Part 29 (1/2)
March Marston had at last struck a chord that vibrated intensely in the bosom of the warm-hearted child. She drew her log closer to him in her eagerness to dilate on the goodness of her adopted father, and began to pour into his willing ears such revelations of the kind and n.o.ble deeds that he had done, that March was fired with enthusiasm, and began to regard his friend d.i.c.k in the light of a demiG.o.d. Greatheart, in the ”Pilgrim's Progress,” seemed most like to him, he thought, only d.i.c.k seemed grander, which was a natural feeling; for Bunyan drew his Greatheart true to nature, while Mary and March had invested d.i.c.k with a robe of romance, which glittered so much that he looked preternaturally huge.
March listened with rapt attention; but as the reader is not March, we will not give the narrative in Mary's bad English. Suffice it to say, that she told how, on one occasion, d.i.c.k happened to be out hunting near to a river, into which he saw a little Indian child fall. It was carried swiftly by the current to a cataract fifty feet high, and in a few minutes would have been over and dashed to pieces, when d.i.c.k happily saw it, and plunging in brought it safe to sh.o.r.e, yet with such difficulty that he barely gained the bank, and grasped the branch of an overhanging willow, when his legs were drawn over the edge of the fall.
He had to hold on for ten minutes, till men came from the other side of the stream to his a.s.sistance.
Mary also told him (and it was evening ere she finished all she had to tell him) how that, on another occasion, d.i.c.k was out after grislies with a hunter, who had somehow allowed himself to be caught by a bear, and would have been torn in pieces had not d.i.c.k come up with his great two-edged sword--having fired off his rifle without effect--and, with one mighty sweep at the monster's neck, cut right through its jugular vein, and all its other veins, down to the very marrow of its backbone; in fact, killed it at one blow--a feat which no one had ever done, or had ever heard of as being done, from the days of the first Indian to that hour.
Many such stories did Mary relate to the poor invalid, who bore his sufferings with exemplary patience and fort.i.tude, and listened with unflagging interest; but of all the stories she told, none seemed to afford her so much pleasure in the telling as the following:--
One day d.i.c.k went out to hunt buffaloes, on his big horse, for he had several steeds, one or other of which he rode according to fancy; but he always mounted the big black one when he went after the buffalo or to war. Mary here explained, very carefully, that d.i.c.k never went to war on his own account--that he was really a man of peace, but that, when he saw oppression and cruelty, his blood boiled within him at such a rate that he almost went mad, and often, under the excitement of hot indignation, would he dash into the midst of a band of savages and scatter them right and left like autumn leaves.
Well, as he was riding along among the mountains, near the banks of a broad stream, and not far from the edge of the great prairie, he came suddenly on an object that caused his eyes to glare and his teeth to grind; for there, under the shade of a few branches, with a pot of water by her side, sat an old Indian woman. d.i.c.k did not need to ask what she was doing there. He knew the ways of the redskins too well to remain a moment in doubt. She had grown so old and feeble that her relations had found her burdensome; so, according to custom, they left her there to die. The poor old creature knew that she was a burden to them. She knew also the customs of her tribe--it was at her own request she had been left there, a willing victim to an inevitable fate, because she felt that her beloved children would get on better without her. They made no objection. Food, to last for a few days, was put within reach of her trembling hand; a fire was kindled, and a little pile of wood placed beside it, also within reach. Then they left her. They knew that when that food was consumed, and the last stick placed upon the fire, the shrunken limbs would stand in no need of warmth--the old heart would be still. Yet that heart had once beat joyfully at the sound of those pattering feet that now retired with heavy ruthless tread for ever. What a commentary on savage life! What a contrast between the promptings of the unregenerate heart of man and the precepts of that blessed--thrice blessed Gospel of Jesus Christ, where love, unalterable, inextinguishable, glows in every lesson and sweetens every command.
When d.i.c.k came upon her suddenly, as we have said, he was not ten paces distant from the spot where she sat; but she was apparently deaf and blind, for she evinced no knowledge of his presence. She was reaching out her skinny arm to place another stick upon the sinking fire at the time, for it was a sharp and cold, though a bright and sunny autumn day.
d.i.c.k stopped his horse, crushed his teeth together, and sat for a few moments regarding her intently.
Either the firewood had originally been placed too far away from the old woman's hand, or she had s.h.i.+fted her position, for she could not reach it. Once and again she made the effort--she stretched out her withered arm and succeeded in just touching the end of one of the pieces of wood, but could not grasp it. She pawed it once or twice, and then gave up the attempt with a little sigh. Drawing herself slowly together, she gathered up the rabbit-skin blanket which rested on her shoulders and attempted feebly to fold it across her chest. Then she slowly drooped her white head, with an expression of calm resignation on her old wrinkled visage.
d.i.c.k's great heart almost burst with conflicting emotions. The wrath that welled up as he thought of the deserters was met by a gush of tender pity as he gazed through blinding tears on the deserted. With a fling that caused his stout warhorse to stagger, he leaped to the ground, tore open the breast of his hunting-s.h.i.+rt, and, sitting down beside the old woman, placed her cold hand in his bosom.
She uttered a feeble cry and made a slight momentary effort to resist; but d.i.c.k's act, though promptly, was, nevertheless, tenderly done, and the big hand that stroked her white head was so evidently that of a friend, that the poor creature resigned herself to the enjoyment of that warmth of which she stood so much in need. Meanwhile d.i.c.k, without s.h.i.+fting his position, stretched forth his long arm, collected all the wood within reach, and placed it on the fire.
After a few minutes the old woman raised her head, and looking earnestly in d.i.c.k's face with her bleared and almost sightless eyes, said in the Indian language, with which her companion was well acquainted--
”My son, have you come back to me?”
A gush of indignant feeling had again to be violently stifled ere d.i.c.k could answer in moderate tones--
”No, mother, he's _not_ come back; but I'll be a son to ye. See, sit up an' warm yerself at the blaze. I'll get ye some meat and sticks.”
In hot haste, and with desperate activity, for he had no other way of relieving his feelings, d.i.c.k cut down a quant.i.ty of firewood and placed it close to the hand of the old woman. Then he untied the tin kettle which he always carried at his saddle-bow, and, with a piece of dried venison, concocted a quant.i.ty of hot soup in a marvellously short s.p.a.ce of time. This done, he sat down beside the old woman and made her partake of it.
”Is it long since they left ye, mother?” he said, after she had swallowed a little.
The old woman pondered for a few seconds. ”No,” she said, ”not long.
Only one sun has gone down since my son left me.” Then she added in a sad tone, ”I loved him. He is a great warrior--a brave chief--and he loved me, too. But he had to leave me; I am old and useless. It is my fate.”
”Describe your son to me,” said d.i.c.k abruptly. ”He is tall and straight as the poplar,” began the old creature, while a look of pride played for a moment on her withered countenance. ”His shoulders are broad and his limbs are supple. He can run and leap like the deer, but not so well as he once could. Grey hairs are now mingling with the black--”
”Has he any mark by which I could find him out?” interrupted d.i.c.k impatiently.
”He has a deep cut over the right eye,” returned the woman; ”but stay,”
she added in some alarm, ”you would not harm my son; you are not an enemy?”
”No, I would not; I would do him good. Which way did they go?”
”To the prairie--to the rising sun.”
d.i.c.k at once arose, placed the kettle of soup close to the old woman's side, and unbuckling his saddle-girth, removed the blanket that covered his saddle, and transferred it to her shoulders.