Charlie to the Rescue
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“Exactly. Perhaps,” said Charlie, “it may interest you all to hear my letter. There are no secrets in it, and the gentleman who writes it is a jolly old fellow, Jacob Crossley by name. You know him, Dick, as the owner of the Walrus, though you’ve never seen him.”
“All right. I remember; fire away,” said Dick.
“It is dated from his office in London,” continued our hero, “and runs thus:—
“My Dear Brooke,—We were all very glad to hear of your safe arrival in New York, and hope that long before this reaches your hand you will have found poor Leather and got him to some place of comfort, where he may recover the health that we have been given to understand he has lost.
“I chanced to be down at Sealford visiting your mother when your letter arrived; hence my knowledge of its contents. Mrs Leather and her daughter May were then as usual. By the way, what a pretty girl May has become! I remember her such a rumpled up, dress-anyhow, harum-scarum sort of a girl, that I find it hard to believe the tall, graceful, modest creature I meet with now is the same person! Captain Stride says she is the finest craft he ever saw, except that wonderful ‘Maggie,’ about whose opinions and sayings he tells us so much.
“But this is a double digression. To return: your letter of course gave us all great pleasure. It also gave your mother and May some anxiety, where it tells of the necessity of your going up to that wild-west place, Traitor’s Trap, where poor Leather is laid up. Take care of yourself, my dear boy, for I’m told that the red savages are still given to those roasting, scalping, and other torturing that one has read of in the pages of Fenimore Cooper.
“By the way, before I forget it, let me say, in reference to the enclosed bill, it is a loan which I have obtained for Leather, at very moderate interest, and when more is required more can be obtained on the same terms. Let him understand this, for I don’t wish that he should think, on the one hand, that he is drawing on his mother’s slender resources, or, on the other hand, that he is under obligation to any one. I send the bill because I feel quite sure that you started on this expedition with too little. It is drawn in your name, and I think you will be able to cash it at any civilised town—even in the far west!
“Talking of Captain Stride—was I talking of him? Well, no matter. As he is past work now, but thinks himself very far indeed from that condition, I have prevailed on him to accept a new and peculiar post arising out of the curious evolutions of the firm of Withers and Company which satisfies the firm completely and suits the captain to a T. As the work can be done anywhere, a residence has been taken for him in Sealford, mid-way between that of your mother and Mrs Leather, so that he and his wife and little girl can run into either port when so disposed. As Mrs L, however (to use his own phraseology), is almost always to be found at anchor in the Brooke harbour, he usually kills both with the same visit. I have not been to see him yet in the new abode, and do not know what the celebrated Maggie thinks of it.
“When you find Leather, poor fellow, tell him that his mother and sister are very well. The former is indefatigable in knitting those hundreds of socks and stockings for poor people, about which there has been, and still is, and I think ever will be, so much mystery. The person who buys them from her must be very deep as well as honest, for no inquiries ever throw any fresh light on the subject, and he—or she, whichever it is—pays regularly as the worsted work is delivered—so I’m told! It is a little old lady who pays—but I’ve reason to believe that she’s only a go-between—some agent of a society for providing cheap clothing for the poor, I fancy, which the poor stand very much in need of, poor things! Your good mother helps in this work—at least so I am told, but I’m not much up in in the details of it yet. I mean to run down to see them in a few days and hear all about it.
“Stride, I forgot to say, is allowed to smoke a pipe in your mother’s parlour when he pays her a visit. This is so like her amiability, for she hates tobacco as much as I do. I ventured on a similarly amiable experiment one day when the worthy Captain dined with me, but the result was so serious that I have not ventured to repeat it. You remember my worthy housekeeper, Mrs Bland? Well, she kicked over the traces and became quite unmanageable. I had given Stride leave to smoke after dessert, because I had a sort of idea that he could nor digest his food without a pipe. You know my feelings with regard to young fellows who try to emulate chimneys, so you can understand that my allowing the Captain to indulge was no relaxation of my principles, but was the result of a strong objection I had to spoil the dinner of a man who was somewhat older than myself by cramming my principles down his throat.
“But the moment that Mrs Bland entered I knew by the glance of her eye, as well as by the sniff of her nose, that a storm was brewing up—as Stride puts it—and I was not wrong. The storm burst upon me that evening. It’s impossible, and might be tedious, to give you all the conversation that we had after Stride had gone, but the upshot was that she gave me warning.
