Chapter IV: Act III (2)

With foreboding hearts we once more hurried back into our huts. Our boats, on which we might have to depend to escape from this inhospitable region, were destroyed; a large portion of the fuel, without which we could not exist, was buried deeply under rocks and snow. As soon as the men had finished taking their necessary rest, and had breakfasted, all hands set off to the scene of the disaster to try and recover some of the stores. On arriving at the spot the task appeared hopeless, so vast was the mass of ruin which covered them. After exploring the ground and digging in various spots, in the hope of finding only snow, we were obliged to return homewards. When Mr. Grummet and I reached our hut, we found that Sandy Dow was not with us. Mr. Grummet asked when I had last seen him. I could not tell, but thought that he must have gone into one of the other huts. We waited dinner for him for some time, but still he did not appear. At last I offered to run round to the other huts and enquire. A snow-storm was raging, and I found it no easy matter to make my way from hut to hut. I did so, however, but no one had seen our friend. When I went to the captain he said that Dow must have certainly remained at the cape, and that a party must set off immediately and try to find him. I smuggled myself in with the party, though the captain was unwilling to let me go, fearing that I might not be able to endure the cold and fatigue. Mr. Grummet led the party, and off we set, thinking that there would be no difficulty in finding the way in spite of the snow-storm. We went on and on, supposing that we should every instant arrive at the cape, and that the snow hid it from our view. Still we did not reach it. At last Mr. Grummet, in a tone of vexation, declared that he had lost his way. The distance was so short, and we had been so accustomed to be guided by the high cape ever in view, that we had come without a compass. The snow came down thicker and thicker, and the prospect of finding our way appeared more and more hopeless. We shouted, thinking that we might possibly after all not be far from the huts, but there was no answer. Mr. Grummet and another officer, who had guns, fired them off, but no report was heard in return. If we remained quiet we might be frozen, for the cold was intense, so we pushed on in the hope that we might before long sight either the huts or the cape. Some of the men proposed that we should halt, build up a snow-hut, and shelter ourselves in it till the snow was over, but to this our leader would not consent. He expressed his belief that the snow might fall for several days, so that we might be completely covered up and unable to work our way out of our hut. Besides, we had come to look for Sandy Dow, and nothing should induce him to give up the search as long as he could move a foot forward. So on we went; every now and then a gun was fired, and we all shouted at the top of our voices. We continued this practice, though with little hope of an answer. We were, therefore, still more surprised when a shout was heard very like ours, and which came from no great distance. Again we shouted, and again there was a reply. Was it only an echo? It was not quite like enough for that. Directly after we heard a bark, and in a few minutes an Esquimaux, with his seal spear in his hand and his dog by his side, stood before us. He saluted us in a friendly manner. To our great satisfaction we found that he could speak a few words of English. He told us that he knew a ship had been lost, and that we were in the neighbourhood, but he did not know exactly where we were located. On our telling him that it was near the cape, he set off in a perfectly opposite direction to that in which we had been going. We explained that we were in search of a lost shipmate, and begged him to help us in our search. To this he at once consented. The snow fell thicker than ever, still our new friend led on with unwavering steps. I felt very sad, for I heard Mr. Grummet say that he scarcely expected to find my friend Sandy alive. An expressive action of the Esquimaux confirmed this opinion. Still we pushed on; at length the cliff appeared before us, and as the snow slackened a little, we could discern a figure seated on a rock and almost bent double, as if to try and avoid the icy blast. That it was Sandy Dow we had little doubt; we hurried towards him; we called his name, but he did not look up. Mr. Grummet and others went up to him and shook him. A low groan was the only sound he uttered. Still that was sufficient to give us hope that he would recover. Mr. Grummet poured a few mouthfuls of brandy down his throat, and then two of the strongest of our party took him between them and hurried him along as fast as they could go. The great thing was to restore circulation. The desired effect was produced, and we had the satisfaction of seeing our friend, under the care of the doctor, himself again. Sandy had stopped behind to explore, when, the snow coming on, he had been prevented reaching the hut, but fortunately found his way back again to the cliff.

