Part 38 (1/2)

”It don't seem so to me,” replied the scout, ”I'm not speakin', you see, so much of doin' as of escapin'. No doubt we are _perfectly_ free to _will_, but it don't follow that we are free to _act_. I'm quite free to _will_ to cut my leg off or to let it stay on; an' if I carry out my will an' _do_ it, why, I'm quite free there too--an' also responsible.

But I ain't free to sew it on again however much I may will to do so-- leastwise if I do it won't stick. The consekinces o' my deed I must bear, but who will deny that the Almighty could grow on another leg if He chose? Why, some creeters He _does_ allow to get rid of a limb or two, an' grow new ones! So, you see, I'm responsible for my deeds, but, at the same time, I must look to G.o.d for escape from the consekinces, if He sees fit to let me escape. A man, bein' free, may drink himself into a drunkard, but he's _not_ free to cure _himself_. He can't do it. The demon Crave has got him by the throat, forces him to open his mouth, and pours the fiery poison down. The thing that he is free to do is to will. He may, if he chooses, call upon G.o.d the Saviour to help him; an'

my own belief is that no man ever made such a call in vain.”

”How, if that be so, are we to account for the failure of those who try, honestly strive, struggle, and agonise, yet obviously fail?”

”It's not for the like o' me, Mr Brooke, to expound the outs an' ins o'

all mysteries. Yet I will p'int out that you, what they call, beg the question, when you say that such people `honestly' strive. If a man tries to unlock a door with all his might and main, heart and soul, honestly tries, by turnin' the key the wrong way, he'll strive till doomsday without openin' the door! It's my opinion that a man may get into difficulties of his own free-will. He can get out of them only by applyin' to his Maker.”

During the latter part of this conversation the hunters had risen and were making their way through the trackless woods, when the scout stopped suddenly and gazed for a few seconds intently at the ground.

Then he kneeled and began to examine the spot with great care. ”A footprint here,” he said, ”that tells of recent visitors.”

”Friends, Ben, or foes?” asked our hero, also going on his knees to examine the marks. ”Well, now, I see only a pressed blade or two of gra.s.s, but nothing the least like a footprint. It puzzles me more than I can tell how you scouts seem so sure about invisible marks.”

”Truly, if they was invisible you would have reason for surprise, but my wonder is that you don't see them. Any child in wood-craft might read them. See, here is the edge o' the right futt making a faint impression where the ground is soft--an' the heel; surely ye see the heel!”

”A small hollow I do see, but as to its being a heel-print I could not p.r.o.nounce on that. Has it been made lately, think you?”

”Ay, last night or this morning at latest; and it was made by the futt of Jake the Flint. I know it well, for I've had to track him more than once an' would spot it among a thousand.”

”If Jake is in the neighbourhood, wouldn't it be well to return to the cave? He and some of his gang might attack it in our absence.”

”No fear o' that,” replied the scout, rising from his inspection, ”the futt p'ints away from the cave. I should say that the Flint has bin there durin' the night, an' found that we kep' too sharp a look-out to be caught sleepin'. Where he went to arter that no one can tell, but we can hoof it an' see. Like enough he went to spy us out alone, an' then returned to his comrades.”

So saying, the scout ”hoofed it” through the woods at a pace that tested Charlie Brooke's powers of endurance, exceptionally good though they were. After a march of about four miles in comparative silence they were conducted by the footprints to an open s.p.a.ce in the midst of dense thicket where the fresh ashes of a camp fire indicated that a party had spent some time.

”Just so. They came to see what was up and what could be done, found that nothin' partiklar was up an' nothin' at all could be done, so off they go, mounted, to fish in other waters. Just as well for us.”

”But not so well for the fish in the other waters,” remarked Charlie.

”True, but we can't help that. Come, we may as well return now.”

While Charlie and the scout were thus following the trail, Buck Tom, lying in the cave, became suddenly much worse. It seemed as if some string in his system had suddenly snapped and let the poor human wreck run down.

”Come here, Leather,” he gasped faintly.

Poor Shank, who never left him, and who was preparing food for him at the time, was at his side in a moment, and bent anxiously over him.

”D'you want anything?” he asked.

”Nothing, Shank. Where's d.i.c.k?”

”Outside; cutting some firewood.”

”Don't call him. I'm glad we are alone,” said the outlaw, seizing his friend's hand with a feeble, tremulous grasp. ”I'm dying, Shank, dear boy. You forgive me?”

”Forgive you, Ralph! Ay--long, long ago I--” He could not finish the sentence.

”I know you did, Shank,” returned the dying man, with a faint smile.