It was a lovely spot, in one of the most secluded1 portions of the Sawback range, far removed at that time from the evil presence of the gold-diggers, though now and then an adventurous2 “prospector” would make his way to these remote solitudes5 in quest of the precious metal. Up to that time those prospectors7 had met with nothing to reward them for their pains, save the gratification to be derived8 from fresh mountain air and beautiful scenery.
It required three days of steady travelling to enable the chief and his party to reach the wigwams of the tribe. The sun was just setting, on the evening of the third day, when they passed out of a narrow defile9 and came in sight of the Indian village.
“It seems to me, Paul,” remarked Fred Westly, as they halted to take a brief survey of the scene, “that these Indians have found an admirable spot on which to lead a peaceful life, for the region is too high and difficult of access to tempt10 many gold-hunters, and the approaches to it could be easily defended by a handful of resolute11 men.”
“That is true,” replied Bevan, as they continued on their way. “Nevertheless, it would not be very difficult for a few resolute men to surprise and capture the place.”
“Perchance Stalker and his villains12 may attempt to prove the truth of what you say,” suggested Fred.
“They will certainly attempt it” returned Paul, “but they are not what I call resolute men. Scoundrels are seldom blessed wi’ much resolution, an’ they’re never heartily13 united.”
“What makes you feel so sure that they will follow us up, Paul?”
“The fact that my enemy has followed me like a bloodhound for six years,” answered Bevan, with a frown.
“Is it touching14 too much on private matters to ask why he is your enemy, and why so vindictive15?”
“The reason Is simple enough. Buxley hates me, and would kill me if he could. Indeed I’m half afraid that he will manage it at last, for I’ve promised my little gal16 that I won’t kill him ’cept in self-defence, an’ of course if I don’t kill him he’s pretty sure to kill me.”
“Does Betty know why this man persecutes17 you so?”
“No—she don’t.”
As it was evident, both from his replies and manner, that Bevan did not mean to be communicative on the subject, Fred forbore to ask more questions about it.
“So you think Unaco may be depended on?” he asked, by way of changing the subject.
“Ay, surely. You may depend on it that the Almighty19 made all men pretty much alike as regards their feelin’s. The civilised people an’ the Redskins ain’t so different as some folk seem to think. They can both of ’em love an’ hate pretty stiffly, an’ they are both able to feel an’ show gratitude20 as well as the reverse—also, they’re pretty equal in the matter of revenge.”
“But don’t we find,” said Fred, “that among Christians21 revenge is pretty much held in check?”
“Among Christians—ay,” replied Bevan; “but white men ain’t always Christians, any more than red men are always devils. Seems to me it’s six o’ one an’ half a dozen o’ the other. Moreover, when the missionaries22 git among the Redskins, some of ’em turns Christians an’ some hypocrites—just the same as white men. What Unaco is, in the matter o’ Christianity, is not for me to say, for I don’t know; but from what I do know, from hearsay23, of his character, I’m sartin sure that he’s a good man and true, an’ for that little bit of sarvice I did to his poor boy, he’d give me his life if need be.”
“Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that we might have returned to Simpson’s Gully, and taken the risk of meeting with Stalker,” said Fred.
“Ha! that’s because you don’t know him,” returned Bevan. “If he had met with his blackguards soon after leaving us, he’d have overtook us by this time. Anyway, he’s sure to send scouts24 all round, and follow up the trail as soon as he can.”
“But think what a trial this rough journey has been to poor Tom Brixton,” said Fred.
“No doubt,” returned Paul; “but haven’t we got him on Tolly’s pony25 to-day? and isn’t that a sign he’s better? An’ would you have me risk Betty fallin’ Into the hands o’ Buxley?”
Paul looked at his companion as if this were an unanswerable argument and Fred admitted that it was.
“Besides,” he went on, “it will be a pleasant little visit this, to a friendly tribe o’ Injins, an’ we may chance to fall in wi’ gold, who knows? An’ when the ugly thieves do succeed in findin’ us, we shall have the help o’ the Redskins, who are not bad fighters when their cause is a good ’un an’ their wigwams are in danger.”
“It may be so, Paul. However, right or wrong, here we are, and a most charming spot it is, the nearer we draw towards it.”
As Fred spoke26, Betty Bevan, who rode in advance, reined27 in her horse,—which, by the way, had become much more docile28 in her hands,—and waited till her father overtook her.
