Charlie to the Rescue by Robert Michael Ballantyne (hardest books to read TXT) 📖

of disaster, and of going off to the "Rockies" with a party of "discoverers," though what they were to discover was not mentioned.

"From that date till now," said May in conclusion, "we have heard nothing about them till this letter came from Mr Ritson, telling of dear Shank being so ill, and asking for money."

"I wish any one were with Shank rather than that man," said Charlie sternly; "I have no confidence in him whatever, and I knew him well as a boy."

"Nevertheless, I think we may trust him. Indeed I feel sure he won't desert his wounded comrade," returned May, with a blush.

The youth did not observe the blush. His thoughts were otherwise engaged, and his eyes were at the moment fixed on a far-off part of the shore, where Captain Stride could be seen urging on the joyful Scraggy to his fruitless labours.

"I wish I could feel as confident of him as you do, May. However, misfortune as well as experience may have made him a wiser, perhaps a better, man. But what troubles me most is the uncertainty of the money that Mr Crossley is going to send ever reaching its destination."

"Oh! if we only knew some one in New York who would take it to them," said May, looking piteously at the horizon, as if she were apostrophising some one on the other side of the Atlantic.

"Why, you talk as if New York and Traitor's Trap were within a few miles of each other," said Charlie, smiling gently. "They are hundreds of miles apart."

"Well, I suppose they are. But I feel so anxious about Shank when I think of the dear boy lying ill, perhaps dying, in a lonely place far far away from us all, and no one but Mr Ritson to care for him! If I were only a man I would go to him myself."

She broke down at this point, and put her handkerchief to her face.

"Don't cry, May," began the youth in sore perplexity, for he knew not how to comfort the poor girl in the circumstances, but fortunately Captain Stride caught sight of them at the moment, and gave them a stentorian hail.

"Hi! halloo! back 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