Part 32 (2/2)

This was true. The sound was similar to continuous, uninterrupted thunder. On it came with a magnificent roar that shook the very earth, and revealed itself at last in the shape of a mighty whirlwind. In a moment the distant woods bent before it, and fell like gra.s.s before the scythe. It was a whirling hurricane, accompanied by a deluge of rain such as none of the party had ever before witnessed. Steadily, fiercely, irresistibly, it bore down upon them, while the crash of falling, snapping, and uprooting trees mingled with the dire artillery of that sweeping storm like the musketry on a battle-field.

”Follow me, lads!” shouted Joe, turning his horse and das.h.i.+ng at full speed towards a rocky eminence that offered shelter. But shelter was not needed. The storm was clearly defined. Its limits were as distinctly marked by its Creator as if it had been a living intelligence sent forth to put a belt of desolation round the world; and, although the edge of devastation was not five hundred yards from the rock behind which the hunters were stationed, only a few drops of ice-cold rain fell upon them.

It pa.s.sed directly between the Camanchee Indians and their intended victims, placing between them a barrier which it would have taken days to cut through. The storm blew for an hour, then it travelled onward in its might, and was lost in distance. Whence it came and whither it went none could tell; but, far as the eye could see on either hand, an avenue a quarter of a mile wide was cut through the forest. It had levelled everything with the dust; the very gra.s.s was beaten flat, the trees were torn, s.h.i.+vered, snapped across, and crushed; and the earth itself in many places was ploughed up and furrowed with deep scars. The chaos was indescribable, and it is probable that centuries will not quite obliterate the work of that single hour.

While it lasted, Joe and his comrades remained speechless and awe-stricken. When it pa.s.sed, no Indians were to be seen. So our hunters remounted their steeds, and, with feelings of grat.i.tude to G.o.d for having delivered them alike from savage foes and from the destructive power of the whirlwind, resumed their journey towards the Mustang Valley.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

ANXIOUS FEARS FOLLOWED BY A JOYFUL SURPRISE--SAFE HOME AT LAST, AND HAPPY HEARTS.

One fine afternoon, a few weeks after the storm of which we have given an account in the last chapter, old Mrs Varley was seated beside her own chimney corner in the little cottage by the lake, gazing at the glowing logs with the earnest expression of one whose thoughts were far away. Her kind face was paler than usual, and her hands rested idly on her knee, grasping the knitting wires to which was attached a half-finished stocking.

On a stool near to her sat young Marston, the lad to whom, on the day of the shooting match, d.i.c.k Varley had given his old rifle. The boy had an anxious look about him, as he lifted his eyes from time to time to the widow's face.

”Did ye say, my boy, that they were _all_ killed?” inquired Mrs Varley, awaking from her reverie with a deep sigh.

”Every one,” replied Marston. ”Jim Scraggs, who brought the news, said they wos all lyin' dead with their scalps off. They wos a party o'

white men.”

Mrs Varley sighed again, and her face a.s.sumed an expression of anxious pain as she thought of her son d.i.c.k being exposed to a similar fate.

Mrs Varley was not given to nervous fears; but as she listened to the boy's recital of the slaughter of a party of white men, news of which had just reached the valley, her heart sank, and she prayed inwardly to Him who is the husband of the widow that her dear one might be protected from the ruthless hand of the savage.

After a short pause, during which young Marston fidgeted about and looked concerned, as if he had something to say which he would fain leave unsaid, Mrs Varley continued:--

”Was it far off where the b.l.o.o.d.y deed was done?”

”Yes; three weeks off, I believe. And Jim Scraggs said that he found a knife that looked like the one wot belonged to--to--” the lad hesitated.

”To whom, my boy? Why don't ye go on?”

”To your son d.i.c.k.”

The widow's hands dropped by her side, and she would have fallen had not Marston caught her.

”O mother dear, don't take on like that!” he cried, smoothing down the widow's hair as her head rested on his breast.

For some time Mrs Varley suffered the boy to fondle her in silence, while her breast laboured with anxious dread.

”Tell me all,” she said at last, recovering a little. ”Did Jim see-- d.i.c.k?”

”No,” answered the boy. ”He looked at all the bodies, but did not find his; so he sent me over here to tell ye that p'raps he's escaped.”

Mrs Varley breathed more freely, and earnestly thanked G.o.d; but her fears soon returned when she thought of his being a prisoner, and recalled the tales of terrible cruelty often related of the savages.

While she was still engaged in closely questioning the lad, Jim Scraggs himself entered the cottage, and endeavoured in a gruff sort of way to re-a.s.sure the widow.

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