Kitabı oku: «Frank and Fearless; or, The Fortunes of Jasper Kent», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XXXV.
AN INDIAN MAIDEN

From the information afforded by his employer Jasper was led to expect a somewhat adventurous journey. He was not to be disappointed. As long as he was in the well-settled part of the country he encountered no difficulties nor adventures worth recording. Plattville, as already stated, was a frontier town, and there was a large tract of almost uninhabited country between it and the nearest settlement.

Late in the afternoon of the fourth day Jasper found himself standing on the bank of a river which must be crossed. There was no boat in sight, and he was puzzled what to do. While he was considering, a young Indian girl glided by in a canoe. She handled the paddle dexterously and as one who had been long accustomed to the exercise, though she did not look more than twelve years of age.

"I wonder if she understands English?" thought Jasper. "Perhaps I could get her to ferry me across."

Acting upon this thought he called out:

"Halloo, there!"

The young girl turned quickly, and discovered Jasper, whom she had not before seen.

She stopped paddling, and asked, in a musical voice:

"White boy speak?"

"Yes," said Jasper. "Do you speak English?"

"A little."

"I want to go across the river. Will you take me in your canoe?"

The girl hesitated a moment, perhaps from uncertainty as to whether she could trust our hero, for she surveyed him attentively. It appeared that her impressions were favorable, for she turned her canoe to the shore and said, simply:

"Yes."

"Thank you," said Jasper, and he promptly took his place in the frail craft.

The Indian girl pushed off and began to paddle rapidly.

"It seems odd to be ferried by a girl," thought Jasper. "I think I ought to offer to take her place." "Shall I paddle instead of you?" he asked.

The girl laughed and shook her head.

"White boy not know how to paddle a canoe—tip it over," and she laughed again.

"I don't know but I should," thought Jasper, as he noticed how light and frail the little canoe was, and how a slight motion would agitate it.

"Do you live around here?" he asked, in some curiosity.

"Up the river," said the girl, indicating with her head, for her hands were occupied.

"Have you a father?"

"Monima's father great chief," said the girl, proudly.

"Monima! Is that your name?"

"Yes."

"It is a pretty name."

The girl laughed and appeared to be pleased with the compliment, though it was only to her name. She seemed in turn to be possessed by curiosity, for she asked:

"What white boy's name?"

"Jasper."

"Jasper," she repeated, with difficulty.

"Isn't it a pretty name?"

"No," said Monima, laughing.

"I am sorry you don't like it, Monima."

"I like white boy. He will be big warrior some day."

"I don't know about that, Monima. So your father is a chief?"

"Yes," said Monima, proudly. "Great chief."

"Did he give you this canoe?"

"Yes."

"Have you any brothers and sisters?"

"One brother, young man; no sister."

By this time they had reached the other side. Monima skilfully drew up the canoe alongside, and Jasper jumped out. He stood on the bank, and drew from his vest-pocket a silver half-dollar, which he handed to Monima.

"Monima no want money," said the girl, proudly.

"Keep it to remember white boy," said Jasper.

"Monima will remember white boy without money."

Jasper reluctantly put the money in his pocket, but he did not like to accept the favor from Monima without rendering her some return. He was in doubt at first, but finally an idea occurred to him. He had half a dozen photographs of himself, which he had recently had taken in St. Louis. He drew out one of these and extended it to Monima.

"Take that, Monima," he said. "Keep that and remember me."

Monima's face lighted up with wonder and admiration when she saw the photograph, for she had never seen one before. She looked from the picture to Jasper, and from Jasper back again to the picture, and laughed softly.

"White boy's picture?" she said.

"Yes, Monima. Do you think it looks like me?"

She nodded emphatically.

"Two white boy—here and there," she said, pointing first to the picture, then to Jasper.

"Good-bye, Monima," he said.

But the Indian girl was evidently tired of the river, for she fastened the canoe and walked by his side. He kept up a conversation for some time, till she turned aside and entered a path which led into the woods.

