Chapter Fourteen
“The big man with the blue glass eyes is a villain,” said the Indian chief, after a long scrutiny of the botanist’s countenance.
“So some of my mistaken friends have thought,” returned the man, speaking for the first time in his natural voice, which caused a thrill to pass through Paul Bevan’s frame.
“He is a thief,” continued the chief, still gazing steadily at the blue glasses, “and a murderer!”
“He’s all that, and liar and deceiver into the bargain,” thought Tolly Trevor, but Tolly did not speak; he only vented his feelings in a low chuckle, for he saw, or thought he saw, that the robber’s career was about to receive a check. As the thought passed through his brain, however, he observed from the position in which he stood that Stalker—for, as the reader has doubtless perceived, it was he—was working his hands about in a very soft slow, mysterious, and scarcely observable manner.
“Oho!” thought Tolly, “is that your little game? Ha! I’ll spoil it for you!”
He quietly took up a piece of firewood and began, as it were, to amuse himself therewith.
“You has many faces, many colours,” continued Unaco, “and too many eyes.”
At the last word he plucked the blue glasses off the botanist’s nose and flung them into the fire.
“My enemy!” gasped Paul Bevan, turning first very pale and then very red, as he glared like a chained tiger at his foe.
“You knows him now?” said Unaco, turning abruptly to Paul.
“Yes; I knows him!”
“The white man with the forked tongue say jus’ now he not knows him.”
“Ay, Redskin, an’ I said the truth, for he’s a rare deceiver—always has been—an’ can pass himself off for a’most anything. I knows him as my mortal foe. Cast my hands loose an’ give me a knife an’ you shall see.”
“O father! your promise—remember!” exclaimed Betty.
“True, dear lass, true; I forgot,” returned Paul, with a humbled look; “yet it is hard for a man to see him there, grinning like a big baboon, an’ keep his hands off him.”
During this dialogue the Indians looked from one speaker to another with keen interest, although none but their chief understood a word of what was said; and Stalker took advantage of their attention being turned for the moment from himself to carry out what Tolly had styled his “little game,” all unaware that the boy was watching him like a lynx.
Among other shifts and devices with which the robber chief had become familiar, he had learned the conjuror’s method of so arranging his limbs while being bound, that he could untie his bonds in a marvellous manner. On the present occasion, however, he had been tied by men who were expert in the use of deerskin thongs, and he found some difficulty in loosening them without attracting attention, but he succeeded at last. He had been secured only by the wrists and forearms, and remained sitting still a few seconds after he was absolutely free; then, seizing what he believed to be his opportunity, he leapt up, dashed the Indian nearest him to the earth, and sprang like a deer towards the bushes.
But Tolly Trevor was ready for him. That daring youth plunged right in front of the big botanist and stooped. Stalker tripped over him and came violently to the ground on his forehead and nose. Before he could rise Tolly had jumped up, and swinging his billet of wood once in the air, brought it down with all his little might on the robber’s crown. It sufficed to stupefy him, and when he recovered he found himself in the close embrace of three muscular Redskins.
“Well done, Tolly Trevor!” shouted Paul Bevan, enthusiastically.
Even Tom Brixton, who had been looking on in a state of inexpressible surprise, managed to utter a feeble cheer.
But the resources of the robber were not yet exhausted. Finding himself in the grasp of overwhelming numbers, he put forth all his strength, as if to make a final effort, and then, suddenly collapsing, dropped limp and helpless to the ground, as a man does when he is stabbed to the heart.
The savages knew the symptoms well—too well! They rose, breathless, and each looked inquiringly at the other, as though to say, “Who did the deed?” Before they discovered that the deed had not been done at all, Stalker sprang up, knocked down two of them, overturned the third, and, bounding into the bushes, was out of sight in a few seconds.
The whole band, of course, went yelling after him, except their chief, who stood with an angry scowl upon his visage, and awaited the return of his braves.
