Part 3 (1/2)
Carrie puts up her hand and backs away.
”Don't--don't--don't call me Carrie; call me Carats--Carats--Carats--like the others do!”
”Why, Carrie! What in the world is the matter with you?”
”If a body steals, Mr. John Logan--if a body steals--what had a body better do?”
”Why, the Preacher says a body should confess--confess it, feel sorry, and be forgiven.”
”I can't--I can't confess, and I can't be forgiven!”
John Logan starts!
”You--you, Carrie; is it you? Then you have already confessed, and He will forgive you!”
”But such stealing as this n.o.body--nothing--can forgive,” falling on her knees. ”I--I made my little brother steal your peaches!”
”You!--you made him steal my two peaches that I wanted for my sick mother? You--_you_, Carrie?”
Stumps rushed forward.
”No--No! I done it myself! I done it all myself--I did, so help me!”
”But I made him do it!” cries Carrie. ”I am the biggest, and I knew better--I knew better. But we couldn't eat 'em. Here they are--oh I am so glad we couldn't eat 'em!” And they fall on their knees at his feet together; four little hands reach out the peaches to him eagerly, earnestly, as if in prayer to Heaven.
The man takes their little hands, and, choking with tears, says, in a voice full of pathos and pity, and uncovering his head, with lifted face, as he remembers something of the story the good Priest so often read to his mother: ”and there was more joy in Heaven over the one that was found, than over the ninety-and-nine that went not astray.”
CHAPTER II.
TWENTY CARATS FINE.
_A land that man has newly trod, A land that only G.o.d has known, Through all the soundless cycles flown.
Yet perfect blossoms bless the sod, And perfect birds illume the trees, And perfect unheard harmonies Pour out eternally to G.o.d._
_A thousand miles of mighty wood Where thunder-storms stride fire-shod; A thousand flowers every rod, A stately tree on every rood; Ten thousand leaves on every tree, And each a miracle to me; And yet there be men who question G.o.d!_
At just what time these two waifs of the woods appeared in camp even Forty-nine could not tell. They were first seen with the Indian woman who went about among the miners, picking up bread and bits of coin by dancing, singing and telling fortunes. These two Indian women were great liars, and rogues altogether. I need not add that they were partly civilized.
The little girl had been taught to dance and sing, and was quite a source of revenue to the two Indian women, who had perhaps bought or stolen the children. As for the boy--poor stunted, starved little thing--he hung on to his sister's tattered dress all the time with his little red hand, wherever she went and whatever she did. He was her shadow; and he was at that time little more than a shadow in any way.
Sometimes men pitied the little girl, and gave very liberally. They tried to find out something about her past life; for although she was quite the color of the Indian, she had regular features, and at times her poor pinched face was positively beautiful. The two children looked as if they had been literally stunted in their growth from starvation and hards.h.i.+p.
Once a good-hearted old miner had bribed the squaws to let the children come to his cabin and get something to eat. They came, and while they were gorging themselves, the boy sitting close up to the girl all the time, and looking about and back over his shoulder and holding on to her dress, this man questioned her about her life and history. She did not like to talk; indeed, she talked with difficulty at first, and her few English words fell from her lips in broken bits and in strange confusion. But at length she began to speak more clearly as she proceeded with her story, and became excited in its narration. Then she would stop and seem to forget it all. Then she went on, as if she was telling a dream. Then there would be another long pause, and confusion, and she would stammer on in the most wild and incoherent fas.h.i.+on, till the old miner became quite impatient, and thought her as big an imposter as the Indian woman whom she called her mother. He finally gave them each a loaf of bread, and told them they could go back to their lodge.
This lodge consisted of a few poles set up in wigwam fas.h.i.+on, and covered with skins and old blankets and birch. A foul, ugly place it was, but in this wigwam lived two Indian women and these two children.
Men, or rather beasts--no, beasts are decent creatures; well then, monsters, full of bad rum, would prowl about this wretched lodge at night, and their howls, mixed with those of the savages, whom they had made also drunk, kept up a state of things frightful to think of in connection with these two sensitive, starving little waifs of the woods.
Who were they, and where did they come from? Sometimes these children would start up and fly from the lodge at night, and hide away in the brush like hunted things, and only steal back at morning when all was still. At such times the girl would wrap her little brother (if he was her brother) in her own scant rags, and hold him in her arms as he slept.
One night, while some strange Indians were lodging there, a still more terrible scene transpired in this dreadful little den than had yet been conceived. The two children fled as usual into the darkness, back into the deep woods. Shots were heard, and then a death-yell that echoed far up and down the canyon. Then there were cries, shrieks of women, as if they were being seized and borne away. Fainter and fainter grew their cries; further and further, down on the high ledge of the canyon in the darkness, into the deep wood, they seemed to be borne. And at last their cries died away altogether.