The Cabin on the Prairie Part 24

"Why, I didn't mean to do that; but it will show you how. Pulling the string made the gun go off, you see."

Bub was all attention, and asked, eagerly,

"Shall I do it now?"

"O, no," replied Charlie. "I mean, when I _tell_ you to. When the Indians come, and I say, _Pull!_ Suppose, for instance, I should get up in this way,"--and he ascended to the lookout,--"and I should look out in this way,"--and he put his eye to the port-hole,--"and I should see a big Indian coming to kill Bub."

"Yes," answered the little listener, "I knows;" and his eyes glistened with excitement.

"Well, as I was saying, I peep out, and I see a big Indian coming--"

Bub at this instinctively drew nearer the string, his gaze on Charlie.

"And I should whisper, _Pull!_"

Instantly Bub's fat fist twitched the string, and a second report echoed over the prairie.

"What did you do that for?" asked his brother, much displeased. "I didn't wish you to do it now. I was only explaining how to do it, and I want you to do it right. Don't touch the strings till I tell you; and then, when I give the word, you'll pull--won't you?"

Curly-head looked as if he intended to stand by the guns.

"In that way, Bub," continued Charlie, "we could keep off a great many Indians; I loading and firing, and you firing too, Bub. But I haven't put that last rifle in just right;" and glancing out of the hole, as he adjusted it, he turned deathly pale, and his whispered utterance was strangely faint, as he exclaimed,--

"If there isn't an Indian now!"

It is said by old hunters accustomed to shoot small game, however skilful in the use of fire-arms they may be, that the first time they see a large animal,--a deer, for example,--such a nervous excitement seizes them, although the creature stands within a few feet of them, for an instant they cannot command themselves to fire; and when they do, they are sure to miss the object. It is not surprising, then, that Charlie was, for a moment, paralyzed. He gazed at the Indian as if fascinated, as the savage glided along, his head bent, going from the spring towards the tree, in the very path through which Charlie had carried the water, stooping to pick up something, then keeping on a few paces, then stopping and putting his ear to the ground, as if intently listening. He was within easy range of Charlie's rifle all the time; yet the boy lifted not his finger.

The savage now rapidly darted forward, as if following Charlie's trail, and, sweeping the bushes back with his hand, discovered the opening in the tree, and, to Charlie's amazement, managed to creep in.

Nearly an hour had pa.s.sed, and Charlie still waited in painful suspense, wondering what next would transpire, when he saw a score or more of Indians stealthily approaching from different directions towards the cabin. The blood returned to Charlie's face, and, recovering his senses, he whispered to Bub, "The Indians have come."

He then took sight across the rifle nearest Bub, and found that it covered several of the savages; and, taking aim with the one next to it, he said to his little brother, "Pull!" Bub did so, and, starting on the round trot, pulled each string in succession. A broadside ensued that would have done honor to an old-fas.h.i.+oned s.h.i.+p of war. The effect was prodigious. The savages seemed to think that a strong force occupied the cabin; for, with a loud yell, and a hasty discharge of fire-arms, they vanished from sight.

Charlie was astounded at Bub's misunderstanding of the order and the effect produced. Gazing amazed into vacancy,--for the enemy had disappeared,--he sprang to the floor, hugged Bub till he almost suffocated him, and, laughing uncontrollably, stammered, "That beats Robinson Crusoe!"

The scene was indeed ludicrous. The savages had come to carry off their dead comrades, and, creeping cautiously along, had got so near the house without being observed, that their suspicion that the cabin was vacated became confirmed. The discharge of the rifles by the boys was, therefore, a perfect surprise, the fact that they were permitted to get so near before they were fired upon impressing them all the more; for they well knew that, if few were in the dwelling to defend it, every effort would have been put forth to keep them at a distance. Moreover, the firing coming from all sides of the dwelling at once, had also the appearance as if it was quite heavily manned.

It was a brilliant day, and the light puff of smoke from each rifle rose at once into the air, giving Charlie a fine view of the field; and the simultaneous springing up of so many astonished savages, their queer grimaces, and the grotesque manner in which they scrambled out of range, struck the lad as irresistibly comic, especially as he considered that it was Bub's blunder that was at the bottom of the rout.

Recovering himself, he proceeded to reload the rifles. But one thing gave him uneasiness. The Indian, he was quite sure, was still in the tree. What was he there for? "Perhaps," thought Charlie, "he will make a hole through the tree, and watch his chance, and shoot me. At any rate, he's a spy; and if he should find out that only Bub and I were here, he might make us trouble."

He was puzzled to know what to do. He set himself to watch through the port-hole to see if he would come out. Two long hours Charlie remained at his post, till he grew weary with the duty. Then he bethought himself of another plan. He had read in the old spelling book of the boy who wouldn't descend from the farmer's apple tree for coaxing; and the farmer said, "If you will not come down for words, I'll try the effect of stones," which brought the trespa.s.ser quickly to the ground. Now, the Indian was not _up_ a tree, but he was _in_ one, and he would not come out for Charlie's watching; so Charlie thought he would employ harder arguments, and, aiming at the point where he supposed the savage must be in his hiding-place, he blazed away. He had fired three times, when, suddenly, the tawny occupant slipped out, and crouched behind the tree, from which he commenced making friendly signs towards the corner of the cabin from which the bullets came.

Charlie understood the signals, but muttering, "You can't catch me that way, old villain," continued firing every time he thought he could hit the savage. The Indian had not, during all this, fired in return. This seemed curious to the boy; but concluding it to be an Indian trick, he determined not to be outwitted. Whatever the object of the savage was in his mysterious conduct, he at last despaired of accomplis.h.i.+ng it, and adroitly slipped away.

