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. The Big Otter by R. M. Ballantyne (novels to read in english TXT) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Big Otter by R. M. Ballantyne (novels to read in english TXT) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“Is it not glorious!” I exclaimed. “Should we not be grateful to the Great Spirit who has given us such a splendid home?”
Waboose looked at me. “Yes, it is glorious,” she said—“and I am grateful; but it is strange that you should use the very same words that were so often on the lips of my father just before he—”
She stopped abruptly.
“Just before he went home, Eve,” I interposed; “no need to say died. Your father is not dead, but sleepeth. You shall meet him again. But it is not very strange that men should use the same words when they are animated by the same love to the Great Spirit.”
The girl raised her large eyes with a perplexed, inquiring look.
“What troubles you, Eve?” I asked.
“Eve!” she repeated, almost anxiously. “Twice you have called me by a name that father sometimes used, though not often, and when he used it he always spoke low and very tenderly.”
I felt somewhat perplexed as to how I should reply, and finally took refuge in another question.
“Tell me, Waboose,” said I, “did your father ever tell you his own name?”
“Of course he did,” she answered, with a look of surprise—“you know well it was Weeum.”
“Yes, William,” said I; “but—”
“No—Weeum,” she said, correcting me. “Once or twice I have heard him say Willum, but all our people call him Weeum.”
“Had he no other name?” I asked.
“No. Why should he have another? Is not one enough?”
“You never heard of Liston?”
“Liston?—No, never.”
“Waboose,” said I, with sudden earnestness, “I am going to tell you something that will probably surprise you, and I will show you something that may give you pleasure—or pain—I know not which. You remember, that when I found the curious ornaments near to the stunted pine-tree, I asked you not to question me at that time about the packet you gave to me long ago. Well, the time has come when I ought to tell you all about it. But, first, look at this.”
I had taken from my pocket, while speaking to her, the miniature of her father, which I now handed to her. She fixed her eyes on it with a startled look, then sprang up with an exclamation, at the same time drawing one hand across her eyes, as if to clear away some mists that dimmed them. Eagerly she gazed again, with parted lips and heaving bosom, then burst into a passionate flood of tears, pressing the miniature alternately to her lips and to her heart.
I stood helplessly gazing at her—anxious to comfort but unable.
“Oh! why, why,” she cried, suddenly dropping the miniature, “why do you mock me with this? It is so little, yet so like. It looks alive, but it is dead. It is nothing—a mockery!”
The poor girl caught it up, however, and began to kiss and caress it again.
Some time elapsed before her passionate grief was sufficiently subdued to permit of her listening to me. When it was nearly exhausted, and found vent only in an occasional sob, I took her hand gently and said—
“Give me the picture now, Waboose. I will wrap it up again, for I have much to say.”
Then, unfolding the last writing of the poor fellow whom the Indians had styled Weeum the Good, I slowly translated it into the Indian language. It was not an easy task; for, besides feeling that it stirred the heart of the listener with powerful emotions, I had great difficulty in taking my eyes off her changeful face, so as to read the manuscript.
“Now, Eve Liston—for that is your real name,” said I, when I had finished, “what do you think ought to be done?”
The girl did not reply at once, but sat so long with her hands clasped tightly on her lap, and her eyes fixed wistfully on the ground, that I had to repeat the question.
“What is to be done?” she replied, simply; “of course, what father wished to be done.”
“And are you ready to go with me to the far south to see your father’s mother? Can you trust me to protect you?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, with a straightforward look that almost disconcerted me; “have you not protected me well already?”
“And are you willing, Eve, to leave your tribe and go off alone with me?”
“Alone!” she repeated, with a look of surprise; “oh! no—not alone. Mother must go too, and also Big Otter.”
Once more I felt somewhat confused, for, to say truth, I had totally forgotten her mother and Big Otter for the moment.
“Well now, Eve—for I intend to call you by that name in future, except when in the presence of your people—I must talk this matter over with your mother and Big Otter. I have some fear that the latter may object to go with us.”
“He will not object,” said Waboose, quietly. “He loved my father, and always obeyed him.”
“Very good. So much the better. Now, as to the valuable jewels—the ornaments, I mean.”
“Have you got them here!” asked Eve.
“Yes. Knowing the risk I shall run of losing them or having them stolen from me, I have had a belt made which fits round my waist under my clothes, in which the jewels and the money are placed. If I can manage to get them and you safely conveyed to Colorado, all will be well, but it is a long, long journey, Eve, and—”
I was interrupted at this point by Big Otter, who came to tell us that supper was ready, and that, as the region in which they were encamped was sometimes visited by hostile Indians, as well as by white trappers—many of whom were great scoundrels—it would be prudent to keep within the circle of sentinels after dark.
