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. In the Pecos Country by Edward Sylvester Ellis (affordable ebook reader txt) 📖
- Author: Edward Sylvester Ellis
Book online «In the Pecos Country by Edward Sylvester Ellis (affordable ebook reader txt) 📖». Author Edward Sylvester Ellis
Now that he had the means at command, Fred decided to look after the cascade, the sound of which was a guide. His gun was irrevocably gone, and his progress, therefore, became the more tedious. Disliking to creep, he adopted the plan of advancing one step, and then groping around awhile with the other foot, before trusting his weight upon it. This consumed considerable time, but it was the only safe course, after what had taken place, and he kept it up until the musical murmur of the waterfall showed that he had approached about as close as possible.
He then struck another match and held it over his head. It told the whole story.
A stream, not more than three or four feet in width, issued from the darkness, and, flowing some distance, went over a ledge of rock. After falling three or four yards, upon some black and jagged rocks, it gathered itself together and resumed its journey into and through the gloom. The tiny flame was unequal to the task of showing where the water entered and left the cave, and, as the boy was straining his eyesight in the hope of discovering something more, the blaze scorched his fingers, he snapped it out.
“That leaves only four,” he mused, as he felt of the lucifers, “and I haven't got enough to spare. I can't gain much by using them that way, and so I guess I'll hold on to these, and see whether the daylight is going to help me.”
He picked his way carefully along until he was nearly beneath the opening which had admitted him, where he sat down upon the dry, sandy ground to await the light of the sun.
“I don't suppose it will help much, for the bushes up there will keep out pretty much of the sunlight that might have come through; but I guess I'll have plenty time to wait, and that's what I'll do.”
He fell into a sort of doze, lulled by the music of the cascade, which lasted until the night was over. As soon as he awoke, he looked upward to see how matters stood.
The additional light showed that the day had come, but it produced no perceptible effect upon the interior of the cave. All was as dark—that is, upon the bottom—as ever. It was only in the upper portion that there was a faint lighting-up.
Fred could see the jagged edges of the opening, with some of the bushes bent over, and seemingly ready to drop down, with the dirt and gravel clinging to their roots. The opening was irregular, and some four or five feet in extent, and, as near as he could estimate, was some thirty feet above his head.
“If I happened to come down on a rock, I might have got hurt; but things down here were fixed to catch me, and it begins to look as though they were fixed to hold me, too.”
His situation was certainly very serious. He had no gun or weapons of any kind other than a common jack-knife, and it looked very much as if there was no way for him to get out the cave again without outside assistance, of which the prospect was exceedingly remote.
He was hungry, and without the means of obtaining food.
The berries, which had acted so queerly with him the day before, were beyond his reach.
Vegetation needs the sunlight, as do all of us, and it is useless to expect anything edible below.
“Unless it's fish,” thought Fred, aloud. “I've heard that they find them in the Mammoth Cave without eyes, and there may be some of the same kind here; but then I'm just the same as a boy without eyes, and how am I going to find them?”
The more he reflected upon his situation, the more disheartened did he become. He had been given many remarkable deliverances in the past few days, and although his faith was strong that Providence would bring him out of this last predicament, his heart misgave him as he considered it in all its bearings.
“The best thing I can do is to try and gather some wood together, and start a fire. If there is enough fuel, I may kindle a lantern that will show me something in the way of a new door—Halloa! what is the matter?”
His attention was attracted by the rattling of gravel and dirt at his side, and looking up, he saw that something was struggling in the opening above, having been caught apparently in precisely the same manner as he had been.
His first supposition was that it was a wild animal, but the next moment he observed that it was a person, most probably an Apache warrior. And by the time Fred had learned that much, down came his visitor.
CHAPTER XXVI. A WELCOME VISITOR
Lonely as Fred Munson felt in that dismal cavern, he preferred the solitude to the companionship of an Apache Indian, and, fearful of discovery, he crouched down to wait until he should move away. His involuntary visitor dropped within a few feet of where he was hiding, and Fred tried to hold his breath for fear he might be detected; but the fellow quietly rose and gave expression to his sentiments.
“Begorrah, if I haven't fell through into the cellar, as me grandmither did when she danced down the whole party, and landed on the bottom, and kept up the jig without a break, keep ing time with the one-eyed fiddler above.”
Fred could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses. That was the voice of his old friend, Mickey O'Rooney, or else he was more mistaken than he had ever been in his life. But whatever doubts might have lingered with him were removed by the words that immediately followed.
“It beats the blazes where that young spalpeen can be kaping himself. Me and Misther Simpson have been on the hunt for two days and more, and now when I got on his trail, and found where he'd crawled into the bushes, and I tried to do the same, I crawled into the biggest cellar in the whole world, and I can't find the stairs to walk out again—-”
“Helloa, Mickey! Is that you, my old friend?” called out the overjoyed lad, springing forward, throwing his arms about him, and breaking in most effectually upon his meditations.
The Irishman was mystified for a moment, but he recognized the voice, reached down, and placed his arms in turn about the lad.
“Begorrah, if this ain't the greatest surprise of me life, as Mr. O'Spangarkoghomagh remarked when I called and paid him a little balance that I owed him. I've had a hard hunt for you, and had about guv you up when I came down on you in this shtyle. Freddy, me
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