Our new friend Upnick told us that he was one of a small party of natives settled for the winter in a bay about ten miles off, and that he was out on an expedition to catch seals when he fell in with us. He was a merry, happy fellow. We wanted him to stop with us, but he replied that he must go back to his family to supply them with blubber and oil for their lamps, and that then he would come back to us. Some of our men agreed to accompany him. When they came back they did not give a very tempting account of the Esquimaux mode of life. Upnick accompanied them. His appearance somewhat raised the spirits of our party, which were getting very low. Our oil was well-nigh expended, and it seemed doubtful whether our provisions would hold out to the spring. It was also a weary time, for though our captain and officers did their best to amuse us, we had but few books, and the weather often kept us for days and days within our huts. Upnick, however, offered to show us how to catch seals, which would give us both food and fuel. He went off some distance from the land, where there was less snow, and his dog hunted about till he found a small hole. To this hole he said the seals came to breathe; he then told our men to sit quiet. They had to wait a long time, till a sound of blowing was heard. Quick as lightning Upnick darted his harpoon down through the hole. The tightened line showed that it had got hold of something; he then began to work away with his ice-knife till he had considerably enlarged the hole, when he drew forth a full-sized seal. He killed three others in the same way, which he and our men dragged to the huts. We gave him some coloured pocket handkerchiefs and a hatchet in return. This afforded, indeed, a seasonable supply of fuel, and we were also very glad of the flesh for food. It was found, however, that though Upnick had showed us how to catch the seals, our men could but ill follow out his lessons. In the first place they had great difficulty in finding the holes, and when found they were not in time to catch the seals, or did not hear them blow, or did not properly direct their harpoons.

We had hung up the seals on spars just outside the huts, that we might chop off as much as we required. We had been for some time asleep one night, when Dow awoke, saying that he heard a peculiar noise outside. He instantly jumped up, and slipping on his clothes, ran out with a harpoon in his hand. He had not been gone long before we heard him shouting for help. Mr. Grummet had been meantime putting on his clothes, and followed with a loaded musket. I slipped out after him, when what was my horror to see Sandy Dow in the embrace of a huge white polar bear! “Fire, fire, or he will squeeze the breath out of me,” he cried out. Not only was the monster squeezing poor Sandy, but he was threatening to take a piece out of his shoulder with his huge jaws. No time was to be lost; Mr. Grummet advanced cautiously and fired close past Sandy’s head down the animal’s mouth. Another man came up the next instant with a whale spear, which he plunged into its side, when the bear, letting go his hold of Sandy, rolled over, and was very soon dead. The creature had been attracted to the place by the seals, of which he had already eaten a large piece. He was welcome to it, considering that his own carcass afforded us many a welcome meal. We carried Sandy into the hut, for he was very much hurt by the bear. “It’s an ill wind that blaws naebody guid,” he observed. “If the bear had na grabbed me, we should have gane without his steaks.”

The supply of fresh meat was very valuable, and restored most of the invalids to health. Still there was the want of blubber for our lamps. Upnick, however, on seeing that we could not catch the seals as well as he did, made a bargain with the captain to act as our hunter. Some of the men by degrees became more expert, and with his help obtained a sufficient supply to keep our lamps burning. One day, however, he told us that he must go away, and, in spite of all the captain’s expostulations, he took his departure with the treasures he had accumulated, and we were left to our own resources. Oftentimes we were reduced to a very sad plight, and to make our oil last longer, we had all to congregate in two or three huts; this increased the heat certainly, but, as there was no means of ventilation, it was far from pleasant. Such was the state of things when Christmas day arrived. Our crew were divided into two parties; our fare was seals’ blubber, and twenty-five of us were seated round one oil lamp in a hut about twelve feet in diameter. We had materials for a plum pudding, but as hot water was too valuable to throw away we had mixed it porridge fashion: Still we tried to make ourselves as merry as circumstances would allow. Now and then one of the party would brave the snow-storm raging outside for the sake of carrying some amusing message to our friends in the other hut, knowing that we should get a facetious answer in return. After this, however, matters grew worse; in vain the best hunters went out to catch seals; not a pint of oil remained, and even inside our huts we could not have existed twenty-four hours without the warmth of the lamp. We talked once more of trying to dig down to our stores, but the crew soon found that their strength was inadequate to the undertaking. And now that Christmas had gone by, that time which we had all expected to pass with our families in comfort and happiness at home, the true horrors of our situation burst on us. The scurvy, that scourge of mariners, broke out, and several of our poor fellows could scarcely move hand or foot. All those who could get out were engaged in seal killing; their success was small, though they procured just sufficient to keep two and sometimes three lamps burning at a time. Week after week and month after month passed by, and we began to fear that we should not escape from our perilous position till late in the summer, when perhaps some whalers might pass within sight of our encampment. How many of us might be alive then was the question. Death had already begun to thin our numbers. One day, Jack and I, who had kept our health better than any of our shipmates, were amusing ourselves at a little distance from the hut, when we saw, approaching, several sleighs drawn by dogs, with an Esquimaux walking before the first to lead the way. We ran into the hut to announce the coming of the strangers, and then ran out again to meet them. The first man was Upnick; the next we took to be an Esquimaux, but a cheery voice in English hailed us, and we soon found that this was an expedition sent expressly for our relief.

