The Cabin on the Prairie Part 22

"You look worn out. Go and take a nap now, and if you are needed I will call you. You know the missionary is here, and will wish to be with him in the morning; and it is desirable that you should feel as well as you can, to encourage your husband."

Mrs. Jones, thus charged, retired to an adjoining room, thinking to rest herself for a short time, and then return. She felt that a great event was impending, and thought it impossible for her to close her eyes; but so utterly exhausted was she, that she immediately fell into a sound sleep, from which she was awakened at midnight by Mrs.

McElroy, who said,--

"A great change has come over your husband. I think he is going to get well. He wants to see you and the boys."

Hurrying to her husband's side, she found him sitting up in bed as composedly as if no trouble had ever disturbed the serenity of his mind, looking much as he did in their bridal hour. He had called for a bowl of water and a towel, and was calmly was.h.i.+ng himself. Bestowing on her a loving look as she entered, he asked,--

"Mary, dear, has the missionary come?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Can I see him now?"

Mrs. McElroy took out her watch, and said, pleasantly,--

"Are you particular about seeing him now? I suppose you are not aware how late it is."

"Yes," he answered, "it is twelve o'clock;" and his eye shone with a strange intelligence. "I should have sent for him a year ago, had not my heart been so proud and bitter. But I know _him_. He'll come now, if it is late."

There was something unearthly in his manner, and Mrs. McElroy said, rising,--

"It shall be as you request."

As Mr. Payson entered, the sick man extended his hand, saying,--

"I'm almost through, my friend. I've had some sore trials in life,--not so much on my own account as because of those who were too dear to me. We were cruelly wronged, and I have not been quite right here,"--placing his hand upon his forehead,--"and what has made it worse, I have been all wrong here,"--laying his hand upon his heart.

"I have doubted everybody, and distrusted my G.o.d. I have been hard and scornful, and hated my fellows; but it is different with me now. I have heard that voice speaking to me, that you told us of in the little cabin. He has said unto me, even me, 'Come,' and he has given me 'rest.' I have had a long, long struggle, but the conflict is over.

Ah, He is so different from human creditors! I have been a poor debtor, chased, hunted, oppressed, goaded almost to insanity, and none took pity on me, because I owed them a few paltry dollars, which I had the heart to pay, but, through the robberies of another, and their oppressions, could not. But what a debt I owed my Savior! Yet, without a word of reproach, he has forgiven me all!"

This was spoken with a wondrous energy and clearness of voice; but a deathly paleness began to overspread his face; partial delirium supervened, not raging, as before, but his features lighted up the while with a smile of heavenly beauty, and repeating again, his voice sinking to a whisper,--

"What did the preacher say? 'Come unto me, and I will give you rest.'

Rest! Rest! It is mine." His spirit was gone.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BOY IN THE TREE.

Charlie was a boy who naturally loved adventure. He was excitable, and yet had a reserved power, which, in great emergencies, made him cool and brave. He was fertile in expedients, and, when aroused, experienced a rollicking enjoyment in danger. In the little settlement he came across an old copy of Robinson Crusoe, and, charmed with its romantic descriptions, conceived the idea of becoming another Crusoe.

But there was a serious obstacle in his way. He could not convert a prairie into an ocean, and get s.h.i.+pwrecked. Yet if he lacked salt water, there was many a man Friday at hand,--for he mentally promoted every friendly Indian to that office,--and there were plenty of cannibals in the shape of disaffected Indians who were already threatening the settlements with depredation and carnage. Now, Charlie, to enjoy his book under congenial circ.u.mstances, and where he would not be interrupted by his mother saying, "Charlie, bring some wood," and "Charlie, get some water," and the various et-ceteras of domestic duty to which boys of his age and active habits are liable, looked about for some safe retreat, and chanced to find, one day, in the woods near at hand, a large, hollow tree. Many a time had he pa.s.sed it, and not discovered the welcome fact. The entrance was effectually concealed by a tangled clump of bushes. Had they taken it specially in hand to grow in such a way as to hide the hole in the tree, they could not have done it more thoroughly; and n.o.body but a prying young Crusoe of Charlie's qualifications would have spied out the entrance. Having discovered it, he would creep slyly in, and, by means of the light let in through a hole higher up in the trunk, would pore over the haps and mishaps of the Juan Fernandez hero, and imitate his achievements as well as he could.

It got to be a great mystery what became of Charlie through the long hours of the day. He could hear and see much of what pa.s.sed around him, and, with imperturbable gravity, would sit in his sly retreat, making no answer, while his mother would come to the cabin door, and call, in silvery treble,--

"Charlie! Charlie! Where are you, Charlie?"

And then, in turn, the father would make his appearance, and shout, in masculine ba.s.s,--

"Charlie, Charlie, your mother wants yer. Why don't you come?"

After a while Sarah would be despatched to search for him, and her girlish voice would repeat the parents' calls as she looked everywhere in vain.

Then, when he returned to the house, to the accustomed inquiry, "Why, where have you been? We've been calling you, and hunting everywhere for you," he would reply, with the utmost nonchalance, "O, only out here;" at which Sarah would retort, impatiently, "I know better than that; for I hunted all round for you, and you wasn't anywhere to be seen;" and Charlie respond, with compa.s.sionate condescension, "Pooh!

girls are great at hunting!"

Now, it was very wrong in Charlie to be so dumb when his parents wanted him, and to cause them so much concern by his unexplained absence; but he justified it to his own conscience on the ground that it was in keeping with his character as second Crusoe. Robinson Crusoe, in his estimation, was the greatest and most glorious man that ever lived. Charlie had taken him for his model in life; and it would derogate from the dignity of his position, while enacting the man Crusoe,--"monarch of all he surveyed,"--to obey as the child Charlie.