"Does your father live there?" he asked.

"Yes," said Monima.

"Good-bye," he said.

She didn't say good-bye, but uttered a word which was probably the Indian equivalent for it, and was soon lost to his sight.

"Well, that's romantic, to begin with," thought Jasper. "The daughter of a great chief has ferried me across the river, and I have given her my photograph. The next romantic thing that happens to me may be my losing my way, but I hope not."

He had a general idea of the way he wanted to go, but after awhile he became perplexed, and was led to doubt whether he had not gone astray.

"I wish I could find somebody to guide me," he thought.

He had his wish. A few rods farther on he came upon a man stretched upon the grass under a tree.

"I have lost my way," he began, but before he could finish the sentence the man sprang to his feet, and, to his dismay, he recognized Jack, the man who had had him locked up in St. Louis.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
IN DIFFICULTIES

Jack looked at first surprised, then smiled with malicious joy as he recognized the boy who accosted him.

"Ha! my chicken, it's you, is it?" he said. "You remember me, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember you," said Jasper.

"I thought I'd get hold of you again some time," said Jack, "but hang me if I expected to find you out here. What brings you here?"

"I came here on business," said Jasper.

"So you are a man of business, are you?" sneered the burglar.

"I am in the employ of Herman Fitch, of St. Louis."

"The father of the boy that Dick kidnapped?"

"Yes."

"Did he send you out here?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"On a little matter of business," said Jasper, with reserve.

"Oh, that's it. Well, you didn't expect the pleasure of seeing me, did you?"

"I don't consider it a pleasure," said Jasper, boldly.

"Ha! you are a bold boy."

"I speak the truth."

"Well, it isn't always best to speak the truth," said Jack, frowning.

"Shall I lie to you, then?"

"Don't be impudent."

"I shan't say I am glad to see you when I am not."

"Perhaps you are right, boy. You will have no reason to be glad to see me. Follow me."

"I would rather not."

"Follow me, or I will drive this knife into you!" said Jack, savagely, displaying a murderous-looking weapon which he carried in his girdle.

Resistance would have been unavailing and dangerous, and Jasper obeyed, resolved, however, to escape at the first opportunity.

Jack led the way into the woods, not far, however, and finally paused under a large tree.

"Sit down," he said, imperiously.

He threw himself down on the green sward, and Jasper, not very comfortable in mind, sat down near him.

"Now, young fellow," said Jack, "I've got some questions to ask you."

"I suppose he is going to ask me about my escape," thought Jasper, and he was right.

"How did you get away from that room where you were locked up?"

"I got out of the sliding-door," said Jasper.

"How did you get out of the house? Did the old man help you?"

"No," said Jasper.

"Did you go out through the front door?"

"No."

"Don't keep me asking questions," said Jack, harshly. "How did you get out, then?"

"Through the door in the roof. From there I got in through the window into a room in the next house."

"Ha!" said Jack. "I never thought of that. Did you have any trouble with the people there?"

"No; I got into the room of a German, who let me spend the night with him and take breakfast."

"So, that's the way you managed it?"

"Yes."

Jasper felt relieved that no question had been asked him as to Nancy's agency in effecting his release. He would not have betrayed her, at any rate, but his refusal to speak might have incensed Jack.

"Well," he said, "so much for that. Now, how much money have you got with you?"

This was a question which Jasper had expected and dreaded to hear, for nearly all the money in his possession belonged to his employer, and not to himself.

"Well, boy, I want an answer," said Jack, impatiently.

Jasper reluctantly drew out his pocket-book, containing, as we know, but a small portion of his money.

Jack took it, and, opening it, counted the money.

"Only twelve dollars!" he exclaimed, in disgust and disappointment.

"Don't take it," said Jasper, affecting to be very much disturbed.

"What business have you out here with such a paltry sum as twelve dollars?" demanded Jack, angrily.

"That's my business!" said Jasper.

"What do you mean, boy?"