Upnick, on leaving us, had travelled south, and at length had fallen in with a whaler, the “Hope,” beset in the ice, but which had received no damage. She was commanded by a cousin and an old friend of our worthy captain. He had satisfied himself from Upnick’s account that the “Grampus” had been lost, and, as soon as he was able to collect some dog-sleighs, he had sent them off under the command of his son, the person who had first hailed us, to our relief; he had not forgotten to send some lime-juice, and potted vegetables, and other anti-scorbutics, which greatly contributed to the restoration to health of the sick. Some of our men without hesitation volunteered to remain where they were till the summer; the rest set out with the captain to join the “Hope,” which, being nearly full, it was expected would return home early in the summer, or as soon as she was released from her icy prison.

We were warmly welcomed on board the “Hope” by Captain Tom Blowhard and his officers and crew, and soon forgot all the toils and dangers we had gone through. Many people might have pitied us having to live on board a whaler frozen up in the ice, but we did not pity ourselves, for, compared to the life we had so long led, we considered that we fared luxuriously. Even, however, when the sun shone brightly and the days grew long we were not free of the ice, and I heard some of the crew remarking that we might possibly remain beset the whole summer through. The captain replied, when he heard of this, that if an inch of water was to be seen within a mile of the ship we would work our way to it. He was as good as his word, and before long the ice-saws were set to work; and, by hard toil, often sawing away for a fortnight, we were once more free of the ice and bounding over the heaving waves on a southerly course. We had still, however, reminders of the northern latitude in which we were sailing, in the shape of icebergs, to avoid which, during the night, we had to keep a very bright look out. One afternoon, dinner just being over when I went on deck, a very fine one, on which the sun shone brightly, appeared right ahead. As I stood watching it, the top appeared to be bending forward; so it was, there it came, the whole mountain mass collapsing in the most extraordinary manner, till a few fragments alone appeared above the waters to show where it had been. It was fortunate that we were not close under it, or we might have been overwhelmed by the ruins.

This was the last among the many providential escapes for which I had to be thankful during my trip to the North Pole. Three weeks afterwards, we were gladdening the hearts of our relatives and friends in Hull, and sending some of the more sensitive into hysterics in consequence of our sudden re-appearance after they had so long given us up as lost. Terrible as were our sufferings at times, now that they were over I could look back at my adventures with pleasure, and never grew weary of benefiting my friends with the yarn which I have just spun for your amusement.

A RESCUE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

_By R. M. BALLANTYNE, Author of “The Life-boat;” “A Tale of our Coast Heroes;” “Silver Lake; or, Lost in the Snow,” &c._

Quito was a young brave of the Tsekanie Indians, one of the tribes which dwell among the Rocky Mountains of North America.

The squaws said of him that he was tall as the pine tree, gentle as a woman, yet strong and bold like the grizly bear; and there is no doubt that much truth lay in what they said, for the young Tsekanie could throw the spear, hurl the tomahawk, bestride the wild horse, or kill the buffalo, better than any man in his tribe; although, unlike his brother braves, he never boasted of his prowess, nor talked big swelling words of what he would do to his enemies when he got hold of them! In fact, Quito was unlike a savage in many respects, and very like to a civilized gentleman in some things; for, notwithstanding his well-known courage and physical powers, he did not delight in war. He never went on the war-path except when he believed there was very good reason for so doing. He never scalped an old man, or a woman, or a child, which is more than could be said of most of his comrades. It was even said of him that on more than one occasion he had spared the life and the scalp of a prostrate foe.

On the other hand, Quito was fond of meditation and study. Of course he did not study printed books, such silently eloquent and sweet companions being utterly unknown in those far western regions, but he studied the book of nature, and was wont to say, in a quiet way, that he loved to look into the works of the Great Manitou, by which term he meant God.

Quito did not say this to everybody, for he was very reserved; he said it to his wife, whose name in the Indian language was Laughing-eye.

Laughing-eye had a loving and sympathetic heart, and Quito treated her as an equal, in which respect also he differed widely from his brethren, who were more or less addicted to beating their wives.

