Part 36 (1/2)
”Well, he has reason to be!” said I, much impressed by the modest way in which the story was told. ”And now,” I added, ”since we have got a capital horse, and the journey before us is long, don't you think we should start to-morrow!”
”Yes, to-morrow--and it is time for Waboose to rest. She is strong, but she has had much to weary her, and her grief is deep.”
With a kindly acknowledgment of the Indian's thoughtful care of her, Eve rose and went to her tent. Big Otter lighted his pipe, and I lay down to meditate; but almost before I had time to think, my head drooped and I was in the land of forgetfulness.
It is not my purpose, good reader, to carry you step by step over the long, varied, and somewhat painful journey that intervened between us and Colorado at that time. It was interesting--deeply so--for we pa.s.sed through some of the most beautiful as well as wildest scenery of the North American wilderness. We kept far to the westward, near the base of the Rocky Mountains, so as to avoid the haunts of civilised men. But s.p.a.ce will not permit of more than a brief reference to this long journey.
I can only say that on arriving at a village belonging to a remote tribe of Indians, who were well-known to my guide, it was arranged that Big Otter and Waboose should stay with them, while I should go to the cities of the pale-faces and endeavour to convert my diamonds into cash.
Happening to have a friend in Chicago I went there, and through his agency effected the sale of the diamonds, which produced a little over the sum mentioned by William Liston in his paper. This I took with me in the convenient form of bills on well-known mercantile firms, in the region to which I was bound, and, having wrapped them in a piece of oiled silk and sewed them inside of the breastplate that contained my gold, I set off with a light heart, though somewhat weighted shoulders, to return to my friends in the Far West.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
TELLS OF A WONDERFUL MEETING AND A FRUSTRATED FOE.
I must change the scene now, and advance the courteous reader considerably in regard to time as well as place on the journey which we have pursued so long together.
It is one of those scenes of romantic beauty on the extreme frontiers of civilisation, where the rifle has not even yet given place to the plough; where the pioneer husbandman and the painted warrior often meet--the one to look with patronising superiority on the savage, whom he means to benefit; the other to gaze curiously at the pale-face, and to wonder, somewhat indignantly, when and where his encroachments are to cease.
Woodlands and prairies, breezy uplands and gra.s.sy bottoms, alternate in such picturesque confusion, and such lovely colours co-mingle, that a painter--had one been there--must have deemed the place at all events the vestibule of paradise.
There is a small hamlet on the slope of a hill, with a broad river winding in front, a few hundred yards from the hamlet, which opens out into a lake. On the margin of this lake lie a few boats. On the surface of it float a few more boats, with one or two birch-bark canoes.
Some of these are moving to and fro; the occupants of others, which appear to be stationary, are engaged in fis.h.i.+ng. There is the sound of an anvil somewhere, and the lowing of cattle, and the voices of children, and the barking of dogs at play, and the occasional crack of a gun. It is an eminently peaceful as well as beautiful backwood scene.
To a particular spot in this landscape we would direct attention. It is a frame-house, or cottage, which, if not built according to the most approved rules of architecture, is at least neat, clean, comfortable-looking, and what one might style pretty. It is a ”clap-boarded” house, painted white, with an edging of brown which harmonises well with the green shrubbery around. There is a verandah in front, a door in the middle, two windows on either side, and no upper storey; but there are attics with dormer windows, which are suggestive of snug sleeping-rooms of irregular shape, with low ceilings and hat-crus.h.i.+ng doorways.
This cottage stands on the apex of a little hill which overlooks the hamlet, commands the river and the lake, as well as an extensive view of a spa.r.s.ely settled district beyond, where the frontier farmer and the primeval forest are evidently having a lively time of it together. In short the cottage on the hill has a decidedly comfortable come-up-quick-and-enjoy-yourself air which is quite charming.
On a certain fine afternoon in autumn Eve Liston, _alias_ Waboose, Big Otter and I, rode slowly up the winding path which led to this cottage.
We had been directed to it by the postmaster of the hamlet,--a man who, if he had been condemned to subsist solely on the proceeds of the village post-office, would have been compelled to give up the ghost, or the post, in a week.
”We must be careful, Eve, how we break it to her,” said I, as we neared the top.
Arrived at the summit of the hill we found a rustic table, also a rustic seat on which was seated a comely matron engaged in the very commonplace work of darning socks. She cast on us a sharp and remarkably penetrating glance as we approached. Doubtless our appearance was peculiar, for a pretty maiden in savage costume, a somewhat ragged white man, and a gigantic savage, all mounted on magnificent steeds and looking travel-stained and worn after a journey of many weeks, was not probably an everyday sight, even in those regions.
Dismounting and advancing to act as spokesman, while my companions sat motionless and silent in their saddles, I pulled off my cap.
”I have been directed to this house as the abode of Mrs Liston,” said I with a tremor of anxiety, for I knew that the comely matron before me could not be she whom I sought, and feared there might be some mistake.
”You have been directed aright, sir. May I ask who it is that desires to see her?”
”My name is Maxby,” said I, quickly, for I was becoming nervously impatient. ”I am quite a stranger to Mrs Liston, but I would see her, because I bring her news--news of importance--in fact a message from her long-lost son.”
”From Willie Liston?” exclaimed the lady, starting up, and seizing my arm, while she gazed into my face with a look of wild surprise. ”Is he--but it cannot be--impossible--he must be--”
”He is dead,” said I, in a low, sad voice, as she hesitated.
”Yes,” she returned, clasping her hands but without any of the wild look in her eyes now. ”We have mourned him as dead for many, many years.
Stay, I will call his--but--perhaps--sometimes it is kindness to conceal. If there is anything sad to tell, might it not be well to leave his poor mother in ignorance? She is old and--”