He was willing, when in the house, to do what was expected of him, as a boy under subjection; but when he was in his Crusoe cave, _alias_ the hollow tree, he was altogether another person; and he reasoned, in order to have things in harmony, he must act accordingly.

Charlie, by some means, had come into possession of a horse pistol, considerably out of order, it is true; but it served to fill the place of one of the two pistols Robinson Crusoe found on board the Spanish s.h.i.+p. He was in daily expectation of finding another; but needing ammunition to store up against a coming fray with the cannibals on the sh.o.r.e, he helped himself frequently to the contents of his father's powder-horn and bullet-pouch.

"What under the canopy makes my powder go so fast?" his father often exclaimed, as he replenished the mysteriously-wasting stock. The lad also begged ammunition of the free-hearted settlers, and by these means he laid up a surprisingly large amount of warlike munitions, kept securely in an old skin bag. He had also dried venison stowed away, and a good store of nuts, with pop-corn for parching, and potatoes for roasting--all against some coming time of need.

Now, it chanced that Charlie's tree-cave turned to good account, as it saved his curly scalp; for the afternoon of the Indian outbreak,--with one eye on the Crusoe history, and the other watching to see if any cannibals landed on the sh.o.r.e, taking an occasional sip from an old coffee-pot filled with spring water, which he called goat's milk,--the whole frightful scene of the ma.s.sacre pa.s.sed before him. He saw dear little Bub run to meet Yellow Bank, and he also saw what his mother did not in the panic, that, just as the treacherous savage fired, the little fellow tripped and fell, unharmed by the bullet. He saw, at that instant, his sister Sarah start from the store for the cabin, and that the fiendish savage did not notice Bub's escape, in his eagerness to intercept the girl; so that Bub, terrified by the report of the gun, and at seeing his sister struck down by Yellow Bank, dragged himself off in the direction of Charlie's tree, not seeming to know but that he was going towards the cabin.

He saw the door of the cabin closed, and that preparations were made to keep out the savages, and that the whole attention of the Indians was turned on a.s.saulting the house. So, cautiously creeping out, and placing one hand firmly over Bub's mouth to prevent him from making a sound, he drew him into the tree. He was fully aware that he did this at the risk of his own life; for if the child made an outcry, their hiding-place would be discovered, and they would both be sacrificed.

But he had too loving and n.o.ble a nature to save his own life by leaving his darling pet brother exposed.

Charlie found it a difficult task to control himself sufficiently in the scenes that were pa.s.sing before him to keep guard over Bub each instant, as he must, to prevent him from revealing their place of refuge. The little fellow had received a terrible fright, and at first struggled with singular strength to free himself from Charlie's grasp, and Charlie's arms ached from the constant strain in holding him; his efforts, however, were rewarded at last by Bub's beginning to comprehend the case.

"It's the wicked Indians," whispered Charlie, "and they'll kill us if we make any noise."

Three days and nights came and went. How thankful Charlie was for the provisions and water which he had unwittingly provided for this fearful hour! He had the good sense, however, to be careful of the water; for he knew not how long he must stay there; and he taught Bub to eat very slowly, as he had heard his father say that the hunters did so on the plains to prevent thirst. It was a terrible ordeal for a boy of his tender years to witness the horrid sights transpiring around him; and then, when the neighboring cabins were fired, he was filled with fear, lest the cinders would set the tree ablaze.

Charlie hoped, through all this long watching, for an opportunity to take refuge with his father and mother in the cabin; but the savages lay encamped around him, and several times an Indian crept upon his hands and knees, and fired from behind the tree at the inmates of the cabin.

Three days and nights--how long they were to the children in the tree!

And yet there was nothing to indicate that they might not remain there as much longer, provided the defence of the cabin continued as persistently as it had done. There was still a good supply of food, although the potatoes had to be eaten raw. But the water grew nauseating, and if some more could not be obtained, what would they do? Bub began to be tormented with thirst, and once attempted to cry for water. He had borne up like a hero, controlled by his fears, sometimes seeming to forget his own wants and perils in his baby concern for his parents.

"Will the wicked Indians kill father and mother?" he once asked, his blue eyes wide with horror, and voice too loud for prudence, just as a savage was creeping up to take aim from behind the tree, so that Charlie had to guard him with ceaseless vigilance. But thirst--how could he expect that a little boy, like Bub, could long endure its torments without making his agony known?

"I want some water," hoa.r.s.ely whispered Bub; "I dry."

"Well, don't make any noise, and Charlie'll get you some."

So, waiting till after nightfall, Charlie put his head cautiously out of the hole, and peered around. The spring was not far off; but Charlie knew that the savages would be likely to guard that, and he did not venture to draw his whole body from the aperture save with the utmost caution, and very slowly. Satisfying himself that the Indians were not noticing the tree, he drew himself completely out, and then, putting his head in again, whispered,--

"Now, Bub, don't you move nor stir, while I go for the water. I'll be back in a minute."

The heroic boy might have been taken in the darkness for an overgrown caterpillar, he crawled so softly towards the spring. He knew that if he broke a stick or twig, or inadvertently hit his coffee-pot against an obstacle, the quick ear of the Indian would be sure to detect it, and yet he was surprised at his own coolness and mastery of himself; and he accomplished the feat, returning with the black old pot filled to the brim.

He had got within a few feet of the tree, when, in range of the opening, he saw a figure apparently watching him. Charlie thought his hour had come; that it was a savage ready with his scalping-knife, and had given up all for lost, when the dark form moved from out the shadow towards him, and to his consternation he saw that it was Bub, who trudged forward, saying in a loud whisper,--

"Has oo dot any water?"