One by one they came back panting and discomfited, for the white robber had outrun them all and got clear away.
“Well, now, it was cliverly done,” remarked Paddy Flinders, finding his tongue at last; “an’ I raly can’t but feel that he desarves to git off this time. All the same I hope he’ll be nabbed at last an’ recaive his due—bad luck to him!”
“Now, Redskin—” began Bevan.
“My name is Unaco,” interrupted the chief, with a look of dignity.
“Well, then, Unaco,” continued Bevan, “since ye must see that we have nothing whatever to do wi’ the blackguard that’s just given ye the slip, I hope you’ll see your way to untie our hands an’ let us go.”
“You may not belong to that man’s band,” answered the chief, in his own tongue, “but you are a white man, and by white men I have been robbed of my wife and child. Your lives are forfeited. You shall be slaves to those whom you call Redskins, and this girl with the sunny hair shall replace the lost one in my wigwam.”
Without deigning to listen to a reply, Unaco turned and gave orders to his men, who at once brought up the horse and pony, set Betty and Tolly thereon, lifted Tom Brixton on their shoulders as before, and resumed their march deeper into the fastnesses of the Sawback Hills.
It was growing rapidly dark as they advanced, but the chief who led the party was intimately acquainted with every foot of the way, and as the moon rose before daylight had quite disappeared, they were enabled to continue their journey by night.
“No doubt” remarked Fred Westly to Paul, who was permitted to walk beside him, though Flinders was obliged to walk behind— “no doubt the chief fears that Stalker will pursue him when he is rejoined by his robber band, and wants to get well out of his way.”
“Very likely,” returned Bevan; “an’ it’s my opinion that he’ll find some more of his tribe hereabouts, in which case Master Stalker and his blackguards will have pretty stiff work cut out for them.”
“What think you of the threat of the chief to take Betty to be one of his wives?” asked Fred.
“Well, I don’t think he’ll do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve got a hold over him that he’s not aware of just yet.”
“What is that, and why did you not make use of it just now to prevent our being needlessly led farther into these mountains?” asked Fred, in surprise.
“What the hold is,” returned Bevan, “you shall know at supper-time. The reason why I didn’t make use of it sooner is that on the whole, I think it better to stick by the Redskins yet awhile—first, because if Stalker should look for us, as he’s sartin sure to do, we would not be strong enough to fight him in the open; and, secondly, because poor Tom Brixton needs rest, and he has more chance o’ that in the circumstances, wi’ the Redskins than he could have with us while being hunted by robbers; and, lastly, because Betty would come to grief if she fell into that villain Stalker’s hands just now.”
While Paul and Fred were thus conversing, the Rose of Oregon and her little protector rode silently beside each other, buried, apparently, in profound thought.
At last Tolly raised his head and voice.
“Betty,” said he, “what a lucky thing it was that we fell in wi’ Tom Brixton, and that you were able to give him somethin’ to eat.”
“Yes, thank God,” replied the girl, fervently.
“He’d have died but for you,” said the boy.
“And you, Tolly,” added Betty.
“Well, yes, I did have a finger in the pie,” returned the boy, with a self-satisfied air; “but I say, Betty,” he added, becoming suddenly serious, “what d’ye think o’ what that rascally chief said about takin’ you to his wigwam? You know that means he intends to make you his wife.”
“Yes, I know; but God will deliver me,” answered the girl.
“How d’ye know that?”
“Because I put my trust in Him.”
“Oh! but,” returned the boy, with a slight look of surprise, “unless God works a miracle I don’t see how He can deliver us from the Redskins, and you know He doesn’t work miracles nowadays.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” replied the girl. “More than once I have seen a man who had been nearly all his life given to drinking, fighting, thieving, and swearing, and every sort of wickedness, surrender himself body and soul to Jesus Christ, so that he afterwards gave up all his evil ways, and led a pure and peaceable life, trying not only to serve God himself, but doing his best to bring his old companions to the same state of mind. What would you call that, Tolly?”
