Chapter XXVIII

THE MYSTERY OF THE MOCCASONS.—THE MAN WITH THE LANTERN.

IT is related of an artist, who, secluded from observation, was working on a masterpiece, which it was for his interest not then to make public, that his bosom friend begged permission to invite 'only two' of his acquaintances to view it.

The painter smilingly answered,—

"You do not reckon right!"

"How so?" inquired the other.

Taking his pencil, the artist replied,—

"'You' have seen the painting; that's 'one';" and he indicated it by the appropriate numeral. "Mr. E— would also be one, and Mr. G. one; that makes," said he, significantly marking a numeral, 111—"one hundred and eleven."

The successful escape of Alice McElroy was due largely to the fact that she had sufficient discretion to confide the enterprise to so few persons, and those able to keep their own counsel. Tom and Long Hair were every way fitted to prosecute the undertaking, for they were well acquainted with the Indian character and habits, and could devise and execute her rescue with little risk of alarming her captors and imperilling her safety. Had a squad of soldiers been despatched to deliver her, the Indians, discovering their approach, would have spirited her away, or, failing in that, sacrificed her life.

What a cute thought, placing those moccasons on the dwarf's feet! For if the Hunchback had worn away his shoes, some straggling savage might have struck his trail, and the temptation to take his scalp be too strong to resist. But wearing moccasons, a score of bloodthirsty Indians, seeing his footmarks, would suppose them those of a native Sioux. But there were in them, in Indian symbol, for Long Hair, her name and that of the old chief, and where their encampment was; also, in English, a message to Tom, suggesting that Long Hair be employed to come alone first, and arrange the time of her flight.

Words cannot convey the anxiety with which she waited the issue of her experiment. When she slept, her heart was awake to catch the coveted signal. And one kind night, the full round harvest moon "took the black veil," and the prairies went into mourning for her absence. At midnight, when the swarthy occupants of the wigwams snored in their blankets, the faintly audible carol of the robin threw up her eyelids with spasmodic suddenness. She understood well what bird of hope sung that song,—so well that her strength for the moment utterly forsook her, and, unable to rise, she lay pressing her little hand over her heart to suppress its loud palpitations.

Long Hair, however, was too sagacious immediately to repeat the signal; and stealing softly out into the thicket, from whence came the call, in the heavy dew-damp and chilly night air, was the patient red-man. In terse language, he appointed the time when he would convey her to the fort. And when the hour rolled round, he was there.

The lives of some persons have little incident to vary their hackneyed monotony; others are crowded with great and solemn events. Tom Jones's was stirring and eventful. Even his vacation, which he anticipated as a peaceful visit to his frontier friends, had been filled with adventure.

How remarkable the occurrences that had drawn Alice McElroy and himself into such close connection! What did these experiences foreshadow? He dared not trust himself to ponder this question. His honor would not permit him to presume on the strength of the service he had rendered her. On the contrary, he was sensitive lest she might fancy he expected to be specially noticed on this ground.

"For," he reasoned, "I am only assisting to pay the debt of gratitude due her parents for their kindness to my mother. And who am I—Tom Jones, the squatter's son—that she should think of me?"

But, when the day arrived for him to set his face eastward, and, at parting, Alice leaned from a window, just as he once dreamed, and with evident agitation said, "You won't forget me while you're gone—will you, Tom?" his heart was so moved he could not answer.

On his way to the river, Tom called at the cabin of the Willards. The very logs seemed to brighten, so glad were the inmates to see him. And the dwarf's eyes swam as the loved visitor handed him an appreciative letter from Mrs. McElroy, complimenting him on his heroic deeds for his family, and thanking him for the part he bore in the recovery of her daughter. The fifty-dollar bank-bill, enclosed, was to buy, she said, if he would oblige her by parting with them, the moccasons Blue-Eyes furnished him.

The proud-spirited Hunchback had no opportunity to decline the money, for as he commenced speaking, there was a thundering knock at the door, which, as he was sitting nearest, he hastened to open. A short, stout man with a cross face, which misrepresented its owner, stood before him, the butt of his formidable whipstock uplifted for a second rap.

"My name is Edmands," said he. "I've come to see about that hay I bought of Simmons!"

"Twasn't his to sell," piped the dwarf, bristling with combativeness.

"Wal, wal," replied the settler, surveying him with a comical squint, "you're a buster—ain't ye, now? Going to swallow me? I suppose you've no objection to showing me where the stacks are."

"Mr. Edmands," said Tom, starting towards him.

"Ah, Tom, how are you? I drove round here on 'business'; didn't expect to have the pleasure of seeing you."

"Nor I you," responded Tom. "But about that hay—"

"That's none of 'your' concern," he brusquely interrupted, slyly winking at him. "I bargained for hay that's on this claim, and if this youngster, or oldster, whichever he is, ain't afraid to do the square and honest thing, he'll show it to me."

"I will do that," answered the Hunchback; "but you can't cart off a wisp on that Simmons's account."

"Can't, eh? Wal, that can be tested, I reckon."

Ferdie and Georgie, with lengthened visages, accompanied the two.

"You'll want to reserve enough to winter your span," remarked the farmer.