Once Quito went a long journey to the southward, and it so chanced that he met with a missionary in his travels, who did not miss the opportunity of telling him of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Among other things, he learned from this missionary that Christians were usually united in matrimony by a clergyman, which, the missionary explained, meant a servant and preacher of the Lord Jesus. Quito had been married in the regular Indian fashion—that is to say, he had gone to his father-in-law’s tent, demanded Laughing-eye for his wife, paid down the price required in the shape of cloth, gums, beads, and trinkets of various kinds, such as are supplied by fur traders, and then carried her off to his own wigwam.

A strange but strong desire now seized the young Indian to be married after the Christian manner to Laughing-eye, so he returned to his home in the Rocky Mountains, resolving to take his wife to the mission-station without delay.

Quito had a bosom friend, named Bunker, a white man and a hunter. Bunker might well have been ashamed of his name, as far as sound went, but he was not. He was proud of it. He was wont to say, sometimes, that “the Bunkers was comed of a good stock, an’ had bin straight-for’ard hunters in the Rocky Mountains, off an’ on, for nigh a century, an’ he hoped he would never disgrace his forefathers.” There was no fear of that, for Bunker was as sturdy, and honest, and simple-minded a man as ever shot a grizly bear, or trapped a beaver. He, too, was fond of meditation, and had great delight in the society of Quito.

On his way home the young Indian met with Bunker, who said he was going to visit some traps, but that he would follow his friend’s trail the next day, and might perhaps overtake him before he reached his village.

It was a beautiful autumn evening when Quito approached his mountain home. Not the finest park of the greatest noble in our land could compare with the magnificent scenery through which the Indian walked, with his gun on his shoulder, and his yellow leathern garments—fashioned and richly wrought by the fingers of Laughing-eye—fluttering with innumerable fringes and other ornaments in the gentle breeze. His dark eye glanced from side to side with that sharp restless motion which is peculiar to red Indians and hunters of the far west, whose lives are passed in the midst of danger from lurking enemies and wild beasts, but the restless glance was the result of caution, not of anxiety. Quito’s breast was as calm and unruffled as the surface of the lakelet along whose margin he walked, and, although he kept a sharp look-out, from the mere force of habit, he thought no more of enemies at that time than did the little birds which twittered in the bushes, unconscious and unmindful of the hawk and eagle that soared high over head.

There were woods and valleys, through which flowed streams of limpid water. Here and there were swamps, in which thousands of water-fowl and frogs filled the air with melody, for the frogs of America are a musical race, and a certain class of them actually whistle in their felicity at certain periods of the year; their whistle, however, is only one intermittent note. Elsewhere undulating plains, or prairies, gave variety to the scene, and the whole was backed by the lofty, rugged, and snow-clad peaks of the vast mountain range which runs through the whole continent from north to south.

On reaching the summit of a hill, on which Quito had often halted when returning from his frequent hunting expeditions, to gaze in satisfaction at his village in the far distance, and think of Laughing-eye, a shade of deep and unmistakeable anxiety crossed his grave features, and instead of halting, as he was wont to do, he hastened onwards at redoubled speed, for his eye missed the wreaths of smoke that at other times had curled up above the trees, and one or two of the wigwams which used to be visible from that point of view were gone.

The terrible anxiety that filled Quito’s breast was in a short time changed into fierce despair, when he suddenly turned round the base of a cliff, behind which his village lay, and beheld his late home a mass of blackened ruins. Little circles of grey ashes indicated where the tents had been, and all over the ground were scattered charred bones and masses of putrefying flesh, which told of ruthless murder.

Savage nature is not like civilized. No sound or word escaped the desolate Indian, who now knew that he was the last of his race, but the heaving bosom, the clenched teeth, and compressed lips, the fierce glittering eye, and the darkly frowning brows, told of a deadly struggle of anguish and wrath within.

While Quito was still gazing at the dreadful scene, he observed something move among the bushes near him and darted towards it. It proved to be an old woman, who was blind and scarcely able to make herself understood. She was evidently famishing from hunger, so Quito’s first care was to give her a little of the dried meat which formed his store of provisions. After she had devoured some of it, and drunk greedily of the water which he fetched from a neighbouring stream in a cup of birch bark, she told him that the camp had been suddenly attacked, some days before, by a war-party of enemies, who had slain all the men and old women, and carried the young women away into captivity—among them Laughing-eye.

