Chapter VIII: The Wild-Man Again

Meanwhile, where was Jack Tyrrel?

We left him at the moment when he turned round the point of rocks, following on the strange trail. A few rods beyond this, and he suddenly paused as a peculiar cry met his ear.

Hastily glancing up, a strange light met his gaze. A flash of recognition lit up his face. He had seen that form once before.

It was, indeed, none other than the occupant of the hill-cave, whom he had beheld fed like a child by the beautiful maiden; the one whom he had, a few hours later, seen shot at by Nate Upshur. The being called by Paul Chicot, the "Mountain Devil."

He stood at the base of a large bowlder, one hand outstretched, clutching his long bow already spoken of. His attitude, his face, his eyes, all told that he was angered.

"Back! rash fool!" he uttered in a deep, stern tone. "I warned you once--this is sacred ground. Back, I say, or you die!"

"Don't be so headstrong, old man," coolly returned Jack, seating himself upon a bowlder. "You have nothing to fear from us. When we finish our work, we intend leaving--and allow me to add that you nor any one else can make us stir one step before we get ready."

The wild-man--or madman, whichever he was, and both titles well suited him--uttered another hoarse, inarticulate cry, and, with lightning-like quickness, fitted an arrow to the string. Jack sprung to his feet, but was too late to avoid the shaft.

It struck him fairly, pinioning his right arm to his side, the flinty head plunging deep into the muscles of his side and back. Stung with pain, and scarcely realizing the extent of his injuries, Jack drew a revolver with his left hand, and fired twice, in succession, at the same time uttering a half-unconscious cry for help.

Then the madman was upon him. With a giant's strength he dashed the young man backward to the ground, and wresting the pistol from his grasp, he dealt Tyrrel a stunning blow upon the head with its brass-bound butt.

With a low moan, Jack lost all consciousness. The events of the next few hours were a blank to him.

Probably urged on by some strange whim, the madman flung the senseless body across his shoulder and then darted back to the cave entrance, through which he plunged. As though gifted with cat-like eyes, he ran swiftly on through the winding passages, never once seemingly at fault, the only trace left being the drops of blood that fell from Tyrrel's wounds.

When, at length, Tyrrel regained his senses, he first became conscious of a gentle hand softly bathing his feverish and painfully throbbing temples. With an effort he opened his eyes and gazed wildly around him, bewildered, confused.

But then, as a pale, sweet face bent over him, anxiety written in every feature, a wondering sigh broke from his lips. He recognized that face--it had more than once come up before him since that first night passed in the mountains after the desertion.

The same glance recalled the place he was in; the hole in the wall where he had first looked upon the face of the madman. But how came he here? Could it be that the madman had relented, bringing him here to be nursed back to life and health by his own daughter?

These thoughts racked his mind, and must have left their imprint upon his face, for the woman--or girl, rather, for she was not more, in years, at least--gently pressed back his head, uttering in a low, soft voice:

"You must not trouble your brain now, sir. All will be explained in good time. Until then, rest easy. You are safe here, while I am near."

"But where am I?--and you--"

"Listen. You are still in danger, unless you are prudent. Drink this, and then go to sleep. When you waken, I will tell you all that I know of this affair," and she uttered a weary sigh, as she spoke.

"I will mind--you look like an angel," muttered Jack, his heavy lids drooping as he sunk back after quaffing the drink. "I've thought so ever since--that night. And I--I love--you!" The last word being scarcely distinguishable, as he dropped asleep.

The maiden looked astonished, as well she might, since until a few hours before, she had never once suspected the existence of such a personage as Jack Tyrrel.

It was hours before Jack awoke, but then he felt much better, though still very weak and faint from much loss of blood. His brain, though light, did not throb, his flesh was cool and moist.

He was not long in reminding his fair nurse of her promise, and in a few clear sentences she told him all she knew concerning the matter.

Her father--the madman, for such indeed he was--had returned from one of his frequent excursions, bearing the senseless body upon his shoulder, both covered with blood. She could gather nothing from his incoherent ravings, save that he intended offering up his victim as a sacrifice to some imaginary deity. Great as was her influence over him, even in his wildest moods it was with absolute danger to herself that she rescued Jack from his hands. Then, however, he soon calmed down, and watched her dress Tyrrel's wounds with vacant curiosity. This done, she discovered that her father also was wounded; a deep hurt, evidently from a bullet, passing entirely through the left shoulder. Scarcely waiting for this to be dressed, he left the cave, muttering wild threats against some person or persons. That was in the early part of the night; it was now broad day, and she was very uneasy concerning him.