As night drew its heavy curtains around the beleaguered cabin, Charlie experienced a feeling of dread creeping over him. He felt comparatively safe while he could see the foe; but now the night seemed ominous of evil. The wind moaning through the trees, the ticking of the insect under the bark in the logs, and even the shrill chirping of the cricket, sounded unnatural to him. He thought of the dead and gory forms stretched upon the greensward without; the gra.s.s matted with human blood; the imprecations and fierce shouts that had resounded, and the deathly struggles that pa.s.sed before him while sheltered by the friendly tree; the heavy tramp of men fighting in the deadly struggle; the sharp reports of the fire-arms; the horrible screams and heart-piercing pleadings of women and children as they were murdered and tortured by the savages; the lurid glare of the burning cabins; the Indians dancing and yelling in horrid mirth: his active brain was filled with such remembrances. In the stillness and loneliness of night, in that cabin, these awful scenes came up with appalling vividness, and weird and demon faces seemed to peep and mutter at him from the corners of the room. Once he fancied that he heard the cellar stairs creak under a heavy tread. And while Bub slept peacefully in childish unconsciousness of his brother's terror, he s.h.i.+vered and watched through that long night until the rosy beams of morning dispelled the illusions of the darkness.

CHAPTER XX.

LONG HAIR.

The news of Mr. Jones's death, together with the atrocities connected with the Indian uprising, spread a gloom throughout the fort; and when, two days later, the funeral of the pioneer took place, tears were in many a veteran's eye. General McElroy respected the qualities which had marked the last days of the deceased, and said,--

"He did not serve in the ranks, but if ever a man deserved a soldier's burial, poor Jones does; and he shall have it."

So the body was borne to the grave under military escort, the soldiers marching to the mournful strains of the funeral dirge and m.u.f.fled drums; the corpse was lowered to its last resting-place; the burial service read with a trembling voice by the chaplain,--for the missionary had taken his place among the mourners by the side of the widow,--the usual salute was fired, and the procession retraced its steps.

Mrs. Jones felt that she was now bereaved indeed, and almost alone in the world, and it became a question with her what she could do, under the circ.u.mstances, for herself and family. Disconsolately she discussed this matter with Tom.

"I cannot remain longer in these apartments, living on the hospitality of the general," said she; "and as your dear father is gone, it becomes me to earn something for my own support. I must have Robert with me, he is so young, and make some humble home where you can be with us as much as possible. But what I can do to effect this I cannot now see, there are so few opportunities for women to earn."

It goaded Tom that his mother was under the necessity of talking in so depressed a way, and that he could do nothing suitably to provide for her. At this juncture there was a gentle knock at the door, and Mrs.

McElroy entered.

"You will excuse me if I have intruded," said she; "but I came in to ask what arrangements, if any, you had made for the future, and to say that, if you have nothing better in view, the general and myself would like to have you remain with us."

"But I have already been dependent on your hospitality too long,"

objected Mrs. Jones, "and it seems proper that I should make a home for myself and Robert as soon as possible."

"Have you any suitable place provided as yet?" asked Mrs. McElroy.

"Not decisively," answered the widow.

"It could not be expected that you would so soon," answered Mrs.

McElroy. "Now we have a plan for you, which may be to our mutual advantage. The little community dwelling within these brick walls is a very social one, and the general's time and my own is so much occupied, that my children suffer for a mother's care. You are exactly the person we need to take the oversight of them. Your own children are a credit to you; they show that you have just the qualities of mind and heart for such a position. Now, if you will look a little after my children's training, you will take a burden from my hands, and a load of anxiety from my mind, and between us both, I think we can manage so as not to be overcharged."

"But Robert--" began Mrs. Jones, hesitatingly.

"The general has taken a great fancy to him, and says if he can have him he will make something of him; and what my husband undertakes he never does by halves. Robert would have the best of advantages, and be under your own eye."

Mrs. Jones's emotions were too great for words. This unexpected provision for herself and boy seemed truly providential. She might go the world over and not meet with such delicate and appreciative treatment. Still she hesitated. Her life in the squatter's cabin through so many years of deprivation and poverty placed her, in her own consciousness, in such painful contrast to the courtly and elegant Mrs. McElroy, that she felt diffident about accepting so responsible a trust. And she understood children well enough to know that the offspring of the rich often look down on those in humbler circ.u.mstances. Would the general's children respect her as they should, in order for her to a.s.sume such a relation towards them as their mother wished? These thoughts pa.s.sed rapidly through her mind, and, in justice to them as well as herself, she felt that she would like to have that point put to rest. She was a woman of straightforward good sense, and therefore decided to be frank in the matter, and asked,--

"But would the arrangement be agreeable to your children, madam?"

Mrs. McElroy had foreseen this, and was prepared with an answer. She rang the bell, and black Nancy appeared.

"Send Alice and Willie here," she said; and in a moment the brother and sister came running in.

"Children," said their mother, "I've been trying to persuade Mrs.

Jones to stay with us, and take charge of you. How would you like that?"

"O, that would be so nice!" said Alice, crossing to Mrs. Jones, and putting her arms around her neck--an action that was peculiar to her.

"It would be real good in her, I'm sure," chimed in Willie; "and then I could have Robert to play with me,--he makes splendid popguns,--couldn't I, mother?"

So it was settled, and in such a manner that Mrs. Jones was made to feel that she was conferring a favor, rather than having one conferred on her; and, in fact, the arrangement was mutually advantageous, as Mrs. McElroy had sincerely remarked.