As far as outward appearance went, Quito received the news with calm indifference, but his subsequent actions told another tale. His first step was to erect a sort of hut out of the broken fragments of wigwams that lay around, into which he led the old woman, and placed within her reach a large vessel of water with a small bark cup. He then gave her all his provisions, sufficient for more than a week’s consumption, and told her he would return to her as soon as possible. The poor creature appeared grateful, and sought to detain him, but this he would not permit Having learned from her the name of the tribe that attacked the village, and that she had escaped in the general _mêlée_ by crawling into the bush, he asked which way their enemies had gone. When she had related all she had to tell on the subject, Quito left her, and divested himself of nearly every article of unnecessary costume, placed a tomahawk and scalping-knife in his girdle, slung a short bow and a quiver of arrows on his back, and, throwing his gun on his shoulder, prepared to quit the spot. Before leaving, he kneeled beside the old squaw and said in her ear:—

“In a day or two Bunker will be here. Tell him I have gone to the west by the Mustang Valley, and that he must follow my trail quickly.”

The old woman promised to do this, and then Quito took his leave.

For several days he followed up the trail of the retreating Indians with the perseverance and unerring certainty of a bloodhound. He took so little rest and went on with such unflagging energy that he gradually drew near to them, a fact which became evident from the heat that still remained in the ashes of their camp fires when he came upon them.

At last he reached one of those mighty rivers which traverse the great continent from west to east. Here he found that his enemies had crossed, and he prepared to plunge in and swim over, though the current was turbulent, deep, and broad. Tying his powder in a piece of leather on the top of his head to keep it dry, he was about to take the water when he espied an old Indian canoe, and proceeded to examine before launching it. While thus engaged he was arrested by one of the most astonishing sights that had ever met his gaze.

Rapidly and perceptibly the great river that rolled before him began to diminish in volume. Accustomed as he was to all the varying aspects of lake and stream in their conditions of flood and drought, Quito had never seen anything at all resembling that which now occurred before his eyes. His wonted reason and sagacity were at fault; it was utterly unaccountable!

Naturally his untutored mind began to look upon the phenomenon in a superstitious light. At first he was alarmed, and sat down to gaze in silent wonder, while the water continued to sink in its bed, began to flow sluggishly, then collected into pools, and finally ceased to flow altogether, leaving the bed of the river quite dry in many places. After a time it occurred to the Indian that this might be a direct interposition on the part of the Manitou, to enable him to cross on foot and pursue his enemies without delay. Full of this idea, Quito rose, and, with feelings of deep awe, went down the bank of the river and began to walk across its bed.

He had got about half way over when he was arrested by a peculiar sound, something like distant thunder but more continuous; he stopped, and listened intently. He was more perplexed than ever, for no sound of the wilderness with which he was acquainted at all resembled it; it seemed to come from the mountains, but a bend in the river concealed the distance from his view.

The sound increased gradually in strength until it became a continuous roar, louder than the fiercest gale that ever blew. Quito stood erect and motionless with eyes and nostrils distended, uncertain what to do, when suddenly a mighty flood of waters came thundering round the bend of the river above him. On it came, with deafening clamour, a wall of water full twenty feet high, tumbling mighty trees and huge stones over its gleaming crest like playthings, and licking them up again to hurl them on in mad fury!

Quito bounded across the dry bed of the river for his life, and reached the opposite bank only a few seconds before the rushing torrent swept by, leaving a very chaos on its surging breast.

Fetching his breath quickly, the Indian turned and gazed long in solemn silence at the magnificent scene. Then the thought of Laughing-eye recurred to him. He turned at once and pursued his way with redoubled speed.

Only a few miles above this spot he discovered the cause of the phenomenon he had just witnessed. A land-slip, on an unusually large scale, had occurred. It had been caused by the water undermining the soil of a high bank. The half of a huge hill had tumbled into the river and dammed it across, so that no water could escape. Trees were heaped in wild confusion—some with their heads in the earth and their roots in the air; piles of stones and rubbish crushed the shattered limbs, and great fissures yawned everywhere in the mass.

Ere long the searching water had cut through the obstruction, and, bursting away in all the strength of its recovered freedom, had produced the startling results which we have described.

Day after day Quito followed the trail of his enemies, and night after night he lay down on the hard ground to snatch a couple of hours’ repose before resuming the chase, regardless of fatigue or cold, for hope steeled his muscles, and his heart was warmed by love.

At last, one evening he came upon them. He saw their wigwams on a little plain, which was free from shrubs and trees, although surrounded by the latter. The smoke of their fires curled up in straight columns, for the air was so still that the sound of the horses’ jaws munching their food could be distinctly heard at some distance from the camp.

