The Golden Dream: Adventures in the Far West, R. M. Ballantyne [to read list .txt] 📗

yet, as the white sheet of a waterfall formed the background, it was distinctly visible.

The captain advanced towards it with some curiosity, and it was not until he was within a hundred yards that a movement at length proved it to be a living human being.

The stranger rose hastily, and advanced to meet a woman, who at the same moment issued from an opening in the brushwood near him. The meeting was evidently disagreeable to the woman, although, from the manner of it, and the place, it did not seem to be accidental; she pushed the man away several times, but their words were inaudible to the captain, who began to feel all the discomfort of being an unintentional observer. Uncertainty as to what he should do induced him to remain for a few moments inactive, and he had half made up his mind to endeavour to retreat unobserved, when the man suddenly struck down the female, who fell with a faint cry to the earth.

In another minute the captain was at the side of the dastardly fellow, whom he seized by the neck with the left hand, while with the right he administered a hearty blow to his ribs. The man turned round fiercely, and grappled with his assailant; and then Captain Bunting became aware that his antagonist was no other than Smith, alias Black Jim, the murderer.

Smith, although a strong man, was no match for the captain, who soon overpowered him.

“Ha! you villain, have I got you?” cried he, as he almost throttled the man. “Get up now, an’ come along peaceably. If you don’t, I’ll knock your brains out with the butt of my gun.”

He permitted Black Jim to rise as he spoke, but held him fast by the collar, having previously taken from him his knife and rifle.

Black Jim did not open his lips, but the scowl on his visage shewed that feelings of deadly hatred burned in his bosom.

Meanwhile, the girl had recovered, and now approached.

“Ah! plase, sir,” she said, “let him off. Shure I don’t mind the blow; it’s done me no harm—won’t ye, now?”

“Let him off!” exclaimed the captain, violently; “no, my good girl; if he has not murdered you, he has at any rate murdered one human being that I know of, and if I can, I’ll bring him to justice.”

Kate, (for it was she), started at this reply, and looked earnestly at the man, who hung his head, and, for the first time, shewed symptoms of a softer feeling.

“Ah! it’s true, I see, an’ all hope is gone. If he’d commit a murder, he’d tell a lie too. I thought he spoke truth when he said Nelly was alive, but—”

The girl turned as she spoke, and left the spot hurriedly, while the captain took out his pocket-handkerchief, and began to fasten the arms of his prisoner behind him. But Black Jim was not to be secured without a struggle. Despair lent him energy and power. Darting forward, he endeavoured to throw his captor down, and partially succeeded; but Captain Bunting’s spirit was fully roused, and, like most powerful men whose dispositions are habitually mild and peaceful, he was in a blaze of uncontrollable passion. For some time Black Jim writhed like a serpent in the strong grasp of his antagonist, and once or twice it seemed as if he would succeed in freeing himself, but the captain’s hands had been trained for years to grasp and hold on with vice-like tenacity, and no efforts could disengage them. The two men swayed to and fro in their efforts, no sound escaping them, save an occasional gasp for breath as they put forth renewed energy in the deadly struggle. At last Black Jim began to give way. He was forced down on one knee, then he fell heavily on his side, and the captain placed his knee on his chest.

Just then a peculiar hiss was heard behind them, and the captain, looking back, observed that a third party had come upon the scene. The grizzly-bear, which has been described as watching Captain Bunting at dinner, had left its former position on the brow of the precipice, and, whether from motives of curiosity, or by accident, we will not presume to say, had followed the captain’s track. It now stood regarding the two men with an uncommonly ferocious aspect. Its indignation may, perhaps, be accounted for by the fact that they stood in the only path by which it could advance—a precipice on one side and a thicket on the other rendering the passage difficult or impossible. Grizzlies are noted for their objection to turn out of their way for man or beast, so the combatants no sooner beheld the ferocious-looking animal than they sprang up, seized their weapons, and fired together at their common enemy. Bruin shook his head, uttered a savage growl, and charged. It seemed as if Black Jim had missed altogether—not to be wondered at considering the circumstances—and the mixture of shot and slugs from the blunderbuss was little more hurtful than a shower of hail to the thick-skinned monarch of these western hills. Be this as it may, the two men were compelled to turn and flee for their lives. Black Jim, being the nimbler of the two, was soon out of sight among the rocks of the precipices, and, we may remark in passing, he did not again make his appearance. Inwardly thanking the bear for its timely appearance, he ran at top speed into the mountains, and hid himself among those wild lonely recesses that are visited but rarely by man or beast.

Captain Bunting endeavoured to save himself by darting up the face of the precipice on his left, but the foot-hold was bad, and the bear proved about as nimble as himself, compelling him to leap down again and make for the nearest tree. In doing so, he tripped over a fallen branch, and fell with stunning violence to the ground. He rose, however, instantly, and grasping the lower limb of a small oak, drew himself with some difficulty up among the branches.

