Chapter 4 CHAPTER IV.

A BRUSH WITH INDIANS.–A BLACK HEART.

"Hello! Let me in, I say. Are you all dead?" and a strong hand shook the door.

Mrs. Jones rubbed her eyes, for she had overslept herself; and as the children depended on her to awaken them in the morning, they were sleeping too. Hastening to the door, she undid the fastening, and her husband entered.

"Is that you, Joseph?" she asked.

"It isn't anybody else, I reckon," he gruffly answered; "but where shall I put this?" taking a quarter of venison from his shoulder, which his wife hung against the wall on a wooden peg.

"I'm glad you've got back, Joseph."

"Well you might be, for you came near never seeing me again."

"I hope you haven't met with any mishap," said the wife, anxiously.

"Nothing to speak of, only a scratch from the bullet of one of them rascally red-skins."

"Why, you haven't been fighting with the Indians–have you?" 48

"Not exactly," he answered; "I've always treated them well; but after this, if any of 'em get in my way, I shall pop at 'em before they do at me; that's all."

"But how did they happen to shoot at you?" asked Mrs. Jones.

"Well," said her husband, "just give me something to put on my side, for it's a grain sore after my long tramp, and cook us a venison steak, and I'll tell you all about it;" and Mr. Jones, pulling open his hunting-shirt, showed an ugly-looking flesh wound in his side.

"Dear me, Joseph, you are hurt," said the wife, as she carefully bandaged it, putting on a simple salve, which she always kept on hand for family use. "You look tired and pale–bringing home such a load, and bleeding all the way. Sit down, and I'll get you something to eat directly."

Scarcely had he seated himself, when there was a cry of pain from Tom, and Bub came tumbling head first upon the floor; for, having seen his father, he had scrambled, without ceremony, across Tom's sore face, and receiving a push from the latter, landed upon his nose.

By this time the rest of the children were awake, and shouting, "Dad's come home!" while Bub bellowed at the top of his lungs, "My nose beeds! my nose beeds!"

"O, no, it don't," replied his mother, soothingly. 49

"Well, it feels wed, it does!" he answered, determined to be pitied.

This remark elicited peals of laughter from his brothers and sisters, which Bub taking as insults, he roared the louder.

"Children," cried Mrs. Jones, "stop laughing at Bub."

But he cut too comical a figure for them to stop at once, for, as he had used, the night before, one of Tom's old shirts for a night dress, he now found it difficult to move towards his father, as each time he stepped the garment would trip his feet.

"Children," interposed Mr. Jones, "why don't you hush. Your marm's spoken to you a number of times already."

At which Bub added with dignity, as he tried to balance himself,–

"I des they're blind, they're so hard o' hearin'!"

"Your father," said the mother, impressively, "has been shot at by the Indians, and came very near being killed, and you ought to keep more quiet."

"Did they kill you, daddy?" asked Bub, who now stood at his father's knee, his blue eyes wide with wonder; "tause, if they did, I'll stick my big stick into their backs."

There was a suppressed tittering at this, for which the children felt half ashamed, considering the startling intelligence they had just heard. 50

"Mother was afraid you'd have trouble with the Indians," observed Tom, "and she was so much worried that she didn't sleep last night."

"Why, the Indians haven't been doing any mischief about here–have they?" asked his father.

"No," replied Tom, "and I told mother that there wasn't any danger."

But the venison was filling the cabin with its savory smell, and Mrs. Jones said,–

"Hurry, children, and get washed and dressed for breakfast."

And going to the basin, which was in its place on the wash-bench outside the door, with much discussion as to who should have the first chance, hands and faces were treated to a hasty bath.

Mr. Jones was about forty-five years of age–a short, thick-set man, with dark hair and heavy beard. He was a man of much natural ability, and exhibited singular contrasts in character and speech. The free and easy carriage, and quaint language of the "Leather-stocking," sat easily upon him; and yet, at times, he would express himself in words well chosen, and even elegant. He hated society, and was despised by the settlers for his lack of enterprise; and yet, when circumstances drew him out, they were wonder-struck at the variety and accuracy of his information. These inconsistencies made him a mystery; 51 and he was looked down upon, and looked up to, as his neighbors came in contact with one of the other side of his characteristics. In all, too, that pertained to the habits of the animals, and the appearance of the country, no one was so well posted as he. He was built for physical endurance, was cool and courageous in danger, but could not confine himself to regular employment, bodily or mental.

"Isn't Tom coming to breakfast?" inquired Mr. Jones, as the rest of the children were greedily helping themselves from the plate of meat.

So the mother related how Tom had been hurt, and then said,–

"But you haven't told us how you received your injury?"

