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Read books online » Fiction » Charlie to the Rescue by R. M. Ballantyne (great book club books txt) 📖

Book online «Charlie to the Rescue by R. M. Ballantyne (great book club books txt) đŸ“–Â». Author R. M. Ballantyne



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your to-o-o-ps’ls. I’ll overhaul ye in a jiffy.”

How long a nautical jiffy may be we know not, but, in a remarkably brief space of time, considering the shortness and thickness of his sea-legs, the Captain was alongside, blowing, as he said, “like a grampus.”

That night Charlie Brooke sat with his mother in her parlour. They were alone—their friends having considerately left them to themselves on this their first night.

They had been talking earnestly about past and present, for the son had much to learn about old friends and comrades, and the mother had much to tell.

“And now, mother,” said Charlie, at the end of a brief pause, “what about the future?”

“Surely, my boy, it is time enough to talk about that to-morrow, or next day. You are not obliged to think of the future before you have spent even one night in your old room.”

“Not absolutely obliged, mother. Nevertheless, I should like to speak about it. Poor Shank is heavy on my mind, and when I heard all about him to-day from May, I—. She’s wonderfully improved, that girl, mother. Grown quite pretty?”

“Indeed she is—and as good as she’s pretty,” returned Mrs Brooke, with a furtive glance at her son.

“She broke down when talking about Shank to-day, and I declare she looked quite beautiful! Evidently Shank’s condition weighs heavily on her mind.”

“Can you wonder, Charlie?”

“Of course not. It’s natural, and I quite sympathised with her when she exclaimed, ‘If I were only a man I would go to him myself.’”

“That’s natural too, my son. I have no doubt she would, poor dear girl, if she were only a man.”

“Do you know, mother, I’ve not been able to get that speech out of my head all this afternoon. ‘If I were a man—if I were a man,’ keeps ringing in my ears like the chorus of an old song, and then—”

“Well, Charlie, what then?” asked Mrs Brooke, with a puzzled glance.

“Why, then, somehow the chorus has changed in my brain and it runs— ‘I am a man! I am a man!’”

“Well?” asked the mother, with an anxious look.

“Well—that being so, I have made up my mind that I will go out to Traitor’s Trap and carry the money to Shank, and look after him myself. That is, if you will let me.”

“O Charlie! how can you talk of it?” said Mrs Brooke, with a distressed look. “I have scarcely had time to realise the fact that you have come home, and to thank God for it, when you begin to talk of leaving me again—perhaps for years, as before.”

“Nay, mother mine, you jump to conclusions too hastily. What I propose is not to go off again on a long voyage, but to take a run of a few days in a first-class steamer across what the Americans call the big fish-pond; then go across country comfortably by rail; after that hire a horse and have a gallop somewhere or other; find out Shank and bring him home. The whole thing might be done in a few weeks; and no chance, almost, of being wrecked.”

“I don’t know, Charlie,” returned Mrs Brooke, in a sad tone, as she laid her hand on her son’s arm and stroked it. “As you put it, the thing sounds all very easy, and no doubt it would be a grand, a noble thing to rescue Shank—but—but, why talk of it to-night, my dear boy? It is late. Go to bed, Charlie, and we will talk it over in the morning.”

“How pleasantly familiar that ‘Go to bed, Charlie,’ sounds,” said the son, laughing, as he rose up.

“You did not always think it pleasant,” returned the good lady, with a sad smile.

“That’s true, but I think it uncommonly pleasant now. Good-night, mother.”

“Good-night, my son, and God bless you.”

Chapter Twelve. Changes the Scene Considerably!

We must transport our reader now to a locality somewhere in the region lying between New Mexico and Colorado. Here, in a mean-looking out-of-the-way tavern, a number of rough-looking men were congregated, drinking, gambling, and spinning yarns. Some of them belonged to the class known as cow-boys—men of rugged exterior, iron constitutions, powerful frames, and apparently reckless dispositions, though underneath the surface there was considerable variety of character to be found.

The landlord of the inn—if we may so call it, for it was little better than a big shanty—was known by the name of David. He was a man of cool courage. His customers knew this latter fact well, and were also aware that, although he carried no weapon on his person, he had several revolvers in handy places under his counter, with the use of which he was extremely familiar and expert.

In the midst of a group of rather noisy characters who smoked and drank in one corner of this inn or shanty, there was seated on the end of a packing-case, a man in the prime of life, who, even in such rough company, was conspicuously rugged. His leathern costume betokened him a hunter, or trapper, and the sheepskin leggings, with the wool outside, showed that he was at least at that time a horseman. Unlike most of his comrades, he wore Indian moccasins, with spurs strapped to them. Also a cap of the broad-brimmed order. The point about him that was most striking at first sight was his immense breadth of shoulder and depth of chest, though in height he did not equal many of the men around him. As one became acquainted with the man, however, his massive proportions had not so powerful an effect on the mind of an observer as the quiet simplicity of his expression and manner. Good-nature seemed to lurk in the lines about his eyes and the corners of his mouth, which latter had the peculiarity of turning down instead of up when he smiled; yet withal there was a stern gravity about him that forbade familiarity.

