The Lost Trail, Edward Sylvester Ellis [best classic literature TXT] 📗

that my lazy body inclines to quiet and rest after partaking of a hearty dinner, as I have done to-day."

"If we think of rest at this early stage in our lives, how will it be when we become thirty or forty years older?"

"I refer only to the temporary rest of the body and mind, such as they must have after periods of labor and excitement. Such rest the youngest as well as the oldest requires. Be careful, Cora, you don't drop the little fellow!"

"Never fear," laughed the mother, as the youngster woke and commenced several juvenile antics more interesting to the parents than to any one else:

"How lively!" remarked the proud father. "It seems to me I never saw a child at his age as bright and animated."

And what father does not hold precisely the same opinion of his young hopeful?

"Look!" exclaimed the mother, "some one must be coming to see you."

An Indian woman was discernible among the trees, walking along the path at a rapid walk, as if she were greatly hurried. Her head was bent, but now and then she raised it and glanced toward the cabin, showing that that was her destination.

Passing from the shadow of the wood into the Clearing, the missionary recognized one of the worst women of the tribe. She had scoffed at his preaching, had openly insulted him, and during the first month or two had manifested a disposition approaching violence. To this Richter only answered by kindness; he used every means to conciliate her good-will, but thus far with indifferent success. Her husband, The-au-o-too, a warrior favorably inclined toward the white man, was thoughtful and attentive; and the good minister wondered that the savage did not restrain these unwomanly demonstrations upon his squaw's part.

She approached with rapid step, until she stood directly in front of them. Harvey saw that her countenance was agitated.

"Well, At-to-uck," said he, kindly, "you seem troubled. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Me ain't trouble," she answered, using English as well as her very imperfect knowledge would admit. "Me ain't trouble--_me_ ain't."

"Who may it be then?"

"The-au-o-too--he _much_ trouble. Sick--in woods--die--_berry_ sick."

"What do you mean, At-to-uck?" asked the missionary, his interest strongly awakened. "Has anything befallen your husband?"

"He fall," she answered, eagerly, catching at the helping word, "he fall--much hurt--die--die--won't got well."

"Where is he?"

She spun around on one foot, and pointed deeper into the woods. "He dere--lay on back--soon die."

"And he wishes me to see him; is that it?"

She nodded her head vigorously, but made no answer for a moment. Then she suddenly broke forth:

"Send At-to-uck to git good man--hurry--berry hurry--he die--won't live. The-au-o-too say hurry--die soon--won't see good man--Riher."

Harvey looked at his wife. "What must I do, Cora? It will not do to leave you, as Teddy may not return for several hours, and yet this poor Indian should be attended in his dying moments."

"You should go, Harvey; I will not fear."

He turned to the squaw in perplexity.

"How far away is The-au-o-too?"

"Not much far--soon find--most dead."

"It may be," he said in a low tone, "that he can be got to the house, although it would be no easy matter for us two to bring him."

"I think your duty calls you to the dying man."

"I ought to be there, but I tell you, Cora, I don't like this leaving you alone," said he, impressively. "You know we made up our minds that it should never occur again."

"There must be occasions when it cannot be avoided, and this is one of them. By refusing to attend this man, you may not only neglect a great duty, but incur the ill-will of the whole tribe. You know the disposition of this woman."

The latter, at this point, began to give evidence of agitation, and to remark in her broken accents that The-au-o-too was dying and would be dead before they could reach him. The missionary, in sore perplexity, looked at his wife.

"Go," she said, or rather signified without speaking.

"I will," he said, rising with an air of decision. "God grant I may never regret this."

"I trust you never will."

He kissed the infant, embraced his wife and then signified to the squaw to lead the way.

"Keep up a good heart," he added, turning, as he moved away.

The wife smilingly nodded her head but said nothing. It did not escape the notice of her husband that there were tears in her eyes, and he half resolved to remain with her after all, but the next moment he moved on.

The squaw took the well-beaten track, walking very rapidly and often looking back to see that she was followed. Her strangeness of manner the missionary attributed to her excitement regarding her husband. Several times she exhibited hesitation, and once or twice muttered something that was unintelligible to him.

When they were about half-way to the village, she paused.

"Well, At-to-uck, what is the matter now?"

"Mebbe dead."

"Oh, I hope not," he answered, cheerfully. "Do you turn off here?"

She answered in the affirmative and asked him to lead the way.

"No; I am unacquainted, and you ought certainly to know where to find your dying husband better than I do."

She took the duty of guide upon herself again, and advanced but a rod, when she abruptly paused. "Hark! hear groan? Me hear him."