"It certainly isn't your business how much money my employer gave me for expenses."

"Did he expect you to make the whole journey on this contemptible sum?"

"No."

"Where's the rest, then?"

"I am to collect some money before I return," answered Jasper, with a lucky thought.

Jack felt disappointed. The money Jasper was about to collect would do him no good, as, doubtless, the boy would take good care, if once released, not to be caught again.

"That's a miserable way of doing business," said Jack. "Suppose you shouldn't collect it?"

"Then I must write to the firm to send some money."

This gave Jack an idea, on which he afterward acted.

"But," continued Jasper, desirous of getting back some of the money in the pocket-book, "if you take away all my money I can't get to Plattville to make collections."

"Is that where you are to collect money?"

"Yes."

"Will you promise me the money after you have collected it?"

"No," answered Jasper.

"You won't, eh?"

"No; I have no right to. The money won't belong to me."

"That makes no difference."

"It makes a great deal of difference to me."

"Look here, boy," said Jack, frowning, "you evidently don't know the man you're talking to. You ain't going to bluff me off in that way," and he reinforced this declaration with an oath.

"I am trying to be faithful to my employer," said Jasper.

"You've got to be faithful to me."

"What claim have you on me?" asked Jasper.

"You're in my power—that's the claim I have. Do you understand that?"

"I understand what you mean," said Jasper.

"Then I've only to say that it'll be best for you to remember it."

"Tell me again what you want."

"What I did want was, that you should collect this money and bring it to me."

"I refuse."

"You needn't, for I don't intend to let you go out of my sight. I can't trust you. No; I have another plan in view."

Jasper did not ask what it was. He felt sure that it was nothing that he would be willing to do.

"What is the name of your employer?"

"Herman Fitch."

"Very good."

Jack drew from his pocket a small pocket-inkstand, a pen, and some paper.

"Now," said he, "I want you to write a letter."

"Write a letter! To whom?" inquired Jasper, in surprise.

"To this man Fitch, telling him that you have had your pocket picked and need some money. Tell him you will need at least seventy-five dollars, as you haven't been able to collect anything."

"I can't do it," said Jasper.

"Can't do it! What do you mean?"

"I mean that by such a letter I should deceive my employer and be obtaining money from him by false pretenses. I can't do it."

"Look here, boy," said Jack, sternly, "you don't know the man you are trifling with. I am a desperate man, and will stick at nothing. I have taken life before, and I am ready to do so again. Write this letter or I will kill you!"

Jasper listened with horror to this terrible confession and his equally terrible threat.

"Would you take my life for seventy-five dollars?" he said.

"Yes; your life is nothing to me, and I need the money. Quick, your answer!"

As he spoke he drew out a long, murderous-looking knife, and approached Jasper menacingly.

It was a terrible moment. Jack looked as if he fully intended to carry out his threat At any rate, there was danger of it. On the one side was death, on the other breach of trust.

Finally he decided.

"You may kill me if you will," he said at length, "but I won't write the letter."

Jack uttered an execration and raised the knife, but suddenly he uttered a stifled cry and fell to the ground, with blood spurting from a wound in his breast.

Jasper bounded to his feet in astonishment. He had shut his eyes, expecting death. His first glance was at the prostrate brigand. He saw that the wound was made by an arrow, which had penetrated the region of the heart. But who had sped the shaft? And was he also in danger? The question was soon answered.

Out from the underbrush emerged three figures. The foremost was the Indian maiden, Monima. Following her were two men of the same tribe. It was one of these who had shot at Jack.

"Is white boy hurt?" asked Monima, running to Jasper and surveying him anxiously.

"No," said Jasper. "Thank you, Monima."

"Monima is glad," said the Indian girl, joyfully.

Jack groaned, and Jasper came to his side and addressed him compassionately, though but a minute before Jack had been about to take his life. He saw that the blood was gushing forth from his wound.

"Is he badly wounded?" asked Jasper, turning to Monima.

She said something in her native language to the two men.