“‘But, my good woman,’ I began—
“‘It’s of no use good-womaning me, Mr Crossley,’ said she, ‘I couldn’t exist in a ’ouse w’ere smokin’ is allowed. My dear father died of smokin’—at least, if he didn’t, smokin’ must ’ave ’ad somethink to do with it, for after the dear man was gone a pipe an’ a plug of the nasty stuff was found under ’is piller, so I can’t stand it; an’ what’s more, Mr Crossley, I won’t stand it! Just think, sir, ’ow silly it is to put a bit of clay in your mouth an’ draw smoke through it, an’ then to spit it out again as if you didn’t like it; as no more no one does on beginnin’ it, for boys only smoke to look like men, an’ men only smoke because they’ve got up the ’abit an’ can’t ’elp it. W’y, sir, you may git up any ’abit. You may git the ’abit of walkin’ on your ’ands an’ shakin’ your legs in the hair if you was to persevere long enough, but that would only prove you a fool fit for a circus or a lunatic asylum. You never see the hanimals smokin’. They knows better. Just fancy! what would you think if you saw the cab ’osses all a-settin’ on their tails in the rank smokin’ pipes an’ cigars! What would you think of a ’oss w’en ’is cabby cried, “Gee-up, there’s a fare a ’owlin’ for us,” an’ that ’oss would say, “Hall right, cabby, just ’old on, hold man, till I finish my pipe”? No, Mr Crossley, no, I—’
“‘But, my good soul!’ I burst in here, ‘do listen—’
“‘No use good-soulin’ me, Mr Crossley. I tell you I won’t stand it. My dear father died of it, an’ I can’t stand it—’
“‘I hate it, Mrs Bland, myself!’
“I shouted this interruption in such a loud fierce tone that the good woman stopped and looked at me in surprise.
“‘Yes, Mrs Bland,’ I continued, in the same tone, ‘I detest smoking. You know I always did, but now more than ever, for your reasoning has convinced me that there are some evil consequences of smoking which are almost worse than smoking itself! Rest assured that never again shall the smell of the noxious weed defile the walls of this house.’
“‘Lauk, sir!’ said Mrs Bland.
“I had subdued her, Charlie, by giving in with dignity. I shall try the same role next breeze that threatens.
“I almost feel that I owe you an apology for the length of this epistle. Let me conclude by urging you to bring poor Leather home, strong and well. Tell him from me that there is a vacant situation in the firm of Withers and Company which will just suit him. He shall have it when he returns—if God spares me to see him again. But I’m getting old, Charlie, and we know not what a day may bring forth.”
“A kind—a very kind letter,” said Leather earnestly, when his friend had finished reading.
“Why, he writes as if he were your own father, Brooke,” remarked Buck Tom, who had been listening intently. “Have you known him long?”
“Not long. Only since the time that he gave me the appointment of supercargo to the Walrus, but the little I have seen of him has aroused in me a feeling of strong regard.”
“My sister May refers to him here,” said Leather, with a peculiar smile, as he re-opened his letter. “The greater part of this tells chiefly of private affairs which would not interest any of you, but here is a passage which forms a sort of commentary on what you have just heard:—
“‘You will be amused to hear,’ she writes, ‘that good Captain Stride has come to live in Sealford. Kind old Mr Crossley has given him some sort of work connected with Withers and Company’s house which I can neither understand nor describe. Indeed, I am convinced it is merely work got up on purpose by Mr Crossley as an excuse for giving his old friend a salary, for he knows that Captain Stride would be terribly cast down if offered a pension, as that would be equivalent to pronouncing him unfit for further duty, and the Captain will never admit himself to be in that condition till he is dying. Old Jacob Crossley—as you used to call him—thinks himself a very sagacious and “deep” man, but in truth there never was a simpler or more transparent one. He thinks that we know nothing about who it is that sends the old lady to buy up all the worsted-work that mother makes, but we know perfectly well that it is himself, and dear mother could never have gone on working with satisfaction and receiving the money for it all if we had not found out that he buys it for our fishermen, who are said really to be very much in need of the things she makes.
“‘The dear old man is always doing something kind and considerate in a sly way, under the impression that nobody notices. He little knows the power of woman’s observation! By the way, that reminds me that he is not ignorant of woman’s powers in other ways. We heard yesterday that his old and faithful—though rather trying—housekeeper had quarrelled with him about smoking! We were greatly surprised, for we knew that the old gentleman is not and never was, a smoker. She threatened to leave, but we have since heard, I am glad to say, that they have made it up!