“I’m bound to say it’s as near a miracle as can be, if not one altogether. But in what way do you think God will deliver you just now?”
“That I cannot tell; but I know this, it is written in His Word that those who put their trust in Him shall never be confounded, and I have put my trust in Him. He will never forsake me.”
“I wish I had as strong faith as you, Betty,” said the boy, with a grave look.
“You may have it—and stronger than I have, for faith is the gift of God, and we shall get it not in proportion to our trying to get it or to our trying to rouse it, or to our working for it, but according as we ask for it. The Holy Spirit can work anything in us and by us, and He is promised to those who merely ask in the name of Jesus. Ah! Tolly, have I not often told you this, that in God’s Word it is written, ‘Ye have not because ye ask not?’”
While these two were yet speaking, the chief called a halt, and, after a brief consultation with some of his braves, ordered the band to encamp for the night.
Soon the camp fires were lighted under the spreading trees, and their bright blaze and myriad sparks converted the gloomy forest into a brilliant banqueting hall, in which, unlike civilised halls, the decorations were fresh and natural, and the atmosphere was pure.
There were at least six camp-fires, each with its circle of grave red warriors, its roasting steaks and its bubbling kettle, in which latter was boiled a rich mixture of dried meat and flour. Some of the Indians stood conversing in low tones, their faces ruddy with the brilliant blaze and their backs as black as the surrounding background. Others lay at length on the ground or squatted thereon, placidly smoking their calumets, or the little iron pipes which formed part of the heads of their tomahawks, or tending the steaks and kettles. To an observer outside the circle of light the whole scene was intensely vivid and picturesque, for the groups, being at different distances, were varied in size, and the intense light that shone on those nearest the fires shed a softer glow on those who were more distant, while on the few Indians who moved about in search of firewood it cast a pale light which barely sufficed to distinguish them from surrounding darkness.
Paul Bevan and his friends occupied a fire by themselves, the only native who stood beside them being Unaco. It is probable that the savage chief constituted himself their guard in order to make quite sure of them, for the escape of Stalker weighed heavily on his mind. To secure this end more effectively, and at the same time enable the captives to feed themselves, the right arm of each was freed, while the left was tied firmly to his body. Of course, Betty and Tom Brixton were left altogether unbound.
“I feel uncommon lopsided goin’ about in this one-armed fashion,” remarked Paul, as he turned the stick on which his supper was roasting. “Couldn’t ye make up yer mind to trust us, Unaco? I’d promise for myself an’ friends that we wouldn’t attempt to cut away like that big thief Stalker.”
The chief, who sat a little apart near the farther end of the blazing pile of logs, smoking his pipe in motionless gravity, took not the slightest notice.
“Arrah! howld yer tongue, Paul,” said Flinders, who made so much use of his one arm, in stirring the kettle, turning a roasting venison rib, and arranging the fire, that it seemed as if he were in full possession of two; “why d’ye disturb his majesty? Don’t ye see that he’s meditatin’, or suthin’ o’ that sort—maybe about his forefathers?”
“Well, well, I hope his after mothers won’t have many sulky ones like him,” returned Paul, rather crossly. “It’s quite impossible to cut up a steak wi’ one hand, so here goes i’ the next best fashion.”
He took up the steak in his fingers, and was about to tear off a mouthful with his teeth, when Betty came to the rescue.
“Stay, father; I’ll cut it into little bits for you if Unaco will kindly lend me his scalping-knife.”
Without a word or look the chief quietly drew the glittering weapon from its sheath and handed it to Betty, who at once, using a piece of sharpened stick as a fork, cut her father’s portion into manageable lumps.
“That’s not a bad notion,” said Fred. “Perhaps you’ll do the same for me, Betty.”
“With pleasure, Mr Westly.”