“Is it not like paradise, father?”
“Not havin’ been to paradise, dear, I can’t exactly say,” returned her matter-of-fact sire.
“Oh, I say, ain’t it splendatious!” said Tolly Trevor, coming up at the moment, and expressing Betty’s idea in somewhat different phraseology; “just look at the lake—like a lookin’-glass, with every wigwam pictur’d upside down, so clear that a feller can’t well say which is which. An’ the canoes in the same way, bottom to bottom, Redskins above and Redskins below. Hallo! I say, what’s that?”
The excited lad pointed29, as he spoke, to the bushes, where a violent motion and crashing sound told of some animal disturbed in its lair30. Next moment a beautiful little antelope31 bounded into an open space, and stopped to cast a bewildered gaze for one moment on the intruders. That pause proved fatal. A concealed32 hunter seized his opportunity; a sharp crack was heard, and the animal fell dead where it stood, shot through the head.
“Poor, poor creature!” exclaimed the tender-hearted Betty.
“Not a bad supper for somebody,” remarked her practical father.
As he spoke the bushes parted at the other side of the open space, and the man who had fired the shot appeared.
He was a tall and spare, but evidently powerful fellow. As he advanced towards our travellers they could see that he was not a son of the soil, but a white man—at least as regards blood, though his face, hands, neck, and bared bosom34 had been tanned by exposure to as red a brown as that of any Indian.
“He’s a trapper,” exclaimed Tolly, as the man drew nearer, enabling them to perceive that he was middle-aged35 and of rather slow and deliberate temperament36 with a sedate37 expression on his rugged38 countenance39.
“Ay, he looks like one o’ these wanderin’ chaps,” said Bevan, “that seem to be fond of a life o’ solitude6 in the wilderness40. I’ve knowed a few of ’em. Queer customers some, that stick at nothin’ when their blood’s up; though I have met wi’ one or two that desarved an easier life, an’ more o’ this world’s goods. But most of ’em prefer to hunt for their daily victuals41, an’ on’y come down to the settlements when they run out o’ powder an’ lead, or want to sell their furs. Hallo! Why, Tolly, boy, it is—yes! I do believe it’s Mahoghany Drake himself!”
Tolly did not reply, for he had run eagerly forward to meet the trapper, having already recognised him.
“His name is a strange one,” remarked Fred Westly, gazing steadily42 at the man as he approached.
“Drake is his right name,” explained Bevan, “an’ Mahoghany is a handle some fellers gave him ’cause he’s so much tanned wi’ the sun. He’s one o’ the right sort, let me tell ye. None o’ your boastin’, bustin’ critters, like Gashford, but a quiet, thinkin’ man, as is ready to tackle any subject a’most in the univarse, but can let his tongue lie till it’s time to speak. He can hold his own, too wi’ man or beast. Ain’t he friendly wi’ little Tolly Trevor? He’ll shake his arm out o’ the socket43 if he don’t take care. I’ll have to go to the rescue.”
In a few seconds Paul Bevan was having his own arm almost dislocated by the friendly shake of the trapper’s hand, for, although fond of solitude, Mahoghany Drake was also fond of human beings, and especially of old friends.
“Glad to see you, gentlemen,” he said, in a low, soft voice, when introduced by Paul to the travellers. At the same time he gave a friendly little nod to Unaco, thus indicating that with the Indian chief he was already acquainted.
“Well, Drake,” said Bevan, after the first greetings were over, “all right at the camp down there?”
“All well,” he replied, “and the Leaping Buck44 quite recovered.”
He cast a quiet glance at the Indian chief as he spoke, for the Leaping Buck was Unaco’s little son, who had been ailing45 when his father left his village a few weeks before.
“No sign o’ gold-seekers yet?” asked Paul.
“None—’cept one lot that ranged about the hills for a few days, but they seemed to know nothin’. Sartinly they found nothin’, an’ went away disgusted.”
The trapper indulged in a quiet chuckle46 as he said this.
“What are ye larfin’ at?” asked Paul.
“At the gold-seekers,” replied Drake.
“What was the matter wi’ ’em,” asked Tolly.
“Not much, lad, only they was blind, and also ill of a strong appetite.”
“Ye was always fond o’ speakin’ in riddles,” said Paul. “What d’ye mean, Mahoghany!”