“H’m! there’s food for meditation in all that,” said Dick Darvall, as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his vest pocket.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Hunky Ben and Charlie get Beyond their Depth, and Buck Tom gets Beyond Recall
While hunting together in the woods near Traitor’s Trap one day Charlie Brooke and Hunky Ben came to a halt on the summit of an eminence that commanded a wide view over the surrounding country.
“’Tis a glorious place, Ben,” said Brooke, leaning his rifle against a tree and mounting on a piece of rock, the better to take in the beautiful prospect of woodland, river, and lake. “When I think of the swarms of poor folk in the old country who don’t own a foot of land, have little to eat and only rags to cover them, I long to bring them out here and plant them down where God has spread His blessings so bountifully, where there is never lack of work, and where Nature pays high wages to those who obey her laws.”
“No doubt there’s room enough here,” returned the scout sitting down and laying his rifle across his knees. “I’ve often thowt on them subjects, but my thowts only lead to puzzlement; for, out here in the wilderness, a man can’t git all the information needful to larn him about things in the old world. Dear, dear, it do seem strange to me that any man should choose to starve in the cities when there’s the free wilderness to roam about in. I mind havin’ a palaver once wi’ a stove-up man when I was ranchin’ down in Kansas on the Indian Territory Line. Screw was his name, an’ a real kind-hearted fellow he was too—only he couldn’t keep his hand off that curse o’ mankind, the bottle. I mentioned to him my puzzlements about this matter, an’ he up fist an’ come down on the table wi’ a crack that made the glasses bounce as if they’d all come alive, an’ caused a plate o’ mush in front of him to spread itself all over the place—but he cared nothin’ for that, he was so riled up by the thowts my obsarvation had shook up.
“‘Hunky Ben,’ says he, glowerin’ at me like a bull wi’ the measles, ‘the reason we stay there an’ don’t come out here or go to the other parts o’ God’s green ’arth is ’cause we can’t help ourselves an’ don’t know how—or what—don’t know nothin’ in fact!’
“‘That’s a busted-up state o’ ignorance, no doubt’ said I, in a soothin’ sort o’ way, for I see’d the man was riled pretty bad by ancient memories, an’ looked gittin’ waxier. He wore a black eye, too, caught in a free fight the night before, which didn’t improve his looks. ‘You said we just now,’ says I. ‘Was you one o’ them?’
“‘Of course I was,’ says he, tamin’ down a little, ‘an’ I’d bin one o’ them yet—if not food for worms by this time—if it hadn’t bin for a dook as took pity on me.’
“‘What’s a dook?’ says I.
“‘A dook?’ says he. ‘Why, he’s a dook, you know; a sort o’ markis—somewheres between a lord an’ a king. I don’t know zackly where, an hang me if I care; but they’re a bad lot are some o’ them dooks—rich as Pharaoh, king o’ J’rus’lem, an’ hard as nails—though I’m bound for to say they ain’t all alike. Some on ’em’s no better nor costermongers, others are men; men what keeps in mind that the same God made us all an’ will call us all to the same account, an’ that the same kind o’ worms ’ll finish us all off at last. But this dook as took pity on me was a true blue. He wasn’t one o’ the hard sort as didn’t care a rush for us so long as his own stummick was full. Neether was he one o’ the butter-mouths as dursen’t say boo to a goose. He spoke out to me like a man, an’ he knew well enough that I’d bin born in the London slums, an’ that my daddy had bin born there before me, an that my mother had caught her death o’ cold through havin’ to pawn her only pair o’ boots to pay my school fees an’ then walk barefutt to the court in a winter day to answer for not sendin’ her boy to the board school—her send me to school!—she might as well have tried to send daddy himself; an’ him out o’ work, too, an’ all on us starvin’. My dook, when he hear about it a’most bust wi’ passion. I hear ’im arterwards talkin’ to a overseer, or somebody, “confound it,” says he—no, not quite that, for my dook he never swore, only he said somethin’ pretty stiff—“these people are starvin’,” says he, “an’ pawnin’ their things for food to keep ’em alive, an’ they can’t git work nohow,” says he, “an’ yet you worry them out o’ body an’ soul for school fees!” I didn’t hear no more, for the overseer smoothed ’im down somehows. But that dook—that good man, Hunky Ben, paid my passage to Ameriky, an’ sent me off wi’ his blessin’ an’ a Bible. Unfortnitly I took a bottle wi’ me, an when I got to the other side I got hold of another bottle, an’ another—an’ there stands the last of ’em.’