“Ah, now, av it wouldn’t be axin’ too much, might I make so bowld—”
Flinders did not finish the sentence, but laid his pewter plate before the Rose of Oregon with a significant smile.
“I’m glad to be so unexpectedly useful,” said Betty, with a laugh.
When she had thus aided her half-helpless companions, Betty returned the knife to its owner, who received it with a dignified inclination of the head. She then filled a mug with soup, and went to Tom, who lay on a deerskin robe, gazing at her in rapt admiration, and wondering when he was going to awake out of this most singular dream, for, in his weak condition, he had taken to disbelieving all that he saw.
“And yet it can’t well be a dream,” he murmured, with a faint smile, as the girl knelt by his side, “for I never dreamed anything half so real. What is this—soup?”
“Yes; try to take a little. It will do you good, with God’s blessing.”
“Ah, yes, with God’s blessing,” repeated the poor youth, earnestly. “You know what that means, Betty, and—and—I think I am beginning to understand it.”
Betty made no reply, but a feeling of profound gladness crept into her heart.
When she returned to the side of her father she found that he had finished supper, and was just beginning to use his pipe.
“When are you going to tell me, Paul, about the—the—subject we were talking of on our way here?” asked Fred, who was still devoting much of his attention to a deer’s rib.
“I’ll tell ye now,” answered Paul, with a short glance at the Indian chief, who still sat, profoundly grave, in the dreamland of smoke. “There’s no time like after supper for a good pipe an’ a good story—not that what I’m goin’ to tell ye is much of a story either, but it’s true, if that adds vally to it, an’ it’ll be short. It’s about a brave young Indian I once had the luck to meet with. His name was Oswego.”
At the sound of the name Unaco cast a sharp glance at Bevan. It was so swift that no one present observed it save Bevan himself, who had expected it. But Paul pretended not to notice it, and turning himself rather more towards Fred, addressed himself pointedly to him.
“This young Indian,” said Paul, “was a fine specimen of his race, tall and well made, with a handsome countenance, in which truth was as plain as the sun in the summer sky. I was out after grizzly b’ars at the time, but hadn’t had much luck, an’ was comin’ back to camp one evenin’ in somethin’ of a sulky humour, when I fell upon a trail which I knowed was the trail of a Redskin. The Redskins was friendly at that time wi’ the whites, and as I was out alone, an’ am somethin’ of a sociable critter, I thought I’d follow him up an’ take him to my camp wi’ me, if he was willin’, an’ give him some grub an’ baccy. Well, I hadn’t gone far when I came to a precipiece. The trail followed the edge of it for some distance, an’ I went along all right till I come to a bit where the trail seemed to go right over it. My heart gave a jump, for I seed at a glance that a bit o’ the cliff had given way there, an’ as there was no sign o’ the trail farther on, of course I knowed that the Injin, whoever he was, must have gone down with it.
“I tried to look over, but it was too steep an’ dangerous, so I sought for a place where I could clamber down. Sure enough, when I reached the bottom, there lay the poor Redskin. I thought he was dead, for he’d tumbled from a most awful height, but a tree had broke his fall to some extent, and when I went up to him I saw by his eyes that he was alive, though he could neither speak nor move.
“I soon found that the poor lad was damaged past recovery; so, after tryin’ in vain to get him to speak to me, I took him in my arms as tenderly as I could and carried him to my camp. It was five miles off, and the road was rough, and although neither groan nor complaint escaped him, I knew that poor Oswego suffered much by the great drops o’ perspiration that rolled from his brow; so, you see, I had to carry him carefully. When I’d gone about four miles I met a small Injin boy who said he was Oswego’s brother, had seen him fall, an’, not bein’ able to lift him, had gone to seek for help, but had failed to find it.
“That night I nursed the lad as I best could, gave him some warm tea, and did my best to arrange him comfortably. The poor fellow tried to speak his gratitude, but couldn’t; yet I could see it in his looks. He died next day, and I buried him under a pine-tree. The poor heart-broken little brother said he knew the way back to the wigwams of his tribe, so I gave him the most of the provisions I had, told him my name, and sent him away.”