They spoke briefly, shaking their heads.

"White man will die," she said, interpreting to Jasper.

Our hero was shocked. It was the first time he had ever witnessed a violent death, and it struck him with horror.

He kneeled by Jack's side. Just then the wounded man opened his eyes.

"Who shot me?" he asked, with difficulty.

"The Indians."

Jack's glance fell upon the two men, and he tried to lift himself up, but the effort caused his wound to bleed more copiously. He burst into a volley of oaths, which in his state shocked Jasper.

"Don't swear," he said. "Would you go into the presence of God with an oath in your mouth?"

Jack's face grew livid with terror.

"Who says I am going to die?" he asked, wildly.

"The Indians say you cannot live," said Jasper, gravely.

"It's a lie!" exclaimed Jack, violently. "I'll live to kill you all!"

As he spoke he plucked the arrow from his breast; but this only hastened his death. He fell back exhausted, and in five minutes breathed his last.

Jasper looked so shocked that the Indian girl said, in a tone of surprise:

"Is white boy sorry?"

"Yes," said Jasper.

"What for? He try to kill white boy."

"Yes; but it seems awful to see him killed so suddenly. I wish he could have lived long enough to repent."

Monima could not understand this.

"He bad man!" she said, emphatically. "He try to kill white boy. Monima white boy's friend."

Jasper took the hand of Monima gratefully and said:

"You have saved me, Monima. But for you he would have killed me."

The Indian girl's eyes lighted up, but she only said:

"Monima is glad."

"How fortunate that I fell in with her," thought Jasper, "and that I made a friend of her!"

"Where white boy go to-night?" asked Monima.

"I don't know," said Jasper, doubtfully.

"Come to my father's lodge. In the morning Monima will show the way."

"Thank you, Monima," said our hero. "I will go."

He felt that he could not refuse such an offer from one who had rendered him such a service. Moreover, it relieved him from embarrassment, as he would not have known otherwise where to pass the night, which was now close at hand.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
A STARTLING SUMMONS

The Indian encampment was only half a mile away. There were assembled about fifty persons, men, women, and children, lying on the grass about the tents. Monima's favor was sufficient to insure a cordial reception to Jasper, who was pressed to partake of supper, an offer he was glad to accept, for it was now seven hours since he had eaten food. After the repast a pipe was offered him, but this he declined, explaining that he never had learned to smoke. On the whole, he enjoyed the adventure, except that he could not help thinking from time to time of his late companion, cut off so suddenly. He learned from Monima that her two attendants had remained behind and buried Jack under the tree where he had been killed.

At night he slept on skins in one of the tents, and in the morning he was guided on his way by Monima as far as the road.

The Indian maiden looked sad when they were about to part.

"When will white boy come back?" she said.

"I don't know, Monima. I hope to see you again, some time, but perhaps you won't remember me."

"Monima never forgets," she answered.

"And I shall not forget."

Attached to his watch was a silver chain which he had bought in St. Louis three months before. He had noticed Momma's look of admiration directed toward it, and he determined to give it to her. Detaching his watch from it, he held it out to the Indian girl.

"Take it, Monima," he said. "It is a gift of friendship."

She uttered a cry of pleasure.

"You give it to Monima?" she said, half incredulous.

"Yes," he said.

"And I have nothing to give white boy," she said, sadly.

"You have given me my life. Is that nothing, Monima? Keep the chain, and whenever you look at it remember Jasper."

So they parted, and Jasper pursued his journey to Plattville. He reached the town without further adventure, and conducted satisfactorily the business with which he was intrusted. He succeeded in obtaining half the money due his employer, and in making arrangements for the speedy payment of the rest. So it was with a mind well satisfied that he returned to St. Louis.

When he told Mr. Fitch the particulars of his encounter with Jack, and his escape, the latter said, earnestly:

"Jasper, you are the bravest boy I know."

"I am afraid you overrate my services," said Jasper, modestly.