"We shall reserve it all," retorted the dwarf.

"Don't get riled, my little friend," the man observed. "I expect to control the major part of that dried grass, anyhow. You can spare ten tons, and leave plenty for your horses. I contracted with Simmons for it at two dollars and fifty cents. There's been more grass cut this season than anybody expected. It won't be over five dollars a ton till next mowing. I'll give you that, my lad, if you are willing to spare the hay, and I'll pay you this minute, to clinch the bargain." And he tendered the dwarf fifty dollars.

"It's too much," replied the Hunchback, his tones husky with emotion.

"That's 'my' bread and butter," said the settler. And as if offended, he tossed the bills upon the grass, and began to walk away.

"Don't be angry, Mr. Edmands," cried Georgie, running after him; "we all thank you."

"How wonderfully the hand of Providence has marked our history since we left the steamboat!" exclaimed Mrs. Willard, as the boys reentered the dwelling, and related Mr. Edmands's kindness.

"I trust you have had no reason to regret settling on a prairie claim. I would not advise every family as I did yours, but was impressed that it would be best for you."

"There is one lesson we ought to learn from this affair about that Simmons," remarked aunt Esther, "and that is, that opposite qualities balance one another. Mrs. Willard and the boys were too confiding. Frankie and I are apt to be suspicious. Yet, if there had been no over-confidence, the haying, breaking, and fencing would not have been done, nor the stolen horse left here. But if, also, there was no distrust, Simmons might not have been foiled, and no profit have accrued to us. Shall we not appreciate each other better after this?"

"Learn, too," added Tom, "that the sickly and feeble may be eminently useful and honored of Providence, as was our Frankie."

"O," sighed Mrs. Willard, "if I knew how we should pass through the winter! And if the other lost one could be restored to us."

"It is good to hope and quietly wait for the salvation of God," tenderly quoted Tom. "Trust your husband in God's care, madam. And, as to lesser troubles, do not be unbelieving; when you need help, it will come—just as it has. How often I have seen this illustrated here at the west!

"A clergyman was once called from home on a mission of mercy. The case was urgent. A dangerous marsh must be crossed, which it was impossible to reach before nightfall, and he could scarcely expect to pass over in the darkness unharmed. But he recognized the call as imperative; 'love constrained' him; and, casting all care on the heavenly Friend, he pushed on through the gloom. Urging his horse along the dangerous pathway, he at length reached a frightful point in his perilous journey. The darkness was profound. A single misstep might be fatal and for an instant, he paused.

"At that moment a light appeared. Nearer and nearer it came. What could it betoken in that lonely, uninhabited spot? Directly a stranger came in sight, bearing a lantern, and courteously guided the benighted minister to a place of safety.

"'And thus,' said the man of God, 'have I ever found it through life. When all has been enveloped in gloom, and in no way could I extricate myself, 'a man with a lantern' has come to my aid. God has said, 'Let there be light.'"

"A missionary, when pressed by poverty and want, was in the habit of specifying in prayer his most important needs. One day potatoes, meal, and salt were lacking. Nothing could be hoped from the 'subscription.' A great financial crash had fallen on the whole country, and distress was upon all the settlers. What could he do? Prayer was his only refuge.

"Next morning a rough, swearing man, living miles away, came driving his team through the bushes. Presently stopping, he tossed some bags into the grass, saying, in a frank, off-hand way,—

"'There's a trifle for your babies; that's a bag of potatoes, the other is meal, and at the end of the sack you'll find a few pounds of salt; perhaps you'll smile when I tell you that I had a queer notion that I must put that salt in; but if you don't need it, it won't do any harm.'

"Who would have thought this messenger would have come 'with the lantern'? How happened it that he, and not one of the members of the missionary's church, should be the almoner of God's goodness to His servant? Answers to prayer often reach us through unexpected instrumentalities. And God may be nearer those accounted not his people than we think."

"Sickness on the frontier! Ah, the terror of that thought—an entire family prostrated, and none to help! Thus it was one fearful autumn with the Fosters. First the parents, then the children; the former, rallying, bent over the wasted forms of their little ones, in great weakness watching them through long nights and sultry days, until, exhausted, they could watch no more, and sinking upon the floor, besought the Lord to send them a friend.

"Morning broke, and with it came an answer to their petitions, in the person of one least expected or desired, and who, under happier circumstances, would have been greeted coldly. Little did they know till then that under that repulsive manner throbbed a tender heart.

"'I could not sleep last night,' said the comer, 'I was so troubled about you; and now, if you can put up with my rough ways, I should like to help you.'

"Such words from her, while those who ought to have been there, afraid to trust themselves before the dreaded contagion, keep safely at a distance!

"And what a help that strong-armed woman was, as she tenderly arranged the sick ones upon freshly-made beds, and laid their aching heads upon smooth, sweet pillows.

"Ah, she was a messenger with a lantern, and verily the place grew beautifully 'light about her.'"

Dear reader, let us not only pray that in our hours of darkness a messenger with a lantern may come to us, but that we, in our turn, may bear to the benighted and tempest-tossed its cheering rays. Farewell, till we meet again.