At this point in the story Unaco rose abruptly, and said to Bevan—
“The white man will follow me.”
Paul rose, and the chief led him into the forest a short way, when he turned abruptly, and, with signs of emotion unusual in an Indian, said—
“Your name is Paul Bevan?”
“It is.”
“I am the father of Oswego,” said the chief, grasping Paul by the hand and shaking it vigorously in the white man’s fashion.
“I know it, Unaco, and I know you by report, though we’ve never met before, and I told that story in your ear to convince ye that my tongue is not ‘forked.’”
When Paul Bevan returned to the camp fire, soon afterwards, he came alone, and both his arms were free. In a few seconds he had the satisfaction of undoing the bonds of his companions, and relating to them the brief but interesting conversation which had just passed between him and the Indian chief.
Chapter Fifteen
At the edge of a small plain, or bit of prairie land, that shone like a jewel in a setting of bush-clad hills, dwelt the tribe of natives who owned Unaco as their chief.
It was a lovely spot, in one of the most secluded portions of the Sawback range, far removed at that time from the evil presence of the gold-diggers, though now and then an adventurous “prospector” would make his way to these remote solitudes in quest of the precious metal. Up to that time those prospectors had met with nothing to reward them for their pains, save the gratification to be derived from fresh mountain air and beautiful scenery.
It required three days of steady travelling to enable the chief and his party to reach the wigwams of the tribe. The sun was just setting, on the evening of the third day, when they passed out of a narrow defile and came in sight of the Indian village.
“It seems to me, Paul,” remarked Fred Westly, as they halted to take a brief survey of the scene, “that these Indians have found an admirable spot on which to lead a peaceful life, for the region is too high and difficult of access to tempt many gold-hunters, and the approaches to it could be easily defended by a handful of resolute men.”
“That is true,” replied Bevan, as they continued on their way. “Nevertheless, it would not be very difficult for a few resolute men to surprise and capture the place.”
“Perchance Stalker and his villains may attempt to prove the truth of what you say,” suggested Fred.
“They will certainly attempt it” returned Paul, “but they are not what I call resolute men. Scoundrels are seldom blessed wi’ much resolution, an’ they’re never heartily united.”
“What makes you feel so sure that they will follow us up, Paul?”
“The fact that my enemy has followed me like a bloodhound for six years,” answered Bevan, with a frown.
“Is it touching too much on private matters to ask why he is your enemy, and why so vindictive?”
“The reason Is simple enough. Buxley hates me, and would kill me if he could. Indeed I’m half afraid that he will manage it at last, for I’ve promised my little gal that I won’t kill him ’cept in self-defence, an’ of course if I don’t kill him he’s pretty sure to kill me.”
“Does Betty know why this man persecutes you so?”
“No—she don’t.”
As it was evident, both from his replies and manner, that Bevan did not mean to be communicative on the subject, Fred forbore to ask more questions about it.
“So you think Unaco may be depended on?” he asked, by way of changing the subject.
“Ay, surely. You may depend on it that the Almighty made all men pretty much alike as regards their feelin’s. The civilised people an’ the Redskins ain’t so different as some folk seem to think. They can both of ’em love an’ hate pretty stiffly, an’ they are both able to feel an’ show gratitude as well as the reverse—also, they’re pretty equal in the matter of revenge.”
“But don’t we find,” said Fred, “that among Christians revenge is pretty much held in check?”
“Among Christians—ay,” replied Bevan; “but white men ain’t always Christians, any more than red men are always devils. Seems to me it’s six o’ one an’ half a dozen o’ the other. Moreover, when the missionaries git among the Redskins, some of ’em turns Christians an’ some hypocrites—just the same as white men. What Unaco is, in the matter o’ Christianity, is not for me to say, for I don’t know; but from what I do know, from hearsay, of his character, I’m sartin sure that he’s a good man and true, an’ for that little bit of sarvice I did to his poor boy, he’d give me his life if need be.”
“Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that we might have returned to Simpson’s Gully, and taken the risk of meeting with Stalker,” said Fred.
“Ha! that’s because you don’t know him,” returned Bevan. “If he had met with his blackguards soon after leaving us, he’d have overtook us by this time. Anyway, he’s sure to send scouts all round, and follow up the trail as soon as he can.”
“But think what a trial this rough journey has been to poor Tom Brixton,” said Fred.
“No doubt,” returned Paul; “but haven’t we got him on Tolly’s pony to-day? and isn’t that a sign he’s better? An’ would you have me risk Betty fallin’ Into the hands o’ Buxley?”
Paul looked at his companion as if this were an unanswerable argument and Fred admitted that it was.
“Besides,” he went on, “it will be a pleasant little visit this, to a friendly tribe o’ Injins, an’ we may chance to fall in wi’ gold, who knows? An’ when the ugly thieves do succeed in findin’ us, we shall have the help o’ the Redskins, who are not bad fighters when their cause is a good ’un an’ their wigwams are in danger.”
“It may be so, Paul. However, right or wrong, here we are, and a most charming spot it is, the nearer we draw towards it.”
As Fred spoke, Betty Bevan, who rode in advance, reined in her horse,—which, by the way, had become much more docile in her hands,—and waited till her father overtook her.
“Is it not like paradise, father?”
“Not havin’ been to paradise, dear, I can’t exactly say,” returned her matter-of-fact sire.
“Oh, I say, ain’t it splendatious!” said Tolly Trevor, coming up at the moment, and expressing Betty’s idea in somewhat different phraseology; “just look at the lake—like a lookin’-glass, with every wigwam pictur’d upside down, so clear that a feller can’t well say which is which. An’ the canoes in the same way, bottom to bottom, Redskins above and Redskins below. Hallo! I say, what’s that?”
The excited lad pointed, as he spoke, to the bushes, where a violent motion and crashing sound told of some animal disturbed in its lair. Next moment a beautiful little antelope bounded into an open space, and stopped to cast a bewildered gaze for one moment on the intruders. That pause proved fatal. A concealed hunter seized his opportunity; a sharp crack was heard, and the animal fell dead where it stood, shot through the head.
“Poor, poor creature!” exclaimed the tender-hearted Betty.
“Not a bad supper for somebody,” remarked her practical father.
As he spoke the bushes parted at the other side of the open space, and the man who had fired the shot appeared.
He was a tall and spare, but evidently powerful fellow. As he advanced towards our travellers they could see that he was not a son of the soil, but a white man—at least as regards blood, though his face, hands, neck, and bared bosom had been tanned by exposure to as red a brown as that of any Indian.
“He’s a trapper,” exclaimed Tolly, as the man drew nearer, enabling them to perceive that he was middle-aged and of rather slow and deliberate temperament with a sedate expression on his rugged countenance.
“Ay, he looks like one o’ these wanderin’ chaps,” said Bevan, “that seem to be fond of a life o’ solitude in the wilderness. I’ve knowed a few of ’em. Queer customers some, that stick at nothin’ when their blood’s up; though I have met wi’ one or two that desarved an easier life, an’ more o’ this world’s goods. But most of ’em prefer to hunt for their daily victuals, an’ on’y come down to the settlements when they run out o’ powder an’ lead, or want to sell their furs. Hallo! Why, Tolly, boy, it is—yes! I do believe it’s Mahoghany Drake himself!”
Tolly did not reply, for he had run eagerly forward to meet the trapper, having already recognised him.
“His name is a strange one,” remarked Fred Westly, gazing steadily at the man as he approached.
