Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Charlie to the Rescue by R. M. Ballantyne (great book club books txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «Charlie to the Rescue by R. M. Ballantyne (great book club books txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“We may rest a bit now,” said the scout. “There’s a ledge hereabouts. There you are. Sit down. I’ll have to take your hand here lest you fall off the bridge into the holes on each side o’ the track.”
“Are the holes dangerous?” asked Leather.
“They’re dangerous enough to be worth takin’ care of, anyhow, for if ye was to tumble into one you’d never come out again. There, now, let’s go on, for if I don’t git back soon, they’ll be wonderin’ if the monster hasn’t run away wi’ me too, as well as you!”
After advancing a short distance in total darkness—Ben feeling his way carefully step by step—they came suddenly to the hole in the front of the cave to which reference has been already made. The place had evidently been used before as a place of refuge and temporary abode, for, near this front-mouth of the cave was found a litter of pine branches which had plainly been used as a bed.
“Sit ye down there, Leather,” said the scout, “see, or, rather, hear—for the eyes aren’t of much use just now—I’ve set down the grub an’ a flask o’ water beside ye. Don’t strike a light unless you want to have your neck stretched. Daylight won’t be long o’ lettin’ ye see what’s goin’ on. You won’t weary, for it’ll be as good as a play, yourself bein’ chief actor an’ audience all at the same time!”
Saying this the scout melted, as it were, into the darkness of the cavern, and, with noiseless moccasined feet, retraced his steps to the rear entrance.
Left to himself the poor wanderer found both time and food for reflection, for he did not dare in the darkness to move from the spot where he had seated himself. At first an eerie feeling of indefinable fear oppressed him, but this passed away as the busy thoughts went rambling back to home and the days of comparative innocence gone by. Forgetting the dark surroundings and the threatening dangers, he was playing again on the river banks, drinking liquorice-water, swimming, and rescuing kittens with Charlie Brooke. Anon, he was wandering on the sea-beach with his sister, brown-eyed Mary, or watching the manly form of his old friend and chum buffeting the waves towards the wreck on the Sealford Rocks. Memory may not be always faithful, but she is often surprisingly prompt. In the twinkling of an eye Shank Leather had crossed the Atlantic again and was once more in the drinking and gambling saloons—the “Hells” of New York—with his profoundly admired “friend” and tempter Ralph Ritson. It was a wild whirl and plunge from bad to worse through which Memory led him now—scenes at which he shuddered and on which he would fain have closed his eyes if possible, but Memory knows not the meaning of mercy. She tore open his eyes and, becoming unusually strict at this point, bade him look particularly at all the minute details of his reckless life—especially at the wrecks of other lives that had been caused by the wreck of his own. Then the deepest deep of all seemed to be reached when he rose—or rather fell—from the condition of tempted to that of tempter, and, somehow, managed for a time to lead even the far stronger-minded Ralph Ritson on the road to ruin. But he did not lead him long. The stronger nature soon re-asserted itself; seized the reins; led the yielding Leather to the cities of the far west; from gambling took to robbing, till at last the gay and handsome Ritson became transformed into the notorious Buck Tom, and left his weaker chum to care for himself.
It was at this point—so Memory recalled to him—that he, Leather, was stopped, in mid and mad, career, by a man of God with the love of Jesus in his heart and on his lips. And at this point Memory seemed to change her action and proved herself, although unmerciful, pre-eminently faithful. She reminded him of the deep contrition that God wrought in his heart; of the horror that overwhelmed him when he thought of what he was, and what he had done; of the sudden resolve he had formed to follow Ritson, and try to stop him in the fearful career on which he had entered. Then came the memory of failure; of desperate anxieties; of futile entreaties; of unaccountably resolute perseverance; of joining the outlaw band to be near his friend; of being laughed to scorn by them all of being chased by US troops at the very commencement of his enterprise; of being severely wounded, rescued, and carried off during the flight by Buck Tom, and then—a long blank, mingled with awful dreams and scenes, and ribald songs, and curses—some of all which was real, and some the working of a fevered brain.
So terribly vivid were these pictures of memory, that one of the shouts of dreamland absolutely awoke him to the fact that he had extended his wearied limbs on his couch of pine brush and fallen asleep. He also awake to the perception that it was broad daylight, and that a real shout had mingled with that of dreamland, for after he had sat up and listened intently for a few moments, the shout was repeated as if at no great distance.
Creeping quickly to the mouth of the cave Leather peeped cautiously out, and the scene that met his startled gaze was not calculated to restore that equanimity which his recent dreams had disturbed.
The narrow and rugged valley which lay spread out below him was alive with horsemen, trotting hither and thither as if searching for some one, and several parties on foot were scaling gorges and slopes, up which a horseman could not scramble.
