Part 41 (2/2)
”The Great Master of Life saved you,” returned the Indian. ”He made use of me--for which I thank him.”
It was not until late on the following day that Lumley felt strong enough to return to the fort, and relate what had occurred. Then the plans for the future were laid before Big Otter, and, to the satisfaction of all parties, he agreed at once to fall in with them.
”But,” said he, ”Big Otter will not stay. He loves the great wilderness too well to be content to live among the wooden wigwams of the pale-faces.”
”Well, we won't bother ourselves on that point just now,” said Macnab, ”and so, as that's comfortably settled, I'll pack up and away back to my mountain fort to get ready for a trip, with you and Lumley and Jessie, to Colorado.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.
THE LAST.
Once more I change the scene, from the wild regions of the north to the little less wild lands of Colorado.
On a certain bright forenoon in Autumn I stood in the doorway of Sunny Creek Cottage watching a clumsy vehicle as it laboured slowly up the hill. I was alone that day, old Mrs Liston, Eve, and ”Aunt Temple”
having gone off in the waggon for a long drive to visit a relative with hunting proclivities, who had built himself a log-hut in a ravine of the neighbouring mountains, that he might be in closer proximity to the bears and deer.
With some curiosity I approached the lumbering machine to a.s.sist the occupant, who seemed unable, or too impatient, to open the door. It was a stiff door, and swung open with a jerk which caused the occupant's hat to fall off, and reveal a bald head.
”Father!” I gasped.
”Punch, my boy!”
The dear old man tripped in his haste to get down, plunged into my bosom, threw his arms round my neck to save himself, and almost bore me to the ground. Neither of us being demonstrative in our affections, this unpremeditated, not to say unintentional, embrace I felt to be quite touching. My father obviously resolved to make the most of his opportunities, for he gave me a thoroughly exhaustive hug before releasing me.
”I--I--didn't m-mean,” said my father, blazing with excitement, and gasping with a mingled tendency to laugh and weep, ”didn't mean to come it quite so strong, P-Punch, my boy, b-but you'll make allowance for a momentary weakness. I'm getting an old man, Punch. What makes you grin so, you backwoods koonisquat?”
The last sentence, with its opprobrious epithet (coined on the spot), was addressed with sudden asperity to the driver of the clumsy vehicle, who was seated on his box, with mouth expanded from ear to ear.
”Wall, stranger, if you will insist on knowin',” said he, ”It's sympathy that makes me grin. I _do_ like to see human natur' out of its go-to-meetin' togs, with its saddle off, an' no bridal on, spurtin'
around in gus.h.i.+n' simplicity. But you're wrong, stranger,” continued the driver, with a grave look, ”quite wrong in callin' me a koonisquat.
I _have_ dropt in the social scale, but I ain't got quite so low as that, I guess, by a long chalk.”
”Well, you compound of Welshman and Yankee, be off and refresh yourself,” returned my father, putting an extra dollar, over and above his fare, into the man's hand, ”but don't consume it on your filthy fire-water c.o.c.k-tails, or gin-slings, or any other kind of sling-tails.
If you must drink, take it out in strong hot coffee.”
The man drove off, still grinning, and I hurried my father into the cottage where, while I set before him a good luncheon, he gave me a wildly rambling and interjectional account of his proceedings since the date of his last letter to me.
”But why did you take me by surprise in this way, dear daddy; why didn't you let me know you were coming?”
”Because I like to take people by surprise, especially ill-doing scapegraces like--by the way,” said my father, suddenly laying down his knife and fork, ”where is she?”
”Where is who?”
”She--her, of course; the--the girl, the Hottentot, the savage. Oh!
George, what an a.s.s you are!”
<script>