Quito lay down until the shades of night fell, and watched his enemies. He saw them post sentries for the night; he noted the silence that gradually stole over the scene as the savages lay down to rest, and he saw the fires die down until the whole camp was shrouded in darkness. During the hours that he watched there he lay as still as a fallen tree—only his dark eyes moved about, restlessly.

At last he rose and prepared for action. Leaving his quiver and bow behind him, he took his gun and advanced—at first in a crouching attitude. He might have been a shadow, so noiseless were his motions. The edge of the forest gained, he sank into the long grass of the prairie, like a phantom, and disappeared. Thenceforth his progress was like to that of the serpent. Pushing his gun before him he gradually worked his way forward until he had passed the line of sentries and gained the midst of the camp. Here his proceedings were cool and daring.

He first crawled among the horses, and made up his mind as to which two of them were the best. Then he went to the chief’s tent, and, gently raising the curtain of skin, looked in. His enemy was there sound asleep. He could have stabbed him to the heart, as he lay, with such deadly certainty, that he would have died without being able to utter a cry, but Quito’s object was to rescue, not to avenge. He observed that the chief lay alone in his tent. A grim smile crossed the Indian’s face as he lowered the curtain and again sank among the grass.

There was a large tent near to that of the chief, and Quito knew that there were women in it, but whether or not his wife was there he had not been able to ascertain from his distant view-point in the woods.

Raising the edge of this tent, he found that it was full of slumbering women, but it required a close inspection of their faces in the dark to ascertain who they were—so close that his face almost touched that of the first woman he looked at. His heart throbbed, for he thought he recognised the features of Laughing-eye. Just then the sleeper drew a long breath and sighed, and Quito knew that it was his lost one. He also guessed that the others were the women of his own tribe, but he knew that it would be impossible for him, single-handed, to save them at that time. To save his wife would be difficult enough, he thought.

Putting his face close to that of Laughing-eye, he heaved a long-drawn sigh, and yawned pretty loudly, imitating a woman’s voice as much as possible, and giving his wife a push. She half awoke, and, turning round in a sleepy way, muttered a few unintelligible words.

Quito again drew a long breath, and muttered a sleepy remark.

Laughing-eye was startled. She raised her head to listen. This was the moment of danger. If taken by surprise, she might utter a cry or an exclamation which might awaken her companions, and the rousing of the whole camp would be certain to follow, for Indians’ ears are very sharp. Quito felt the difficulty and danger of his position, but there was only one course left open to him.

“Hist! Laughing-eye,” he whispered, close in his wife’s ear.

Next instant his left hand was on her mouth, and with his right he pressed her down, as she made an effort to rise. The effort was momentary, almost involuntary. Immediately she lay so still that Quito knew she had recognised him, so he whispered a few more words, and released her.

Nothing more was said. Speech was not necessary, for Indians’ wits are sharpened by experience. Quito glided, one might almost say melted, away, and Laughing-eye followed him so quietly through the same aperture that the blanket which she left behind appeared merely to subside into a flat state. Quito did not stop to speak outside. Gliding through the grass, serpent-like, in the direction of the horses, he was followed by his wife, and after some minutes, for they moved very slowly, they were clear of the group of tents. Not far from them one of the sentinels stood leaning on his rifle, and gazing into the far-off horizon, where a faint glimmer of light showed that the moon was about to rise.

To pass this man was difficult, indeed, it would have been impossible, had he not been a very young man, whose eyes were rather heavy, and whose experience of Indian warfare was slight. They succeeded, however, and Quito ceased to advance when he came up to a splendid horse which stood picketted by a long line to a peg driven into the ground, and with its fore feet “hobbled,” or tied together. Without a word he cut the hobbles, and the line by which the animal was fastened, the end of which last he placed in Laughing-eye’s hand. She had crept up alongside of her husband, and remained perfectly quiet, while he glided away from her.

She might have remained perhaps two minutes in this state, when, peeping upwards, she saw another horse moving towards her. Instantly her husband was by her side, and she saw that the end of a rope was in his hand.

“Go first,” whispered Quito in her ear, “fly towards the rising sun.”

The whisper was so soft that the very grasshoppers at their side must have failed to hear it. In a moment both Indians stood up, and Quito lifted his wife lightly on the horse whose larryat she held.