The shout which had awakened the fugitive was uttered by a dismounted trooper who had climbed higher on the face of the cliff than his fellows, and wished to attract the attention of those below.
“Hi! hallo!” he cried, “send Hunky Ben up here. I’ve found a track that seems to lead to somewhere, but it’ll need the scout’s nose to ferret it out.”
Leather’s heart beat wildly, for, from the position of the man, he could not doubt that he had discovered the track leading up to the cave. Before he could think how he should act, a response came to the call from Hunky Ben.
“Ay, ay,” he shouted, in a voice so bold and resonant, that Leather felt it was meant to warn him of his danger, “Ay, ay. Hold on! Don’t be in a hurry. The tracks branch out further on, an’ some o’ them are dangerous. Wait till I come up. There’s a cave up there, I’ll lead ye to it.”
This was more than enough for Leather. He turned hastily to survey his place of refuge. It was a huge dismal cavern with branching tunnels around that disappeared in thick obscurity, and heights above that lost themselves in gloom; holes in the sides and floor that were of invisible depth, and curious irregular ledges, that formed a sort of arabesque fringe to the general confusion.
One of these ornamental ledges, stretching along the roof with many others, lost itself in the gloom and seemed to be a hopeful living-place—all the more hopeful that it was in the full blaze of light that gushed in through the front opening of the cave. This opening, it will be remembered, was on the face of the cliff and inaccessible. But Leather found that he could not reach the ledge. Hastening to the dark side of the cave, however, he saw that by means of some projections and crevices in the rocky wall he could reach the end of the ledge. Creeping along it he soon found himself close to the opening, surrounded by strong light, but effectually concealed from view by the ledge. It was as if he were on a natural rafter, peeping down on the floor below! As there was a multitude of such ledges around, which it would take several men many hours to examine, he began to breathe more freely, for, would the searchers not naturally think that a fugitive would fly to the darkest recesses of his place of refuge, rather than to the brightest and most accessible spot?
He gave vent to a sigh of relief, and was congratulating himself upon his wisdom, when his eyes chanced to fall on the flask of water and cold roast fowl and loaf lying conspicuous in the full glare of light that flooded the front part of the cave!
If the fowl had been thrust whole into his throat it could scarcely have added to the gush of alarm that choked him. He slipped incontinently from his arabesque ledge and dropped upon the floor. Securing the tell-tale viands with eager haste he dashed back into the obscurity and clambered with them back to his perch. And not much too soon, for he had barely settled down when the voice of the scout was heard talking pretty loudly.
“Come along, Captain Wilmot,” he said, “give me your hand, sir. It’s not safe to walk alone here, even wi’ a light.”
“Here, where are you? Oh! All right. Haven’t you got a match?” asked the captain.
“Nothin’ that would burn more’n a few seconds. We’re better without a light, for a gust o’ wind might blow it out an’ leave us worse than we was. Mind this step. There.”
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t bring any of my men in here,” said the Captain, as he kicked one of his heavy boots violently against a projection of rock.
“Ay—’tis as well you didn’t,” returned the scout, in a tone suggestive of the idea that he was smiling. “For there’s holes on both sides, an’ if one o’ your men went down, ye might read the funeral sarvice over him at once, an’ be done with it. There’s a glimmer o’ daylight at last. We’ll soon be at the other end now.”
“A horrible place, truly,” said the Captain, “and one that it would be hard to find a fellow in even if we knew he was here.”
“Didn’t I say so, Captain? but ye wouldn’t be convinced,” said Hunky Ben, leading his companion into the full light of the opening and coming to a halt close to the ledge above which the fugitive lay. “Besides, Leather could never have found his way here alone.”
“You forget,” returned Wilmot, with a peculiar smile, “the monster might have shown him the way or even have carried him hither.”
“Ah, true,” answered the scout, with solemn gravity. “There’s somethin’ in that.”
Wilmot laughed.
“What a splendid view,” he said, going forward to the opening—“and see, here is a bed of pine brush. No doubt the cave must have been used as a place of refuge by the Redskins in days gone by.”
“Ay, an’ by the pale-faces too,” said the scout. “Why, I’ve had occasion to use it myself more than once. And, as you truly obsarve, sir, there’s small chance of findin’ a man once he’s in here. As well run after a rabbit in his hole.”
“Or search for a needle in a haystack,” observed the Captain, as he gazed with curious interest around and above him. “Well, Ben, I give in. You were right when you said there was no probability of my finding any of the outlaws here.”
“I’m ginerally right when I speak about what I understand,” returned the scout calmly. “So now, Captain, if you’re satisfied, we may as well go an’ have a look at the other places I spoke of.”
Assenting to this the two men left the place, but Leather continued to lie perfectly still for a considerable time after their footsteps had died away. Then, gliding from his perch, he dropped on the floor and ran to the opening where he saw the troopers still riding about, but gradually going farther and farther away
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