“An’ wi’ that, Mr Brooke, he fetched the bottle in front of him such a crack wi’ his fist as sent it all to smash against the opposite wall.
“‘Well done, Screw!’ cried the boy at the bar, laughin’; ‘have another bottle?’
“Poor Screw smiled in a sheepish way, for the rile was out of him by that time, an’, says he, ‘Well, I don’t mind if I do. A shot like that deserves another!’
“Ah me!” continued the scout, “it do take the manhood out of a fellow, that drink. Even when his indignation’s roused and he tries to shake it off, he can’t do it.”
“Well do I know that, Ben. It is only God who can help a man in such a case.”
The scout gravely shook his head. “Seems to me, Mr Brooke, that there’s a screw loose some wheres in our theology, for I’ve heard parsons as well as you say that—as if the Almighty condescended to help us only when we’re in bad straits. Now, though I’m but a scout and pretend to no book larnin’, it comes in strong upon me that if God made us an’ measures our movements, an’ gives us every beat o’ the pulse, an’ counts the very hairs of our heads, we stand in need of His help in every case and at all times; that we can’t save ourselves from mischief under any circumstances, great or small, without Him.”
“I have thought of that too, sometimes,” said Charlie, sitting down on the rock beside his companion, and looking at him in some perplexity, “but does not the view you take savour somewhat of fatalism, and seek to free us from responsibility in regard to what we do?”
“It don’t seem so to me,” replied the scout, “I’m not speakin’, you see, so much of doin’ as of escapin’. No doubt we are perfectly free to will, but it don’t follow that we are free to act. I’m quite free to will to cut my leg off or to let it stay on; an’ if I carry out my will an’ do it, why, I’m quite free there too—an’ also responsible. But I ain’t free to sew it on again however much I may will to do so—leastwise if I do it won’t stick. The consekinces o’ my deed I must bear, but who will deny that the Almighty could grow on another leg if He chose? Why, some creeters He does allow to get rid of a limb or two, an’ grow new ones! So, you see, I’m responsible for my deeds, but, at the same time, I must look to God for escape from the consekinces, if He sees fit to let me escape. A man, bein’ free, may drink himself into a drunkard, but he’s not free to cure himself. He can’t do it. The demon Crave has got him by the throat, forces him to open his mouth, and pours the fiery poison down. The thing that he is free to do is to will. He may, if he chooses, call upon God the Saviour to help him; an’ my own belief is that no man ever made such a call in vain.”
“How, if that be so, are we to account for the failure of those who try, honestly strive, struggle, and agonise, yet obviously fail?”
“It’s not for the like o’ me, Mr Brooke, to expound the outs an’ ins o’ all mysteries. Yet I will p’int out that you, what they call, beg the question, when you say that such people ‘honestly’ strive. If a man tries to unlock a door with all his might and main, heart and soul, honestly tries, by turnin’ the key the wrong way, he’ll strive till doomsday without openin’ the door! It’s my opinion that a man may get into difficulties of his own free-will. He can get out of them only by applyin’ to his Maker.”
During the latter part of this conversation the hunters had risen and were making their way through the trackless woods, when the scout stopped suddenly and gazed for a few seconds intently at the ground. Then he kneeled and began to examine the spot with great care. “A footprint here,” he said, “that tells of recent visitors.”
“Friends, Ben, or foes?” asked our hero, also going on his knees to examine the marks. “Well, now, I see only a pressed blade or two of grass, but nothing the least like a footprint. It puzzles me more than I can tell how you scouts seem so sure about invisible marks.”
“Truly, if they was invisible you would have reason for surprise, but my wonder is that you don’t see them. Any child in wood-craft might read them. See, here is the edge o’ the right futt making a faint impression where the ground is soft—an’ the heel; surely ye see the heel!”
“A small hollow I do see, but as to its being a heel-print I could not pronounce on that. Has it been made lately, think you?”
“Ay, last night or this morning at latest; and it was made by the futt of Jake the Flint. I know it well, for I’ve had to track him more than once an’ would spot it among a thousand.”