“I mean that though there ain’t much gold in these hills, maybe, what little there is the seekers couldn’t see, though they was walkin’ over it, an’ they was so blind they couldn’t hit what they fired at, so their appetites was stronger than was comfortable. I do believe they’d have starved if I hadn’t killed a buck for them.”
During this conversation Paddy Flinders had been listening attentively47 and in silence. He now sidled up to Tom Brixton, who, although bestriding Tolly’s pony, seemed ill able to travel.
“D’ye hear what the trapper says, Muster48 Brixton?”
“Yes, Paddy, what then?”
“Och! I only thought to cheer you up a bit by p’intin’ out that he says there’s goold hereabouts.”
“I’m glad for your sake and Fred’s,” returned Tom, with a faint smile, “but it matters little to me; I feel that my days are numbered.”
“Ah then, sor, don’t spake like that,” returned Flinders, with a woebegone expression on his countenance. “Sure, it’s in the dumps ye are, an’ no occasion for that same. Isn’t Miss—”
The Irishman paused. He had it in his heart to say, “Isn’t Miss Betty smilin’ on ye like one o’clock?” but, never yet having ventured even a hint on that subject to Tom, an innate49 feeling of delicacy50 restrained him. As the chief who led the party gave the signal to move on at that moment it was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence.
The Indian village, which was merely a cluster of tents made of deerskins stretched on poles, was now plainly visible from the commanding ridge52 along which the party travelled. It occupied a piece of green level land on the margin53 of the lake before referred to, and, with its background of crag and woodland and its distance of jagged purple hills, formed as lovely a prospect4 as the eye of man could dwell upon.
The distance of the party from it rendered every sound that floated towards them soft and musical. Even the barking of the dogs and the shouting of the little Redskins at play came up to them in a mellow54, almost peaceful, tone. To the right of the village lay a swamp, from out of which arose the sweet and plaintive55 cries of innumerable gulls56, plovers57, and other wild-fowl, mingled58 with the trumpeting59 of geese and the quacking60 of ducks, many of which were flying to and fro over the glassy lake, while others were indulging in aquatic61 gambols62 among the reeds and sedges.
After they had descended63 the hill-side by a zigzag64 path, and reached the plain below, they obtained a nearer view of the eminently65 joyful66 scene, the sound of the wild-fowl became more shrill67, and the laughter of the children more boisterous68. A number of the latter who had observed the approaching party were seen hurrying towards them with eager haste, led by a little lad, who bounded and leaped as if wild with excitement. This was Unaco’s little son, Leaping Buck, who had recognised the well-known figure of his sire a long way off, and ran to meet him.
On reaching him the boy sprang like an antelope into his father’s arms and seized him round the neck, while others crowded round the gaunt trapper and grasped his hands and legs affectionately. A few of the older boys and girls stood still somewhat shyly, and gazed in silence at the strangers, especially at Betty, whom they evidently regarded as a superior order of being—perhaps an angel—in which opinion they were undoubtedly69 backed by Tom Buxton.
After embracing his father, Leaping Buck recognised Paul Bevan as the man who had been so kind to him and his brother Oswego at the time when the latter got his death-fall over the precipice70. With a shout of joyful surprise he ran to him, and, we need scarcely add, was warmly received by the kindly71 backwoodsman.
“I cannot help thinking,” remarked Betty to Tom, as they gazed on the pleasant meeting, “that God must have some way of revealing the Spirit of Jesus to these Indians that we Christians know not of.”
“It is strange,” replied Tom, “that the same thought has occurred to me more than once of late, when observing the character and listening to the sentiments of Unaco. And I have also been puzzled with this thought—if God has some method of revealing Christ to the heathen that we know not of, why are Christians so anxious to send the Gospel to the heathen?”
“That thought has never occurred to me,” replied Betty, “because our reason for going forth72 to preach the Gospel to the heathen is the simple one that God commands us to do so. Yet it seems to me quite consistent with that command that God may have other ways and methods of making His truth known to men, but this being a mere51 speculation73 does not free us from our simple duty.”
“You are right. Perhaps I am too fond of reasoning and speculating,” answered Tom.
“Nay, that you are not” rejoined the girl, quickly; “it seems to me that to reason and speculate is an important part of the duty of man, and cannot but be right, so long as it does not lead to disobedience. ‘Let every man be fully74 persuaded in his own mind,’ is our title from God to think fully and freely; but ‘Go ye into all the world and preach the Gospel to every creature,’ is a command so plain and peremptory75 that it does not admit of speculative76 objection.”