“Drake is his right name,” explained Bevan, “an’ Mahoghany is a handle some fellers gave him ’cause he’s so much tanned wi’ the sun. He’s one o’ the right sort, let me tell ye. None o’ your boastin’, bustin’ critters, like Gashford, but a quiet, thinkin’ man, as is ready to tackle any subject a’most in the univarse, but can let his tongue lie till it’s time to speak. He can hold his own, too wi’ man or beast. Ain’t he friendly wi’ little Tolly Trevor? He’ll shake his arm out o’ the socket if he don’t take care. I’ll have to go to the rescue.”
In a few seconds Paul Bevan was having his own arm almost dislocated by the friendly shake of the trapper’s hand, for, although fond of solitude, Mahoghany Drake was also fond of human beings, and especially of old friends.
“Glad to see you, gentlemen,” he said, in a low, soft voice, when introduced by Paul to the travellers. At the same time he gave a friendly little nod to Unaco, thus indicating that with the Indian chief he was already acquainted.
“Well, Drake,” said Bevan, after the first greetings were over, “all right at the camp down there?”
“All well,” he replied, “and the Leaping Buck quite recovered.”
He cast a quiet glance at the Indian chief as he spoke, for the Leaping Buck was Unaco’s little son, who had been ailing when his father left his village a few weeks before.
“No sign o’ gold-seekers yet?” asked Paul.
“None—’cept one lot that ranged about the hills for a few days, but they seemed to know nothin’. Sartinly they found nothin’, an’ went away disgusted.”
The trapper indulged in a quiet chuckle as he said this.
“What are ye larfin’ at?” asked Paul.
“At the gold-seekers,” replied Drake.
“What was the matter wi’ ’em,” asked Tolly.
“Not much, lad, only they was blind, and also ill of a strong appetite.”
“Ye was always fond o’ speakin’ in riddles,” said Paul. “What d’ye mean, Mahoghany!”
“I mean that though there ain’t much gold in these hills, maybe, what little there is the seekers couldn’t see, though they was walkin’ over it, an’ they was so blind they couldn’t hit what they fired at, so their appetites was stronger than was comfortable. I do believe they’d have starved if I hadn’t killed a buck for them.”
During this conversation Paddy Flinders had been listening attentively and in silence. He now sidled up to Tom Brixton, who, although bestriding Tolly’s pony, seemed ill able to travel.
“D’ye hear what the trapper says, Muster Brixton?”
“Yes, Paddy, what then?”
“Och! I only thought to cheer you up a bit by p’intin’ out that he says there’s goold hereabouts.”
“I’m glad for your sake and Fred’s,” returned Tom, with a faint smile, “but it matters little to me; I feel that my days are numbered.”
“Ah then, sor, don’t spake like that,” returned Flinders, with a woebegone expression on his countenance. “Sure, it’s in the dumps ye are, an’ no occasion for that same. Isn’t Miss—”
The Irishman paused. He had it in his heart to say, “Isn’t Miss Betty smilin’ on ye like one o’clock?” but, never yet having ventured even a hint on that subject to Tom, an innate feeling of delicacy restrained him. As the chief who led the party gave the signal to move on at that moment it was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence.
The Indian village, which was merely a cluster of tents made of deerskins stretched on poles, was now plainly visible from the commanding ridge along which the party travelled. It occupied a piece of green level land on the margin of the lake before referred to, and, with its background of crag and woodland and its distance of jagged purple hills, formed as lovely a prospect as the eye of man could dwell upon.
The distance of the party from it rendered every sound that floated towards them soft and musical. Even the barking of the dogs and the shouting of the little Redskins at play came up to them in a mellow, almost peaceful, tone. To the right of the village lay a swamp, from out of which arose the sweet and plaintive cries of innumerable gulls, plovers, and other wild-fowl, mingled with the trumpeting of geese and the quacking of ducks, many of which were flying to and fro over the glassy lake, while others were indulging in aquatic gambols among the reeds and sedges.
399 AZN qarşılığında bu va daha 2 kitab