Part 69 (2/2)
There was a name upon the card, and writing--writing in what appeared to be red ink; but it was _blood_!
The rudest backwoodsman knows how to read. Even Zeb Stump was no exception; and he soon deciphered the characters traced upon the bit of pasteboard.
As he finished, a cry rose from his lips, in strange contrast with the groans he had been just uttering. It was a shout of gladness, of joy!
”Thank the Almighty for this!” he added; ”and thank my ole Katinuck schoolmaster for puttin' me clar through my Webster's spellin'-book. He lives, Pheelum! he lives! Look at this. Oh, _you_ can't read. No matter. He lives! he lives!”
”Who? Masther Maurice? Thin the Lord be thanked--”
”Wagh! thur's no time to thank him now. Get a blanket an some pieces o'
horse-hide thong. Ye kin do it while I catch up the ole maar. Quick!
Helf an hour lost, an we may be too late!”
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.
JUST IN TIME.
”Half-an-hour lost, and we may be too late!”
They were the last words of the hunter, as he hurried away from the hut.
They were true, except as to the time. Had he said half-a-minute, he would have been nearer the mark. Even at the moment of their utterance, the man, whose red writing had summoned a.s.sistance, was once more in dread danger--once more surrounded by the coyotes.
But it was not these he had need to fear. A far more formidable foe was threatening his destruction.
Maurice Gerald--by this time recognised as the man in the cloak and Panama hat--after doing battle with the wolves, as already described, and being rescued by his faithful Tara, had fought repose in sleep.
With full confidence in the ability of his canine companion to protect him against the black birds, or the more dangerous quadrupeds, with which he had been in conflict, he soon found, and for several hours enjoyed it.
He awoke of his own accord. Finding his strength much restored, he once more turned his attention to the perils that surrounded him.
The dog had rescued him from the jackals, and would still protect him against their attacks, should they see fit to renew it. But to what end? The faithful creature could not transport him from the spot; and to stay there would be to die of hunger--perhaps of the wounds he had received?
He rose to his feet, but found that he could not stand upright.
Feebleness was now added to his other infirmity; and after struggling a pace or two, he was glad to return to a rec.u.mbent position.
At this crisis a happy thought occurred to him. Tara might take a message to the hut!
”If I could but get him to go,” said he, as he turned inquiringly towards the dog. ”Come hither, old fellow!” he continued, addressing himself to the dumb animal; ”I want you to play postman for me--to carry a letter. You understand? Wait till I've got it written. I shall then explain myself more fully.”
”By good luck I've got a card,” he added, feeling for his case. ”No pencil! That don't matter. There's plenty of ink around; and for a pen I can use the thorn of yonder maguey.”
He crept up to the plant thus designated; broke off one of the long spines terminating its great leaves; dipped it in the blood of a coyote that lay near; and drawing forth a card, traced some characters upon it.
With a strip of thong, the card was then attached to the neck of the staghound, after being wrapped up in a piece of oilcloth torn from the lining of the Panama hat.
<script>