Such, in substance, was her explanation. In return, Jack briefly sketched the events of the past few days.

"And now, lady--"

"Lucy is my name," she simply added.

"Thank you--and mine is Jack Tyrrel. But I was wondering--naturally, too, as you must admit--how it happens that you are here, living in such a place."

"I will tell you; it will help pass away the time, and any thing is better than silence. Such terrible fears come over me at times, that I often wonder if I am not going mad--but I must not think of that. Do you know, sir, that until now, for over a year, I have not looked upon a human face, excepting father's?"

Jack squeezed her hand sympathetically. Lucy shrunk back as if alarmed, but then, blushing deeply, she hastily added:

"Well, I will tell you my story. It is a strange one, and often I half-wonder if I am not dreaming--if all the black, horrible past is not a dream, from which I shall awake some bright day.

"As I said, my name is Lucy--Lucy Bradford, and the man who brought you here is my father. He was not always thus--his madness dates back to a year or more ago.

"Father was ever peculiar, and after mother's death--which occurred when I was quite a child--he became still more so, and I can now understand the covert hints and strange bits of talk that used to puzzle me, passing between the neighbors. They believed he was gradually losing his mind.

"It was a queer but very pleasant life that I led, as I began to understand things that I saw around me. Father was an actor--as I believed then, the prince of actors--but the plain, almost miserable style in which we were forced to exist, should have showed me better. It was one constant, unceasing struggle for bread, and yet we were very happy.

"Father loved his art, and was only fully happy when 'treading the boards.' And he was sure of an appreciative house, behind the scenes, for I would applaud until my poor hands were nearly blistered. I half-fear that it was this that made father love me so dearly.

"I attended each rehearsal with him, and was never absent from my post in the flies when he was on the stage. This became such a matter of course that no attention was paid me by the other actors.

"Well, times changed. Father became so 'queer'--that is what the stage-manager called it--that he could not be depended upon. More than once I remember his marring the effect of a play by forgetting himself, and delivering the 'mad speech' of King Lear. He was discharged, and could not get another situation.

"One day, I remember, he came home greatly excited, hastily packed up all his stage effects and then left the house without answering my questions. He returned with money, having sold all. Then he told me of the dazzling plan that he had in view. He was going to California, to pick up a fortune from the countless heaps of golden treasure that lay there.

"Well, I could not desert him. That was in '49--over a year ago. Father had money enough to pay for our passage out, and leaving St. Louis, we turned our faces toward the Land of Gold. Alas! not one of all that train--men, women, children--not one of them all ever reached the land of their hopes.

"I do not know whether the story of our disaster ever reached civilization or not. If so, it must have been by accident, for we--father and I--alone, of all that company, are now alive!

"One wild, stormy night the blow fell. The day past had been one of unusually severe toil, and most probably the guards set to watch over the safety of their friends and kindred, completely exhausted, yielded to slumber. For the cunning, treacherous enemy crept, unheard and unsuspected, into the very heart of our camp. And then--"

Shuddering, Lucy paused, bowing her head upon her hands. The scene recalled by her story overpowered her.

"Don't say any more, Lucy, if it is so hard," whispered Jack, his hand gently touching the bowed head.

"Perhaps I am foolishly sensitive," Lucy added, with a wan smile, as she raised her head. "But at times that horrible scene comes before my eyes until it seems that my brain must burst. It is a relief to speak of it, though, to one who can understand.

"I can remember but little of that horrible night. The Indians attacked us--Blackfeet, as I afterward learned. They conquered almost without a blow being struck by the white men, so complete was the surprise. And then--it was a merciless massacre.

"I remember wondering how long it would be before my time would come. I had been awakened, but was still in our own tent. Father lay at my feet, as I believed, still sleeping, though I wondered greatly that the horrible din did not waken him. I know now that he was senseless, stricken down by a brutal blow from the hand of the one who guarded me.