“If Jake is in the neighbourhood, wouldn’t it be well to return to the cave? He and some of his gang might attack it in our absence.”
“No fear o’ that,” replied the scout, rising from his inspection, “the futt p’ints away from the cave. I should say that the Flint has bin there durin’ the night, an’ found that we kep’ too sharp a look-out to be caught sleepin’. Where he went to arter that no one can tell, but we can hoof it an’ see. Like enough he went to spy us out alone, an’ then returned to his comrades.”
So saying, the scout “hoofed it” through the woods at a pace that tested Charlie Brooke’s powers of endurance, exceptionally good though they were. After a march of about four miles in comparative silence they were conducted by the footprints to an open space in the midst of dense thicket where the fresh ashes of a camp fire indicated that a party had spent some time.
“Just so. They came to see what was up and what could be done, found that nothin’ partiklar was up an’ nothin’ at all could be done, so off they go, mounted, to fish in other waters. Just as well for us.”
“But not so well for the fish in the other waters,” remarked Charlie.
“True, but we can’t help that. Come, we may as well return now.”
While Charlie and the scout were thus following the trail, Buck Tom, lying in the cave, became suddenly much worse. It seemed as if some string in his system had suddenly snapped and let the poor human wreck run down.
“Come here, Leather,” he gasped faintly.
Poor Shank, who never left him, and who was preparing food for him at the time, was at his side in a moment, and bent anxiously over him.
“D’you want anything?” he asked.
“Nothing, Shank. Where’s Dick?”
“Outside; cutting some firewood.”
“Don’t call him. I’m glad we are alone,” said the outlaw, seizing his friend’s hand with a feeble, tremulous grasp. “I’m dying, Shank, dear boy. You forgive me?”
“Forgive you, Ralph! Ay—long, long ago I—” He could not finish the sentence.
“I know you did, Shank,” returned the dying man, with a faint smile. “How it will fare with me hereafter I know not. I’ve but one word to say when I get there, and that is—guilty! I—I loved your sister, Shank. Ay—you never guessed it. I only tell you now that I may send her a message. Tell her that the words she once said to me about a Saviour have never left me. They are like a light in the darkness now. God bless you—Shank—and—May.”
With a throbbing heart and listening ear Shank waited for more; but no more came. The hand he still held was lifeless, and the spirit of the outlaw had entered within the veil of that mysterious Hereafter.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Chase, Capture, and End of Jake the Flint
It was growing dark when Brooke and the scout reached the cave that evening and found that Buck Tom was dead; but they had barely time to realise the fact when their attention was diverted by the sudden arrival of a large band of horsemen—cowboys and others—the leader of whom seemed to be the cow-boy Crux.
Hunky Ben and his friends had, of course, made rapid preparations to receive them as foes, if need were; but on recognising who composed the cavalcade, they went out to meet them.
“Hallo! Hunky,” shouted Crux, as he rode up and leaped off his steed, “have they been here?”
“Who d’ye mean?” demanded the scout.
“Why, Jake the Flint, to be sure, an’ his murderin’ gang. Haven’t ye heard the news?”
“Not I. Who d’ye think would take the trouble to come up here with noos?”
“They’ve got clear off, boys,” said Crux, in a voice of great disappointment. “So we must off saddle, an’ camp where we are for the night.”
While the rest of the party dismounted and dispersed to look for a suitable camping-ground, Crux explained the reason of their unexpected appearance.
After the Flint and his companions had left their mountain fastness, as before described, they had appeared in different parts of the country and committed various depredations; some of their robberies having been accompanied with bloodshed and violence of a nature which so exasperated the people that an organised band had at length been gathered to go in pursuit of the daring outlaw. But Jake was somewhat Napoleonic in his character, swift in his movements, and sudden in his attacks; so that, while his exasperated foes were searching for him in one direction, news would be brought of his having committed some daring and bloody deed far off in some other quarter. His latest acts had been to kill and rob a post-runner, who happened to be a great favourite in his locality, and to attack and murder, in mere wanton cruelty, a family of friendly Indians, belonging to a tribe which had never given the whites any trouble. The fury of the people, therefore, was somewhat commensurate with the wickedness of the man. They resolved to capture him, and, as there was a number of resolute cow-boys on the frontier, to whom life seemed to be a bauble to be played with, kept, or cast lightly away, according to circumstances, it seemed as if the effort made at this time would be successful.