Harvey listened intently but heard nothing. Knowing that the hearing of the Indians is marvelously acute, he believed the squaw had heard sounds of distress; but, instead of quickening her steps, she now moved more slowly than ever.

"Have you lost your way, At-to-uck?"

"No," she answered, in a significant voice.

The suspicions of the missionary that had been slumbering were now fully roused.

"What do you mean then?"

The squaw turned full around and gave a leer which, if possible, made her face more hideous than ever. Without thinking Harvey caught her by the arm and shook her sharply.

"Explain this, At-to-uck. What is the meaning of this?"

"He-he-e-e-e! _big_ fool. The-au-o-too hunt--_no hurt_!"

A sharp reproof arose to the missionary's lips, but deeming it would be lost upon such a person, he merely turned his back upon her and walked away. She called and taunted him, but he was the last man who could have been roused to anger by such means, and he walked, with his arms folded, slowly and deliberately away toward the path.

It had not occurred, as yet, to the mind of Richter that anything more than a simple annoyance to himself was contemplated by this proceeding; but, as he resumed his steps homeward, a suspicion flashed upon him which almost checked the beating of his heart. "God save it being so!" was his mental prayer, as he hurried forward. A moment later he was on a full run.

The afternoon was well advanced, but he soon caught a glimpse of his cabin through the trees. Before this, however, he had detected the outcries of his infant, which struck him as a favorable omen, and he abated his speed somewhat. But, as he came into the Clearing, his heart gave a great bound, as he saw his child lying upon the ground some distance from the house. His anxiety was so distressing that he dashed by it into the cabin.

"Cora, Cora, what is the matter? Where have you concealed yourself? Why this untimely pleasantry?"

He came out again, caught up the infant and attempted to soothe it, all the time looking wildly about in the hope of seeing the returning mother.

"CORA! CORA!" he again called in agonized tones, but the woods gave back only the hollow echo. For a few moments he was fairly beside himself; but, at the end of that time, he began to reason more calmly. He attempted to persuade himself that she might return, but it was useless; and with a sort of resigned despair, he looked about him for signs of the manner in which she was taken away.

The most convincing evidence was not wanting. The ground was trampled and torn, as if there had been a violent struggle; and, inexperienced as were his eyes, he detected the unmistakable impress of a moccasin upon the soft earth, and in the grass. The settle, too, was overturned and the baby lay in the grass as if tossed there by the act of some other arm, than a mother's.


CHAPTER VI.

THE LOST TRAIL.

"'Twas night--the skies were cloudless blue,
And all around was hushed and still,
Save paddle of the light canoe,
And wailing of the whippowill."

On that sunny afternoon, the fish in a particular locality of a tributary of the Mississippi did not take the bait very well. The spot to which we refer was that immediately surrounding Teddy, whose patience was well-nigh exhausted. There he sat for several tedious hours, but had secured only two nibbles at his line, neither of which proved to be anything more.

"Begorrah, but it must be they'se frightened by meself, when that ould scalliwag give me a fling into the stream. Jabers! _wasn't_ it done nately. Hallo! there's a bite, not bigger, to be sure, than a lady's fut, but a bull-pout it is I know."

He instantly arose to his feet, as if he were about to spring in the water, and stood leaning over and scanning the point where his line disappeared in the stream, with an intense interest which the professional angler alone can appreciate. But this, like all others, proved a disappointment, and he soon settled down into his waiting but necessary attitude of rest.

"A half-hour more of sunshine, and then these same pants will be the same as if they've niver saan water, barring it's mighty seldom they have or they wouldn't be in this dirty condition. Arrah! what can be the m'aning of that?"

Faintly but distinctly through the long stretch of woods came the sound of his name. It was repeated again and again until the Irishman was convinced beyond all possibility of mistake.

"What is up now?" he asked of himself as he drew in his line. "That is Mister Harvey's voice sure, and he is calling as though he was in a mighty hurry. Faith, and I must not linger! If anything _should_ happen whin I was away I'd feel wus'n old Boney at Watherloo whin he lost the day an' his crown."

The line was soon stowed away, and Teddy made his way at a half-walk and ran in a homeward direction. He had gone about a hundred rods when he paused and listened. Clearer and more distinctly came his name in tones whose earnest entreaty could not be mistaken. Teddy rose on his heels and made reply to the hail, to assure his master, if possible, that he was approaching with all speed.

The Irishman's words were yet lingering in his mouth, when another and more terrible sound reached his ears. It was that of a suppressed, half-smothered woman's scream--a sort of gasp of terror. It was so short and so far away that it was impossible to tell its direction. He stopped, his heart beating like a hammer, but he heard no more.

"God protect me, but there's something gone wrong at the cabin!" he exclaimed, dashing forward through