"This man was the one who had acted as our guide, a middle aged, rough, hunter-like person. He had joined the train with the sole purpose of luring it to destruction. How well he succeeded, you now know.

"It was a long time before I fairly regained my senses. For nearly a month I had been like a maniac, and the Indians had protected me from the malice of the renegade. This superstition alone saved my father. We were regarded as sacred beings.

"But then, when my reason returned, I was again subject to the persecution of the renegade--Creeping Snake, as the Indians called him. I appealed to the chief, who could both speak and understand English, though but imperfectly, for protection against the wretch. I believe that he pitied me, but he dared not interfere. By the laws of the tribe, I belonged wholly to the renegade.

"The end came sooner than I expected. One day the renegade came to the lodge that had been given father and I, and one glance at his flushed face and bloodshot eyes told me my peril. He was intoxicated, and his worst passions were fully aroused.

"I shrunk behind father in fear and trembling. The renegade advanced, with a horrible curse, and struck father, ordering him to stand aside. You have seen him--you know how very strong he is; and then he was insane.

"It was all over in a breath, almost. A brief, horrible struggle--then the renegade lay upon the lodge floor, quivering, dead! The blood was streaming from his mouth and nostrils. His neck was broken.

"The chief had witnessed it all, but had not time to interfere, before all was over. He seemed frightfully angered and had I not clung to his knees, pleading piteously, I believe he would have killed father. As it was, he had time to reflect that a madman was not accountable for his acts.

"A council was held, and father tried for the deed. But the fact of his madness saved him. And yet he seemed to realize that he was in danger, though he hid his feelings from all save me.

"That night--a dark and stormy one--we left the village, passing through it undiscovered. By daylight we were far away, lost amidst the wild mountains. The beating rain had obliterated our tracks, and if the Indians sought for us it was without success.

"For days we lay hid during the day, traveling at night, trying to find some way to civilization, but in vain. We nearly starved to death. But by a chance--or rather providence--father killed a wounded antelope that we found in a deep valley. On this we lived for several days.

"Father seemed to have forgotten his desire to reach his fellow-men, and appeared contented with this wild life. We were living in a little den or cave in the rocks; not this one--but another miles away.

"One night we were awakened by a muttering at the cave entrance. Outlined against the clear sky, we could distinguish the plumed crest of a savage. Probably he had observed us before night, and now had come to kill us.

"I was petrified with fear, but not so father. I did not know he was awake, until I heard him move suddenly. Then came a dull, heavy thud, and the Indian's head disappeared, while a shrill yell of what seemed mortal agony followed.

"I soon learned the truth. Father, with unerring aim, had flung a heavy, jagged rock at the intruder. As I saw when day came, the blow had shattered his skull to atoms. That was a long, dreary night of terror, but the savage must have been alone, for no further disturbance occurred.

"In this manner father became armed as you have seen him, with bow and arrows, a knife and tomahawk. By long practice, he has become very skillful with the bow, and we never want for food. As for clothing, as you see, their skins furnish that. Though rude, they are very comfortable.

"With that one exception, we have never been molested by the savages. During one of his wild rambles father found this cave, and ever since we have lived here."

"A strange story, Lucy, and a sad one," commented Jack, feelingly. "But do you never long to return to civilization?"

"Often--very often. But what can I do? Even though the road was open to me--and I am lost here as completely as though out of the world--I could not desert father. You have seen him--do you think I would ever return to life? He is mad--incurably so, I fear," gloomily responded the maiden.

"But if I can induce him to go with us, will you object? You will like my friends, Duplin and Burr. Think of what your fate would be were--in case any thing should happen to your father."

"I would die--perhaps starve to death. I try not to think of that. I only know that I can never desert _him_. I am all that he seems to care for on earth, now. While he lives, my place is with him."

"But if he agrees to go with us?"

"Where he goes, I will go. But don't think too much of that. I fear he will refuse."

"Hist! is that not the sound of some one climbing up the rocks?" hastily muttered Tyrrel, not a little excited, half-hoping that his friends had discovered his retreat.

"I will go see. Perhaps 'tis father returning," and Lucy hastened to the entrance.

In a moment she returned, pale and agitated. Tyrrel felt a strange fluttering at his heart, for he was unarmed. If an enemy, they were indeed lost!