Henri uttered a peculiar and significant
hiss
between
his teeth, as he said, "P'r'aps ve better stop
and fight!"
Dick said nothing, being resolved to do exactly what
Joe Blunt bid him; and Crusoe, for reasons best known
to himself, also said nothing, but bounded along beside
his master's horse, casting an occasional glance upwards
to catch any signal that might be given.
They had passed over a considerable space of ground,
and were forcing their way at the imminent hazard of
their necks through a densely-clothed part of the wood,
when the sound above referred to increased, attracting
the attention of both parties. In a few seconds the
air was filled with a steady and continuous rumbling
sound, like the noise of a distant cataract. Pursuers
and fugitives drew rein instinctively, and came to a
dead stand; while the rumbling increased to a roar, and
evidently approached them rapidly, though as yet nothing
to cause it could be seen, except that there was a dense,
dark cloud overspreading the sky to the southward.
The air was oppressively still and hot.
"What can it be?" inquired Dick, looking at Joe, who
was gazing with an expression of wonder, not unmixed
with concern, at the southern sky.
"Dun'no', boy. I've bin more in the woods than in
the clearin' in my day, but I niver heerd the likes o'
that."
"It am like t'ondre," said Henri; "mais it nevair do
stop."
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
grass 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 dashing 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 passed 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 the 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 grass was
beaten flat; the trees were torn, shivered, 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 passed, no Indians
were to be seen. So our hunters remounted their
steeds, and, with feelings of gratitude to God for having
delivered them alike from savage foes and from the destructive
power of the whirlwind, resumed their journey
towards the Mustang Valley.
Anxious fears followed by a joyful surprise--Safe home at last, andhappy 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, Dick 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 lying dead with
their scalps off. They wos a party o' white men."
Mrs. Varley sighed again, and her face assumed an
expression of anxious pain as she thought of her son
Dick 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 bloody 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 Dick."
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--Dick?"
"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'r'aps he's escaped."
Mrs. Varley breathed more freely, and earnestly
thanked God; 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 reassure the widow.
"Ye see, mistress," he said, "Dick is an oncommon
tough customer, an' if he could only git fifty yards' start,
there's not an Injun in the West as could git hold o' him
agin; so don't be takin' on."
"But what if he's been taken prisoner?" said the
widow.
"Ay, that's jest wot I've comed about. Ye see it's
not onlikely he's bin took; so about thirty o' the lads
o' the valley are ready jest now to start away and give
the red riptiles chase, an' I come to tell ye; so keep up
heart, mistress."
With this parting word of comfort, Jim withdrew,
and Marston soon followed, leaving the widow to weep
and pray in solitude.
Meanwhile an animated scene was going on near the
block-house. Here thirty of the young hunters of the
Mustang Valley were assembled, actively engaged in
supplying themselves with powder and lead, and tightening
their girths, preparatory to setting out in pursuit
of the Indians who had murdered the white men; while
hundreds of boys and girls, and not a few matrons,
crowded round and listened to the conversation, and to
the deep threats of vengeance that were uttered ever
and anon by the younger men.
Major Hope, too, was among them. The worthy
major, unable to restrain his roving propensities, determined
to revisit the Mustang Valley, and had arrived
only two days before.
Backwoodsmen's preparations are usually of the shortest
and simplest. In a few minutes the cavalcade was
ready, and away they went towards the prairies, with
the bold major at their head. But their journey was
destined to come to an abrupt and unexpected close.
A couple of hours' gallop brought them to the edge of
one of those open plains which sometimes break up the
woodland near the verge of the great prairies. It
stretched out like a green lake towards the horizon, on
which, just as the band of horsemen reached it, the sun
was descending in a blaze of glory.
With a shout of enthusiasm, several of the younger
members of the party sprang forward into the plain
at a gallop; but the shout was mingled with one of a
different tone from the older men.
"Hist!--hallo!--hold on, ye catamounts! There's
Injuns ahead!"
The whole band came to a sudden halt at this cry,
and watched eagerly, and for some time in silence, the
motions of a small party of horsemen who were seen in
the far distance, like black specks on the golden sky.
"They come this way, I think," said Major Hope,
after gazing steadfastly at them for some minutes.
Several of the old hands signified their assent to this
suggestion by a grunt, although to unaccustomed eyes
the objects in question looked more like crows than
horsemen, and their motion was for some time scarcely
perceptible.
"I sees pack-horses among them," cried young Marston
in an excited tone; "an' there's three riders; but
there's som'thin' else, only wot it be I can't tell."
"Ye've sharp eyes, younker," remarked one of the
men, "an' I do b'lieve ye're right."
Presently the horsemen approached, and soon there
was a brisk fire of guessing as to who they could be.
It was evident that the strangers observed the cavalcade
of white men, and regarded them as friends, for they
did not check the headlong speed at which they approached.
In a few minutes they were clearly made out
to be a party of three horsemen driving pack-horses
before them, and
somethin
' which some of the hunters
guessed was a buffalo calf.
Young Marston guessed too, but his guess was different.
Moreover, it was uttered with a yell that would
have done credit to the fiercest of all the savages.
"Crusoe!" he shouted, while at the same moment he
brought his whip heavily down on the flank of his little
horse, and sprang over the prairie like an arrow.
One of the approaching horsemen was far ahead of
his comrades, and seemed as if encircled with the flying
and voluminous mane of his magnificent horse.
"Ha! ho!" gasped Marston in a low tone to himself,
as he flew along. "Crusoe! I'd know ye, dog,
among a thousand! A buffalo calf! Ha! git on with
ye!"
This last part of the remark was addressed to his
horse, and was followed by a whack that increased the
pace considerably.
The space between two such riders was soon devoured.
"Hallo! Dick--Dick Varley!"
"Eh! why, Marston, my boy!"
The friends reined up so suddenly that one might
have fancied they had met like the knights of old in the
shock of mortal conflict.
"Is't yerself, Dick Varley?"
Dick held out his hand, and his eyes glistened, but he
could not find words.
Marston seized it, and pushing his horse close up,
vaulted nimbly off and alighted on Charlie's back behind
his friend.