Such a proceeding could not, of course, pass unnoticed in an Indian camp. Instantly a yell was given by a sentry. Just as Quito vaulted on his steed’s back a couple of arrows whizzed past his ear, and the young warrior whom they had first seen darted at his horse’s head. A blow from the butt of Quito’s gun felled him, and in another moment husband and wife were bounding away at full stretch over the plain—the former giving utterance to a shout of defiance, which the savages returned with yells of fury, accompanied by a mixed shower of arrows and bullets.

Just as Quito was bounding over the crest of a mound the chief of the Indians fired a shot at a venture. He took no aim, but the bullet sped with fatal accuracy, and pierced the heart of Quito’s horse, which fell heavily to the earth, sending its rider over its head. The Indian fell with such violence that he lay for a moment or two stunned. Seeing this, Laughing-eye at once reined up, and galloping back leaped to the ground. Quito rose, and, staggering towards the horse, made an effort to lift his wife on to its back. He failed, and before another attempt could be made the unfortunate fugitives were surrounded and recaptured.

Hopeless, indeed, was Quito’s case now. Death by slow torture was certain to be his end, while Laughing-eye would be doomed to slavery. Yet both husband and wife conducted themselves with quiet dignity, and an assumption of stoical indifference.

But their case was not so hopeless as they supposed. Other eyes besides those of their enemies witnessed what had passed.

Quito’s bosom friend, Bunker, on reaching the desolate village, and learning from the old woman what had occurred, set off in pursuit of his friend without delay, and travelled at his utmost speed. But the man whom he followed was about equal to himself in physical powers and endurance, so that he could not overtake him easily. On the way he fell in with four trappers like himself, who readily consented to join him. These all continued to advance together night and day, with the exception of the brief time devoted to necessary sleep, but they did not overtake Quito until he had reached the camp of his enemies. They gained on him during the time he lay watching the camp, and waiting for the hour of action. Arriving at the spot where he had left his bow and arrows, not half an hour after he had quitted it, they at once guessed that he was reconnoitring the camp, and resolved to await the issue. While the hunters were yet discussing the best method of procedure, the yell of the sentry was heard.

“Down with you, lads,” cried Bunker, sinking into the grass, “they’ll come this way.”

“No,” cried one of the others, “they’re off to the left—a man an’ a squaw.”

“That’s them—Quito and Laughing-eye,” exclaimed Bunker, “an’ all the reptiles after them. Now, boys, git hold o’ the horses—look alive!”

The sturdy hunter set the example. Big though he was, he bounded over the bushes like a deer, followed by his comrades. While all the men of the camp were in hot pursuit of the fugitives they ran up to the horses, and each secured one, which he mounted, having previously cut the hobbles of all the rest and sent them flying over the plain.

A regular fight then ensued, in which the Indians were beaten and their captives rescued. The remainder of the horses, too, were secured, and, mounted on these, the whole party returned to their village in the Mustang Valley.

Here the state of things was so desolate and mournful that it was resolved all the Indians who remained should start with Quito and his wife for the Mission Station in the south. This intention was carried out the next day, and they parted with many expressions of good-will from their friends the hunters, who returned to their wild and lonesome occupations of shooting and trapping in the mountains.

After a long journey the Indians reached the Mission Station, where they remained three weeks under the instruction of the missionary. At the end of that time they expressed their desire to join themselves to the followers of Jesus Christ, and were baptized. Then Quito begged that the missionary would unite him to his wife after the manner of the Christians. Of course there could be no objection to this request, so it was complied with—and thus Quito and Laughing-eye were baptized and married on the same day.

LOST AND FOUND.

A STORY OF TWO CHRISTMAS DAYS.

_By EDWIN HODDER, Author of “Memories of New Zealand Life;” “Junior Clerk;” “Tossed on the Waves,” &c._

If a merry day is associated with painful memories, its charm is lost, it is a day to be avoided, one would wish to let it pass unheeded; any attempt to make it gay only increases the gloom, and if the unpleasant remembrances are indulged, they come back on the day which commemorates them with a living reality, making the mind morbid and unhappy; and cherishing dead regrets is as vain and wrong a thing as retaining the remains of a loved life, which should be buried out of one’s sight.

Christmas day is not a sad and gloomy day to me now, but it was once; and then such a party as this you are giving to-night, Mr. Merry, would have been of all things in the world the one that I could not have endured, for it would have recalled so many sad circumstances to my mind, that, with all the fun and gaiety of you youngsters, I could not have thrown off the shroud of regrets which such a scene as this would have cast around me. But those days are past, and now Christmas day is one of the happiest of the year; and how all this came to pass I am going to tell you.