"Well," said Mr. Jones, as he pushed away his plate, having satisfied his appetite, "I had started for the lake, hearing that there was a good many wild geese and other sorts of game there, and the prospect was, that we should make a pretty big thing of it; but the afternoon after we reached the pond, and was looking about a little, Davis and I were crossing a prairie, and had come in sight of a grove, and says I to him, 'You just go round on the other side of the thicket, and I'll go in on this, and if there's any deer in there, one of us'll start them out.' Well, I'd got within a few yards of the trees, when, the first I knew, I 52 heard the crack of a rifle, and a bullet came singing through my side. Says I to myself, 'That's a red-skin's compliments!' and making believe that I was a gorner, I pitched forward and lay still as a door nail, in the tall grass. I hadn't lain there more 'n a minute, when, sure enough, a red-skin popped out from behind a tree close by, and made for me, to take my scalp. I had my revolver ready, and when he was within a few feet of me, I just let daylight through him; and as he fell, not knowing how many more of the scamps might be about, I dragged myself along to the side of the lake, where I found Davis waiting for me,–for he had seen the whole thing,–and creeping around to the other side under the banks, we made tracks for home. Why under the sun the feller didn't put the bullet through my heart, I can't make out, for I never knew one of 'em to miss, when he was so near as that, and had a fair aim."

Mrs. Jones then knew why her heart was so burdened on his account at the very hour of his marvellous escape from death.

But their conversation was interrupted by a settler who called to ask if they had seen anything of a stray pair of cattle.

"Ah, neighbor Allen, is that you?" said Mr. Jones, going to speak to the caller, who sat upon his horse before the door.

"Ah, Jones, when did you git back? and what 53 luck?" rejoined the horseman in a hearty way.

"Got a taste of venison," replied Mr. Jones, "and had a brush with the Injins."

"Ah, ha! the red scamps want to smell powder again–do they? Well, I'm ready for them, for one, and I have seven boys not an inch shorter than I am, and as good with the rifle as the best, who would like a sight at the varmints. But if none of your folks have seen any stray cattle about the diggins, I must be going. Fact is, I reckon they've been driv off by some thievish villain."

"What sort of cattle were yours?" inquired Mrs. Jones.

"One was red, and the other was a brindle."

"Was the red one very large, with very wide-spreading horns?"

"That's the ticket," said the man.

"I saw such a one last night, going down that way, by our cabin."

"You did? Was Brindle follerin'?"

"No," replied she, "but some men were driving him."

"They were Indians!" cried Tom, excitedly.

But Mrs. Jones fell to scraping the tin pan she held in one hand, with a case-knife, and drowned his words, so that they did not hear, while she motioned to him to be silent. 54

The caller sat thinking a moment. His hair was silver-white, but his face was youthful and ruddy; and his massive, well-knit frame indicated remarkable physical strength. He was a bold and athletic man, skilful with the rifle, and a lineal descendant of the revolutionary hero whose name he bore, and whose fighting characteristics were reproduced in him.

"What time was the ox driv by?" he asked.

"About twelve, I should think," said she.

"Were the men afoot?"

"Yes."

"Well, they'll have to travel fast to git away from me! And if I catch 'em–" But the remainder of the sentence was lost in the distance, for the old man had already touched the trail of the stolen ox, and, dismounting, examined carefully the ground, then fiercely shouting, "Indians!" drove on at full speed.

When he had gone, Mr. Jones turned to his wife, and asked,–

"Did you see the men that driv the ox?"

"Yes."

"Why on earth didn't you say so, then?"

"Husband," said Mrs. Jones, "the trouble will come soon enough; and I was hoping Mr. Allen would never find out who took his cattle. If he shoots one Indian, it will bring hundreds of them 55 upon the settlements, and we shall have dreadful times!"

"Fush!" returned the husband; "Allen is good for a dozen Indians, and there are plenty more of us to help him. But don't you be scared; the red-skins know us too well to risk a fight. They'll only prowl around and steal a little beef, and shoot at a fellar unaware, from under kiver–that's all they'll venter on–you can depend on that!" Then he took down his rifle, cleaned and loaded it, and saying, "I guess I'll go along a piece; perhaps Allen'll come across the varmints afore he's aware," with a quick step he was soon hidden from view.