"And you really refused to write the letter, though you knew your life was in danger?"

"I was not willing to betray my trust."

"I honor your courage and fidelity, but you carried them too far. We would far rather have lost ten times seventy-five dollars than risked your life."

"I didn't think of that, I only thought it would be wrong to defraud you."

"We shall not forget your fidelity. You may consider your wages raised to twenty dollars a week."

"Thank you, sir," said Jasper, gratified.

"It is not merely on account of your courage and fidelity, but partly because of the business ability you have shown in carrying on this affair."

Again Jasper thanked his employer, and went about his duties with fresh courage, feeling that his services were appreciated.

"I am glad I came to St. Louis," he thought. "How much better I am situated than I should have been at home, tyrannized over by a step-mother by whom I was disliked."

Three months more passed, when one day a boy entered the store.

"Is Jasper Kent here?" he asked.

"Yes," said Jasper, coming forward, "that is my name."

"I have a telegram for you," said the boy. Jasper tore it open, and read these words:

"Come home at once. Your step-mother is dying.

"Otis Miller."

Shocked at this startling intelligence, Jasper at once sought his employer, obtained leave of absence, and took the next train bound east.

We must precede him and explain what had happened, and what occasioned Mrs. Kent's critical condition.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
DICK COMES BACK

When Mrs. Kent's brother left her house with fifty dollars in his pocket she warned him that it was the last money he could expect to receive from her. He did not reply, but he had no intention of remaining satisfied with so little.

"What is fifty dollars?" he thought, "to my sister's fortune? She needn't think she has got rid of me so easily."

At that time he expected to make her another visit in the course of a month or two, but circumstances prevented. The fact is, he was imprudent enough to commit theft and incautious enough to be detected, not long afterward, and the consequence was a term of imprisonment.

When he was released from confinement he at once made his way to his sister's house.

As before, Nicholas was standing on the lawn. His countenance changed when he recognized his uncle, though he didn't know that he had just come from a prison.

"How are you, Nicholas?" said his uncle.

"I'm well," said his nephew, coldly.

"Really, you have grown a good deal since I saw you."

Even this compliment did not soften Nicholas, who turned his back and did not invite his uncle into the house.

Dick scowled in an ugly manner but controlled his voice.

"How is your mother?"

"She's got the headache."

"I am sorry. I have been sick, too."

Nicholas did not exhibit the slightest curiosity on the subject.

"I have just come from the hospital," a slight fiction, as we know.

This aroused Nicholas, who retreated a little as he asked:

"Did you have anything catching?"

"No; besides, I'm well now. I should like to see your mother."

"I don't think she feels well enough to see you."

"Will you go up and see? I want to see her on important business."

Nicholas went up stairs grumbling.

"Well, mother," he said, "that disreputable brother of yours has come again."

Mrs. Kent's brow contracted.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"Down stairs. He wants to see you, he says."

"How does he look?"

"Worse than ever. He says he has just come from a hospital."

"From a hospital? He has a good deal of assurance to come here," said Mrs. Kent, with a hard look.

"So he has."

"I will tell you why," said his mother, in a lower tone. "He has not told you the truth. He has not come from a hospital, as he represents."

"Why should he say so, then?" asked Nicholas, surprised.

"Because he didn't like to say prison."

"Has he been in prison? How do you know?"

"I saw an account in the papers of his arrest and conviction. I suppose he has just come out of prison."

"Why didn't you tell me of this before, mother?"

"I wanted to keep the disgrace secret, on account of the relationship. When he finds I know it, I shall soon be rid of him."

"Will you see him, then?"

"Yes; I will go down stairs, and you may tell him to come in."

Two minutes later the ex-convict entered his sister's presence. He read no welcome in her face.

"Hang it!" he said, "you don't seem very glad to see your only brother."

"You are right," she said; "I do not seem glad, and I do not feel glad."

His face darkened as he sank heavily into an arm-chair.

"I suppose I'm a poor relation," he said, bitterly. "That's the reason, isn't it?"