When I was a boy about fifteen or sixteen, I was at Dr. Spanker’s school, in Berkshire, and if anybody ever had a life like a long summer day, without a cloud or a cold nipping wind, that life was mine in those days. The boys were the heartiest, jolliest fellows that ever threw a quoit or kicked a ball; we knew every orchard, every bathing place, every level piece of land for racing or cricket, every hill side for nutting, and hedge-row for blackberrying, within twelve miles of the school. We were all hand-and-glove in every exploit, and many a glorious scrape we got into. Poor Dr. Spanker, how it was he did not go out of his mind we never could make out; but he was such an easy-going, good-natured man, and so thoroughly sympathised with young life, that he winked at many things which other schoolmasters would have made a terrible fuss about, and never punished anybody for their freaks unless those freaks infringed upon some moral law. We loved the old Doctor as cordially as if he had been our father, and in the whole school I don’t believe there was one boy who would not rather have had his teeth knocked down his throat than have wilfully said or done anything which would have given the dear old gentleman pain.

The boys were not mere school acquaintances, but real friends; and now, although years have passed away, the best friends I have in the world are those who were my friends when I was a boy at school. Andrew Morris was one of my great chums, and never did two boys “hit it” more thoroughly than did we. In sport, in study, and in more serious things, our thoughts, and desires, and aspirations were as one.

It was in the winter of 18— that my story commences. Christmas was at hand; the school had broken up for the holidays, and Andrew Morris had been invited to spend the first fortnight with me at my father’s house in Marantby. There were coaches in those days; and, as we sat on the roof wrapped up to the chin with the snow falling around us, we talked about our plans for the holidays, and wondered what sort of a programme they had drawn up at home for our amusement.

It was a cheery sight to see our house as it stood among the trees in the snow, with columns of smoke rising from the chimneys, and lights gleaming in the hall and from the windows. Long before the coach drew up, our loud hallos had brought all the family to the door; and then there was such a commotion as to who should get the first kiss, and who should carry in the boxes. In the commotion, my sister Nell ran up to Andrew Morris and gave him a good sound kiss, and then uttered a little scream, as if she had mistaken him for me. (O! Nelly, Nelly, sly little puss, that was not the first time you had seen Andrew, and that was not the last kiss he ever had from you.)

“Now for a surprise, John,” said Nelly, when we had taken off our coats and beaten off some of the snow. My mother, and I, and Andrew, and Cousin Mary, all crowded round, as Nelly, with her hand on the dining-room door, said “Open Sesame!” And when the door opened I confess I was surprised; such a sight burst upon me as I had never seen in my home before. The carpets were up, and the floors were chalked in the old-fashioned way, which has long since gone out; the furniture was removed, and rout seats were all round the room; the folding-doors had been taken down, so as to throw two rooms into one; the walls were decorated with banners and beautiful devices in evergreen; and, there was no mistake about it, that this year we were going to have a regular Christmas party.

“We have sent invitations to everybody,” said Nelly, “and to-morrow night, that is Christmas Eve, we shall have such a party as Marantby never saw before.”

Andrew Morris and I were enthusiastic in our admiration of the arrangements, and promised to give all the assistance we could to complete any plans that might yet remain for the evening’s entertainment. But, as soon as my father’s back was turned, I whispered to Nell, “However did you manage to get father’s consent to all this? He has always made such terrible objections, even to having a few friends, for fear he should be thought extravagant, that I cannot make out how he should have agreed to this.”

“Oh, mamma will tell you all about it by-and-bye. Come along and have supper, for, after your long ride, you must be half-starved.”

So, after supper, when the others had gone to bed, I got my mother into a cosy chat, and asked her all about it.

“Well, my dear John,” she said, “I’m rather anxious about your father. As you know, he is far from being a poor man, but he has, for the last two or three years, had a strange notion that his money will take to itself wings and fly away, and a terrible dread of poverty, and ultimately the workhouse or starvation, is always haunting him. There is not the slightest foundation for this fancy, which arises from some mental disorder; and, at times, he is perfectly aware that it is but a fancy, and has had the very best medical advice; but, at other times, the impression comes upon him so vividly that his life is perfectly wretched. So we are having this party for two or three reasons; one is to try and enliven him with a change of scene; another, to show him that he will not be ruined by the expense. We must all do what we can to make him enter into the spirit of the amusement; for, although he has given his free consent to all the arrangements, his manner has been very strange at intervals to-day, and I can see that something oppresses him. Do your best then, my boy, to cheer him up, and let us pray God to give him better health to enjoy the mercies with which He has surrounded us.”