunter, and then, his face pale and fixed, he pulled the trigger.

His bullet passed through the shoulder of the savage. The latter uttered a shrill cry of surprise and dismay, and his weapon fell at his feet, while he pressed his left hand to his wounded shoulder.

The hunter, amazed at the interruption, which had been of such essential service to him, lost not a moment in availing himself of it. He bounded forward, and before the savage well knew what he purposed, he had picked up his fallen weapon, and, leveling it at his wounded foe, fired.

His bullet was not meant to disable, but to kill. It penetrated the heart of the savage, and, staggering back, he fell, his face distorted with rage and disappointment.

“The tables are turned, my red friend!” said the hunter, coolly. “It’s your life, not mine, this time!”

At that moment Herbert, pale and shocked, but relieved as well, pressed forward, and the hunter saw him for the first time.

“Was it you, boy, who fired the shot?” asked the hunter, in surprise.

“Yes,” answered Herbert.

“Then I owe you my life, and that’s a debt Jack Holden isn’t likely to forget!”

CHAPTER XXXI. JACK HOLDEN ON THE INDIAN QUESTION

It is a terrible thing to see a man stretched out in death who but a minute before stood full of life and strength. Herbert gazed at the dead Indian with a strange sensation of pity and relief, and could hardly realize that, but for his interposition, it would have been the hunter, not the Indian, who would have lost his life.

The hunter was more used to such scenes, and his calmness was unruffled.

“That’s the end of the dog!” he said, touching with his foot the dead body.

“What made him want to kill you?” asked Herbert.

“Revenge,” answered Holden.

“For what? Had you injured him?”

“That’s the way he looked at it. One day I caught the varmint stealin’ my best hoss. He’d have got away with him, too, if I hadn’t come home just as I did. I might have shot him—most men would—but I hate to take a man’s life for stealin’; and I took another way. My whip was lyin’ handy, and I took it and lashed the rascal over his bare back a dozen times, and then told him to dust, or I’d serve him worse. He left, but there was an ugly look in his eyes, and I knew well enough he’d try to get even.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Most a year. It’s a long time, but an Indian never forgets an injury or an insult, and I knew that he was only bidin’ his time. So I always went armed, and kept a good lookout. It was only this mornin’ that he caught me at a disadvantage. I’d been taking a walk, and left my gun at home. He was prowlin’ round, and soon saw how things stood. He’d have killed me sure, if you hadn’t come in the nick of time.”

“I am glad I was near,” said Herbert, “but it seems to me a terrible thing to shoot a man. I’m glad it wasn’t I that killed him.”

“Mebbe it was better for me, as he was my enemy,” said Jack Holden. “It won’t trouble my conscience a mite. I don’t look upon an Indian as a man.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a snake in the grass—a poisonous serpent, that’s what I call him,” said Jack Holden.

Herbert shook his head. He couldn’t assent to this.

“You feel different, no doubt. You’re a tenderfoot. You ain’t used to the ways of these reptiles. You haven’t seen what I have,” answered Holden.

“What have you seen?” asked Herbert, judging correctly that Holden referred to some special experience.

“I’ll tell you. You see, I’m an old settler in this Western country. I’ve traveled pretty much all over the region beyond the Rockies, and I’ve seen a good deal of the red men. I know their ways as well as any man. Well, I was trampin’ once in Montany, when, one afternoon, I and my pard—he was prospectin’—came to a clearin’, and there we saw a sight that made us all feel sick. It was the smokin’ ruins of a log cabin, which them devils had set on fire. But that wasn’t what I referred to. Alongside there lay six dead bodies—the man, his wife, two boys, somewhere near your age, a little girl, of maybe ten, and a baby—all butchered by them savages, layin’—in the hunter’s vernacular—in their gore. It was easy to see how they’d killed the baby, by his broken skull. They had seized the poor thing by the feet, and swung him against the side of the house, dashin’ out his brains.”

Herbert shuddered, and felt sick, as the picture of the ruined home and the wretched family rose before his imagination.

“It was Indians that did it, of course,” proceeded Holden. “They’re born savage, and such things come natural to them.”

“Are there no good Indians?” asked the boy.

“There may be,” answered Jack Holden, doubtfully, “though I haven’t seen many. They’re as scarce as plums in a boardin’ house puddin’, I reckon.”

I present this as Jack Holden’s view, not mine. He had the prejudices of the frontier, and frontiersmen are severe judges of their Indian neighbors. They usually look at but one side of the picture, and are not apt to take into consideration the wrongs which the Indians have undeniably received. There is another extreme, however, and the sentimentalists who deplore Indian wrongs, and represent them as a brave, suffering and oppressed people, are quite as far away from a just view of the Indian question.

“What’s your name, youngster?” asked Holden, with the curiosity natural under the circumstances.

“Herbert Carr.”

“Do you live nigh here?”

Herbert indicated, as well as he could, the location of his home.

“I know—you live with Mr. Falkland. Are you his son?”

“No; Mr. Falkland has gone away.”

“You’re not living there alone, be you?”

“No; I came out here with a young man—Mr. Melville. He bought the cottage of Mr. Falkland, who was obliged to go East.”

“You don’t say so. Why, we’re neighbors. I live three miles from here.”

“Did you know Mr. Falkland?”

“Yes; we used to see each other now and then. He was a good fellow, but mighty queer. What’s the use of settin’ down and paintin’ pictures? What’s the good of it all?”

“Don’t you admire pictures, Mr. Holden?” asked Herbert.

“That’s that you called me? I didn’t quite catch on to it.”

“Mr. Holden. Isn’t that your name?”

“Don’t call me mister. I’m plain Jack Holden. Call me Jack.”

“I will if you prefer it,” said Herbert, dubiously.

“Of course I do. We don’t go much on style in the woods. Won’t you come home with me, and take a look at my cabin? I ain’t used to company, but we can sit down and have a social smoke together, and then I’ll manage to find something to eat.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holden—I mean, Jack—but I must be getting home; Mr. Melville will be feeling anxious, for, as it is, I shall be late.”

“Is Mr. Melville, as you call him, any way kin to you?”

“No; he is my friend and employer.”

“Young man?”

“Yes; he is about twenty-five.”

“How long have you two been out here?”

“Not much over a week.”

“Why isn’t Melville with you this morning?”

“He is in delicate health—consumption—and he gets tired sooner than I do.”

“I must come over and see you, I reckon.”

“I hope you will. We get lonely