"No."

"You'd treat me better if I came here rich and prosperous."

"Probably I would."

"Didn't I say so? You haven't any feelings for the poor."

"I haven't any feeling for criminals," said Mrs. Kent, in a sharp voice.

He uttered a stifled oath and his face flushed.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that you came here straight from a prison; deny it if you can," she said, sternly.

He hesitated. Then he said:

"I'm not the only innocent man that's been locked up."

"You can't deceive me," she answered, "though you protest your innocence all day. I shall not believe you. I feel sure that you were guilty of the crime for which you were punished."

"It's rather hard that my own flesh and blood should turn against me."

"You have disgraced the family," said Mrs. Kent. "I discard you. I no longer look upon you as my brother."

"If you had not turned me off with such a pittance it wouldn't have happened," he said, sullenly. "Out of your abundance you only gave me fifty dollars."

"And you a stout, broad-shouldered man, must accept charity or steal!" she said, sarcastically.

"Luck has always been against me."

"Your own bad habits have always been against you."

"Look here," said he, doggedly, "I won't stand any more of that, even from my own sister."

"Very well. What have you come here for?"

"I'm out of money."

"And you expect me to supply you?"

"I think you might give me a little, just to get along."

"I shall not give you a cent. You have no claim upon me. I have already said that I no longer look upon you as a brother."

"Is that all you've got to say?" demanded Dick, his face growing dark with anger.

"It is my final determination."

"Then all I've got to say is, you'll repent it to the last day of your life!" he burst out, furiously. "I'll go away"—here he arose—"but I'll never forget your cruelty and harshness."

He strode out of the room, and she looked after him coldly.

"It is as well," she said to herself. "Now he understands that there is no more to be got out of me, I hope I shall never lay eyes upon him again."

"Well," said Nicholas, entering directly afterward, "what have you said to him? He dashed out of the yard, looking as black as a thunder-cloud."

"I told him that he had disgraced the family and I should never more acknowledge him as a brother."

"I'm glad you sent him off with a flea in his ear. I don't want to see him around here again."

"I don't think we shall."

There was one thing Mrs. Kent forgot—her brother's brutal temper and appetite for revenge. Had she thought of this she would, perhaps, have been more cautious about provoking him.

In the middle of the night Mrs. Kent awoke with a strange sense of oppression, the cause of which she did not immediately understand. As soon as she recovered her senses she comprehended the occasion—the crackling flames—and the fearful thought burst upon her:

"The house is on fire!"

She threw on her dress and dashed hastily from the room. She was about to seek the quickest mode of exit when she thought of Nicholas. He might be asleep, unconscious of his peril. She was a cold and selfish woman, but her one redeeming trait was her affection for her son. She rushed frantically to his chamber, screaming:

"Nicholas! Wake up! The house is on fire!"

She entered his chamber, but he was not in it. He had already escaped, and, full of selfish thoughts of his own safety, had fled without giving heed to his mother, though there would have been time for him to save her.

"He is safe!" thought Mrs. Kent, and, relieved of this anxiety, she sought to escape.

But the flames had gained too much headway. Her dress caught fire, and she ran frantically about, ignorant that in so doing she increased the peril. She was barely conscious of being seized and borne out by friendly hands. But though the flames were extinguished, she had already received fatal injuries. She lingered till the afternoon of the following day, and then died. Meanwhile Mr. Miller sent Jasper the telegram already referred to.

Nicholas looked serious when he was informed of his mother's death, but his was not a temperament to be seriously affected by the misfortune of another. His own interests were uppermost in his mind.

"Will I get mother's property?" he asked Mr. Miller, while that mother lay dead and disfigured in his presence.

"This is no time to speak of property," said Mr. Miller, coldly. "You ought to think of your poor mother's fate."

"Of course I do," said Nicholas, trying to look sorrowful; "but I want to know how I'm going to be situated."

"Wait till after the funeral, at any rate," said the other, disgusted.