“Why, Betty, I had no idea you were such a reasoner!” said Tom, with a look of surprise. “Surely it is not your father who has taught you to think thus?”
“I have had no teacher, at least of late years, but the Bible,” replied the girl, blushing deeply at having been led to speak so freely on a subject about which she was usually reticent77. “But see,” she added hastily, giving a shake to the reins78 of her horse, “we have been left behind. The chief has already reached his village. Let us push on.”
The obstinate79 horse went off at an accommodating amble80 under the sweet sway of gentleness, while the obedient pony followed at a brisk trot81 which nearly shook all the little strength that Tom Brixton possessed82 out of his wasted frame.
The manner in which Unaco was received by the people of his tribe, young and old, showed clearly that he was well beloved by them; and the hospitality with which the visitors were welcomed was intensified83 when it was made known that Paul Bevan was the man who had shown kindness to their chief’s son Oswego in his last hours. Indeed, the influence which an Indian chief can have on the manners and habits of his people was well exemplified by this small and isolated84 tribe, for there was among them a pervading85 tone of contentment and goodwill86, which was one of Unaco’s most obvious characteristics. Truthfulness87, also, and justice were more or less manifested by them. Even the children seemed to be free from disputation; for, although there were of course differences of opinion during games, these differences were usually settled without quarrelling, and the noise, of which there was abundance, was the result of gleeful shouts or merry laughter. They seemed, in short, to be a happy community, the various members of which had leaned—to a large extent from their chief—“how good a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity33.”
A tent was provided for Bevan, Flinders, and Tolly Trevor near to the wigwam of Unaco, with a separate little one for the special use of the Rose of Oregon. Not far from these another tent was erected88 for Fred and his invalid89 friend Tom Brixton. As for Mahoghany Drake, that lanky90, lantern-jawed individual encamped under a neighbouring pine-tree in quiet contempt of any more luxurious91 covering.
But, although the solitary92 wanderer of the western wilderness thus elected to encamp by himself, he was by no means permitted to enjoy privacy, for during the whole evening and greater part of that night his campfire was surrounded by an admiring crowd of boys, and not a few girls, who listened in open-eyed-and-mouthed attention to his thrilling tales of adventure, giving vent3 now and then to a “waugh!” or a “ho!” of surprise at some telling point in the narrative93, or letting fly sudden volleys of laughter at some humorous incident, to the amazement94, no doubt of the neighbouring bucks95 and bears and wild-fowl.
“Tom,” said Fred that night, as he sat by the couch of his friend, “we shall have to stay here some weeks, I suspect until you get strong enough to travel, and, to say truth, the prospect is a pleasant as well as an unexpected one, for we have fallen amongst amiable96 natives.”
“True, Fred. Nevertheless I shall leave the moment my strength permits—that is, if health be restored to me—and I shall go off by myself.”
“Why, Tom, what do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I say. Dear Fred,” answered the sick man, feebly grasping his friend’s hand, “I feel that it is my duty to get away from all who have ever known me, and begin a new career of honesty, God permitting. I will not remain with the character of a thief stamped upon me, to be a drag round your neck, and I have made up my mind no longer to persecute18 dear Betty Bevan with the offer of a dishonest and dishonoured97 hand. In my insolent98 folly99 I had once thought her somewhat below me in station. I now know that she is far, far above me in every way, and also beyond me.”
“Tom, my dear boy,” returned Fred, earnestly, “you are getting weak. It is evident that they have delayed supper too long. Try to sleep now, and I’ll go and see why Tolly has not brought it.”
So saying, Fred Westly left the tent and went off in quest of his little friend.
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1
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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prospectors
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| n.勘探者，探矿者( prospector的名词复数 ) | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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defile
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| v.弄污，弄脏；n.(山间)小道 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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persecutes
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的第三人称单数 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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antelope
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| n.羚羊；羚羊皮 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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44
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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45
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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49
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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51
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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plovers
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| n.珩，珩科鸟（如凤头麦鸡）( plover的名词复数 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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59
trumpeting
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的现在分词形式） | |
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60
quacking
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的现在分词 ) | |
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aquatic
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| adj.水生的，水栖的 | |
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gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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81
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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88
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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97
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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