The name of the man was Hunky Ben, and the strangest thing about him—that which puzzled these wild men most—was that he neither drank nor smoked nor gambled! He made no pretence of abstaining on principle. One of the younger men, who was blowing a stiff cloud, ventured to ask him whether he really thought these things wrong.

“Well, now,” he replied quietly, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’m no parson, boys, that I should set up to diskiver what’s right an’ what’s wrong. I’ve got my own notions on them points, you bet, but I’m not goin’ to preach ’em. As to smokin’, I won’t make a smoked herrin’ o’ my tongue to please anybody. Besides, I don’t want to smoke, an’ why should I do a thing I don’t want to just because other people does it? Why should I make a new want when I’ve got no end o’ wants a’ready that’s hard enough to purvide for? Drinkin’s all very well if a man wants Dutch courage, but I don’t want it—no, nor French courage, nor German, nor Chinee, havin’ got enough o’ the article home-growed to sarve my purpus. When that’s used up I may take to drinkin’—who knows? Same wi’ gamblin’. I’ve no desire to bust up any man, an’ I don’t want to be busted up myself, you bet. No doubt drinkin’, smokin’, an’ gamblin’ makes men jolly—them at least that’s tough an’ that wins!—but I’m jolly without ’em, boys,—jolly as a cottontail rabbit just come of age.”

“An’ ye look it, old man,” returned the young fellow, puffing cloudlets with the utmost vigour; “but come, Ben, won’t ye spin us a yarn about your frontier life?”

“Yes, do, Hunky,” cried another in an entreating voice, for it was well known all over that region that the bold hunter was a good story-teller, and as he had served a good deal on the frontier as guide to the United States troops, it was understood that he had much to tell of a thrilling and adventurous kind; but although the men about him ceased to talk and looked at him with expectancy, he shook his head, and would not consent to be drawn out.

“No, boys, it can’t be done to-day,” he said; “I’ve no time, for I’m bound for Quester Creek in hot haste, an’ am only waitin’ here for my pony to freshen up a bit. The Redskins are goin’ to give us trouble there by all accounts.”

“The red devils!” exclaimed one of the men, with a savage oath; “they’re always givin’ us trouble.”

“That,” returned Hunky Ben, in a soft voice, as he glanced mildly at the speaker,—“that is a sentiment I heer’d expressed almost exactly in the same words, though in Capatchee lingo, some time ago by a Redskin chief—only he said it was pale-faced devils who troubled him. I wonder which is worst. They can’t both be worst, you know!”

This remark was greeted with a laugh, and a noisy discussion thereupon began as to the comparative demerits of the two races, which was ere long checked by the sound of a galloping horse outside. Next moment the door opened, and a very tall man of commanding presence and bearing entered the room, took off his hat, and looked round with a slight bow to the company.

There was nothing commanding, however, in the quiet voice with which he asked the landlord if he and his horse could be put up there for the night.

The company knew at once, from the cut of the stranger’s tweed suit, as well as his tongue, that he was an Englishman, not much used to the ways of the country—though, from the revolver and knife in his belt, and the repeating rifle in his hand, he seemed to be ready to meet the country on its own terms by doing in Rome as Rome does.

On being told that he could have a space on the floor to lie on, which he might convert into a bed if he had a blanket with him, he seemed to make up his mind to remain, asked for food, and while it was preparing went out to attend to his horse. Then, returning, he went to a retired corner of the room, and flung himself down at full length on a vacant bench, as if he were pretty well exhausted with fatigue.

The simple fare of the hostelry was soon ready; and when the stranger was engaged in eating it, he asked a cow-boy beside him how far it was to Traitor’s Trap.

At the question there was a perceptible lull in the conversation, and the cow-boy, who was a very coarse forbidding specimen of his class, said that he guessed Traitor’s Trap was distant about twenty mile or so.

“Are you goin’ thar, stranger?” he asked, eyeing his questioner curiously.

“Yes, I’m going there,” answered the Englishman; “but from what I’ve heard of the road, at the place where I stayed last night, I don’t like to go on without a guide and daylight—though I would much prefer to push on to-night if it were possible.”

“Wall, stranger, whether possible or not,” returned the cow-boy, “it’s an ugly place to go past, for there’s a gang o’ cut-throats there that’s kep’ the country fizzin’ like ginger-beer for some time past. A man that’s got to go past Traitor’s Trap should go by like a greased thunderbolt, an’ he should never go alone.”

“Is it, then, such a dangerous place?” asked the Englishman, with a smile that seemed to say he thought his informant was exaggerating.

“Dangerous!” exclaimed the cow-boy. “Ay, an will be as long as Buck Tom an’ his boys are unhung. Why, stranger, I’d get my life insured, you bet, before I’d go thar again—except with a big crowd o’ men. It was along in June last year I went up that way; there was nobody to go with me, an’ I was forced to do it by myself—for I had to go—so I spunked up, saddled Bluefire, an’ sloped. I got on lovely till I came to a pass just on t’other side o’ Traitor’s Trap, when I

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