The bear came thundering on, and reached the tree a few seconds later. It made several abortive efforts to ascend, and then, sitting down at the foot, it looked up, grinning and growling horribly in disappointed rage.

The captain had dropped the blunderbuss in his fall, and now, with deep regret, and not a little anxiety, found himself unarmed and a prisoner. True, his long knife was still in its place, but he was too well aware of the strength and ferocity of the grizzly-bear—from hearsay, and now from ocular demonstration—to entertain the idea of acting on the offensive with such a weapon.

The sun sank behind the mountain-peaks, and the shades of night began to fall upon the landscape, and still did Captain Bunting and the bear sit—the one at the top, and the other at the foot of the oak-tree—looking at each other. As darkness came on, the form of the bear became indistinct and shadowy; and the captain’s eyes waxed heavy, from constant staring and fatigue, so that at length bruin seemed, to the alarmed fancy of the tree’d mariner, to be twice the size of an elephant. At last the darkness became so deep that its form mingled with the shadows on the ground, and for some time the uncertainty as to its actual presence kept the prisoner wakeful; but soon his eyes began to close, despite his utmost efforts to keep them open; and for two hours he endured an agonising struggle with sleep, compared to which his previous struggle with Black Jim was mere child’s-play. He tried every possible position among the branches, in the hope of finding one in which he might indulge in sleep without the risk of falling, but no such position was to be found; the limbs of the tree were too small and too far apart.

At last, however, he did find a spot to lie down on, and, with a sigh of relief, lay back to indulge in repose. Alas! the spot was a myth—he merely dreamed it; the next moment he dropt, like a huge over-ripe pear, to the ground. Fortunately a bush broke the violence of his fall, and, springing up with a cry of consternation, he rushed towards the tree, expecting each instant to feel the terrible hug of his ursine enemy. The very marrow in his back-bone seemed to shrink, for he fancied that he actually felt the dreaded claws sinking into his flesh. In his haste he missed the branch, and fell violently forward, scratching himself terribly among the bushes. Again he rose, and a cold perspiration broke out upon him as he uttered an involuntary howl of terror, and once more leaped up at the limb of the oak, which he could just barely see. He caught it; despair nerved him, and in another moment he was safe, and panting violently among the branches.

We need scarcely say that this little episode gave his feelings such a tremendous shock that his tendency to sleep was thoroughly banished; but another and a better result flowed from it,—the involuntary hubbub created by his yells and crashing falls reached listening and not far-distant ears.

During their evening meal that day, Ned Sinton and his comrades had speculated pretty freely, and somewhat jocularly, on the probable result of the captain’s hunting expedition—expressing opinions regarding the powers of the blunderbuss, which it was a shame, Larry O’Neil said, “to spake behind its back;” but as night drew on, they conversed more seriously, and when darkness had fairly set in they became anxious.

“It’s quite clear that something’s wrong,” cried Ned Sinton, entering the tent hastily, “we must up and search for him. The captain’s not the man to lose his way with a compass in his pocket and so many landmarks round him.”

All the party rose at once, and began to buckle on belts and arm, while eagerly suggesting plans of search.

“Who can make a torch?” inquired Ned.

“Here’s one ready made to hand,” cried Maxton, seizing a huge pine-knot and lighting it.

“Some one must stay behind to look after our things. The new-comers who camped beside us to-day are not used to mining life, and don’t sufficiently know the terrors of Lynch law. Do you stop, Maxton. Now then, the rest of you, come along.”

Ned issued from the tent as he spoke, and walked at a rapid pace along the track leading up the valley, followed closely by Tom Collins, Larry O’Neil, and Bill Jones—all of whom were armed with rifles, revolvers, and bowie-knives. For a long time they walked on in silence, guided by the faint light of the stars, until they came to the flat rock which had formed the captain’s dinner-table. Here they called a halt, in order to discuss the probability of their lost comrade having gone up the ravine. The question was soon settled by Larry, who discovered a few crumbs of the biscuit lying on the rock, and footprints leading up the ravine; for the captain, worthy man, had stepped recklessly into the little stream when he went to fill his pannikin, and his wet feet left a distinct track behind him for some distance.

“He can’t have gone far up such a wild place as this,” said Tom Collins, while they moved cautiously along. “Kindle the torch, Ned, it will light us on our way, and be a guide to the captain if he’s within sight.”

“It will enlighten enemies, too, if any are within range,” replied Ned, hesitating.

“Oh, no fear,” rejoined Tom, “our greatest enemy is darkness; here, Jones, hand me your match-box.”

In a few seconds the torch flared forth, casting a broad glare of light on their path, as they advanced, examining the foot of precipices.

“Give a shout, Larry,” said Ned.

Larry obeyed, and all listened intently, but, save the echo from the wild cliffs, no reply was heard.

Had the captain been wide-awake at the time, he would, doubtless, have heard