The news of the accident that had happened to Tom, and that Mr. Jones had been shot at by the Indians, spread rapidly, with many exaggerations; for the inhabitants of a new country, being mutually dependent, feel a special personal interest in whatever befalls each other. Besides, there are not such distinctions as obtain in the old, settled portions of the country, and they become well acquainted with one another's affairs. Moreover, the doctor, as he went his rounds, gave a flaming account of the injury that his patient at the cabin had sustained, and painted in glowing colors the magical effects of his professional services. If he did not assert in so many words that Tom's head was actually blown from his body, and that 56 he replaced it so that it was on better than before, he gave the impression that something as extraordinary had been achieved by his medical and surgical skill. And through the day quite a number called to satisfy their curiosity, or show their sympathy. It proved, therefore, quite an occasion for the Jones children, and they feasted their eyes and ears to their hearts' content. As for the mother, weary of the unwonted interruptions, and wishing to commune with her own heart, she willingly bade the last visitor "good by," and, calling Robert, she directed him to bring in some wood and make a fire, that she might fry some cakes for tea. Robert proceeded with alacrity to do this, the other children helping him in the task, the prospect of the cakes being the quickening principle. Robert filled the grate with dry wood, and, proceeding to light it, the room was soon dense with smoke. This, however, was no new experience, as the blackened walls of the cabin testified. But soon the smoke had measurably cleared away, and the tea-kettle sent up volumes of steam, and Mrs. Jones, taking some meal from her frugal stock, poured boiling water upon it, and added some salt. Then putting on the griddle some deer fat, she put the dough in large iron spoonfuls into the sputtering grease.

"Your father will relish these," said she to the children, who stood in solid ranks around the 57 stove, watching her with interest. And having taken off the last cake, she set the heaping plate in the open oven to keep warm till her husband came.

"I guess pa's coming now," said Sarah, who, anxious to get to eating, had looked out to see if he was in sight. "No; it isn't he, either; I don't know who it is. How nicely dressed he is!"

At the latter exclamation the family urchins rushed in a body through the door, upsetting Sarah in their eagerness to see the wonder.

A gentlemanly, middled-aged man in black, with gold spectacles and pleasant countenance, approached.

Accustomed to the plainly-attired specimens of humanity that do the hard work of the frontier, the children, overawed by his appearance, shrank behind cabin and pigsty, in spite of his kindly invitations to stay, where they peeped at him in open-mouthed astonishment.

"Mrs. Jones, I presume," said he, bowing, as, abashed, she answered his polite rap on the door-frame.

"Yes, sir," she replied, wondering how he knew her name.

Entering, without being asked,–for Mrs. Jones was too confused to think of it,–he said,–

"I heard that your son had met with an injury, 58 and as I was looking up children for the Sabbath school we are to organize next Sunday, I thought I would step in and see how he was, and how many of your little ones could attend."

"It is the missionary," whispered Tom, as his mother nervously smoothed the bed-clothes.

The good minister heard the remark, and not appearing to notice the mother's embarrassment, stepped to Tom's side, and in a way that made both mother and son feel at ease, said,–

"I hope you are not seriously hurt, my lad."

"No, sir," replied Tom, grateful for his thoughtful kindness. "My face was burnt pretty badly by the powder; but it's nearly well now, and the black is coming off nicely."

"How did you contrive to get hurt so, at this season of the year? Boys sometimes get burned with powder on Independence Day. I once met with such an accident myself."

"How did it happen?" Tom ventured to inquire, for he loved dearly to hear a story.

"It was when I was about fourteen," replied the minister. "I was a wide-awake little good-for-nothing, and had for some weeks saved up my pennies to celebrate the Fourth with. I bought me a half pound of powder, and a little iron cannon, on wheels, and, as you may believe, anticipated a jolly time. I had decided, the night before, to commence the day with a grand salute; 59 and that it might produce the greatest effect, I crept softly down in my stocking feet, by my parents' bed-room into the front hall, before daylight, and having loaded my little gun to the muzzle the evening before, I touched it off. It made a great noise, I assure you–all the louder, of course, because it was in the house; then, slipping on my shoes, I went into the streets, leaving the old folks to go to sleep again if they could. My first use of the powder, you see, did no harm to me, unless it made me careless. When I got into the street, I found crowds of boys and men were there before me, making all the noise they could, firing off crackers, pistols, and guns, and making the foggy morning air resound with the music of tin horns and drums. Meeting a boy with a large horse-pistol, I bought it of him at a foolishly high price, and banged away with that till breakfast time. At the eastern extremity of the city, where I then lived, was a high hill, called Munjoy, on which the soldiers were to encamp that day; and after eating a hurried meal, I went there. Scores of white tents were pitched, occupied by men who sold all sorts of tempting eatables, while thousands of men, women, and children walked about. It was an exciting scene to me. The hill, indeed, was a glorious spot, for it overlooked the city on the one side, with its thousands of buildings and shaded streets, and 60 on the other the harbor, with its shipping and wharves, and lovely islands, while the ocean stretched away as far as the eye could reach."

"I never saw the ocean," interrupted Tom.

"Well, I will tell you what it resembles. You have looked for miles and miles over the prairie–I mean a rolling prairie, that in gentle swells of land extends till the sky shuts down upon it?"

"O, yes," answered Tom.

"Well, imagine that prairie turned to water, so deep that you could not touch bottom with the longest line you ever saw,–the ocean would look so; only remember that it is always in motion–ebbing, and flowing, and roaring, and dashing against the land and the rocks, its waves sometimes running very high, topped off with a white foam."

"O," said Tom, earnestly, "if I could only once see it!"

The minister studied Tom's expressive face a moment, and then said,–

"Perhaps you may, some day. But I was going to tell you how I got hurt. I had exploded all the powder, and was about tired of the pistol,–for you know such things don't satisfy a great while, after all,–when I came across some boys who were making volcanoes. Volcanoes, you know, are burning mountains. They took some powder, wet it, worked it with 61 their fingers into miniature hills, then put one end of a strip of match-paper in the top of each, and lighted the other end of the paper; this would burn slowly down into the top of the powder-hill; that would take fire and send up showers of sparks for quite a while, as it gradually consumed. This amusement fascinated me. So, buying a quarter of a pound of powder, I made a hill like those I had seen, and lighted the match-paper as I saw them light theirs; but when it had burnt all away, the hill did not burn. Thinking, therefore, I had put too much water in mine, I stooped down and poured on from the paper some dry powder. In an instant it ignited from a smouldering spark, exploding also the contents of the paper which I held in my hand. My face was dreadfully burned, and became as black as a negro's."

"So did mine," said Tom; "but it is coming off nicely now."

"So I see," returned the minister, laughing; "and I dare say you worried almost as much about the black as you did about the burn."

"Tom feared it would never come off," said the mother.

"Ah, that's just the way I felt. But I have found out since that there's something worse than a black face."

"What's that?" asked Tom. 62

"A black heart!" replied the minister.

"A black heart!" repeated Tom, in doubt of his meaning.

"Yes, my lad. What I mean is a heart blackened by sin. Ah, if folks worried more about that, and less about their looks, how much more sensible it would be!" Then, after a pause, he said,–

"But there is one thing for which we should be very grateful; and that is, that as there are remedies for us when we injure the body, and disfigure it,–as we did our faces, my son,–that can heal the injury, and bring the skin out all fresh and fair, so there is a great Physician, who can heal the hurt which sin has done our souls, and cause them to be pure and white forever. Isn't that a glorious thought?"

"Yes," whispered Tom, weeping.

"Yes," ejaculated the mother, with deep emotion.

"But," said the minister, "how many of these little folks"–for most of the children had ventured in, and stood listening spell-bound to his recital–"will come to Sunday school next Sunday?" And getting a promise that as many of them would be there as possible, he took leave, saying he hoped to call again soon.

The children's hearts were taken captive by their clerical visitor. And well it might be so, 63 for he was their true friend. And it mattered little to him that their dwelling was rude and comfortless, their clothing old and worn, and their manners uncultured. He loved them for his Master's sake, and for their souls' sake: for this he had left the elegances of his eastern home, and come out into the wilderness. He was a true man, and a true minister of Jesus Christ–seeking not a name, wealth, luxury, the favor of the rich and great, but to bring the straying lambs and sheep into the fold.

"I think we won't wait any longer for your father," said Mrs. Jones, after the children had got somewhat over the excitement caused by the missionary's call; and putting her hand into the oven to take from thence the plate of cakes, she looked in to see why she did not find them, exclaiming,–

"Why, where are the cakes? I certainly set them in here. Who has taken them away?"

The children gazed at each other in consternation.

"I'll bet it's some of Bub's doings," said Eliza; and noticing for the first time that he was not in the room, they hastened out to find him.

"Bub, Bub!" called the mother.

"Bub, Bub!" echoed the children, as they searched the field over, and looked into every nook and corner that they could think of. But 64 there was no answer, and not a trace of him was to be found, until, at last, Charley called out,–

"Here's his stick!"

"He cannot be far off, then," said his mother, although she began to grow uneasy about him.

"No," said Robert, "for he rides that stick most all the time:" then he suddenly added, "Ah, you little rascal! I see you!" Then turning to the rest, he whispered, "Just look here, but don't make any noise!"

And Mrs. Jones and the children, gathering softly around the pen, peeping in, saw Bub, comfortably seated by the fawn, the cakes in his lap, eating them and feeding the gentle creature. Bub had teased the fawn the most, and Bub was the first to tame it.

Bub and the Fawn. Page 64.

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