It was well that we had been warned not to go beyond the camp, for there happened at that time to be abroad on the prairies a band of miscreants who would certainly have shot whoever they had caught straying. The band was composed of white men—that class of white men who, throwing off all moral and social restraints, give themselves up to the practice of every species of iniquity, fearing neither God nor man. They were, in short, a band of robbers and cut-throats, whose special business at that time was hunting buffalo, but who were not averse to sell their services to any nation that chanced to be at war, or to practice simple robbery when opportunity offered.
These men held the opinion that Indians were “vermin,” to exterminate which was commendable. When, therefore, they discovered our camp by the light of the fires, they rode towards it with the utmost caution, taking advantage of every bush and knoll until our sentinels observed them. Then they rushed upon us like a hurricane, sending a volley of bullets before them.
Several of our men fell, mortally wounded. Our sentinels ran in, and a wild attempt at defence was made; but it was in vain, we had been taken completely by surprise, and, as the only chance of safety, our party scattered in all directions, each man making for the nearest woods.
Only Big Otter, Salamander, and I remained beside the camp-fires, resolved to defend our helpless females or die with them. This brought about a most unexpected turn of affairs, for the villains were so eager to hunt and kill the flying Indians, that every man went in hot pursuit of a fugitive, leaving us for the moment absolutely alone!
We were not slow in taking advantage of this. Although at the onset some of our terrified horses broke their fastenings and galloped away, others remained quiet. Among these last I observed, were my own horse and that of Salamander, which I have already said were splendid animals.
Scarcely believing our good fortune, we all bounded towards these. In a moment I had mounted. Eve seized my hand, put her foot on my toe, and, with a light spring, seated herself behind me. Big Otter, vaulting on Salamander’s steed, swung Eve’s mother up behind him.
“Catch another horse—there are plenty good enough for a light weight like you, Salamander,” said I, as I put my horse to its utmost speed.
Salamander was not slow to obey, but had scarcely mounted when a loud halloo told that our action had been observed. I did not look back. One consuming idea filled my mind, and that was to save Eve Liston. That the miscreants who now thundered after us would show us no mercy I felt well assured, and plied the heavy thong I carried with all my might. The noble steed did not require that. It strained every muscle to the uttermost.
I felt cheered to observe that Big Otter kept well up with me, and could hear that Salamander was not far behind.
We now felt that our only hope, under God, lay in the superiority of our horses, and for some time we listened to the pattering of the hoofs behind us with intense anxiety. Soon I began to fancy that we were distancing them, and ere long we became sure of this, at least as to the most of our pursuers, but there was one who kept drawing closer and closer.
Presently a shot was fired and a bullet whizzed close past my head.
At that moment Big Otter reined up so violently as to throw his horse almost on its haunches. I checked my speed but did not rein up. Looking back, I saw my Indian friend wheel round, raise his gun to his shoulder and fire. The moon was bright, and I could see that the man who had been closing with us dropped to the ground. Whether he was killed or only wounded we did not wait to ascertain, but dashed on again as fast as ever. We soon drew rein, however, on observing that the fall of our pursuer had checked his companions. On reaching him they halted, dismounted, and finally gave up the chase. We soon left them out of sight behind us, but still we held on at a hand-gallop, resolved to put as much distance as possible between us before encamping.
During all this exciting chase Waboose’s mother had clung to her stalwart support with the uncomplaining patience of Indian women; but we were deeply concerned to find on halting that she was too much exhausted to dismount and that blood was trickling from her lips. Indeed, she would have fallen to the ground if Big Otter had not caught her in his arms.
“Are you wounded, mother?” exclaimed Eve, going down on her knees, seizing one of the poor woman’s hands and kissing it tenderly.
“No, Waboose, but I think there is something wrong here.” She pressed her breast gently and coughed up some blood.
“She is quite worn out,” said I. “Come, Big Otter, let us carry her to a more comfortable place, and make a fire. A cup of tea will soon revive her.”
I spoke cheerily, with a view to comfort Eve, but I confess that great anxiety filled me when I looked at the poor woman’s wan face and emaciated frame. The blood, too, appeared to me a fatal symptom, though I had but a hazy idea of everything relating to disease.
The place we had selected for our encampment was a dense mass of forest which covered the prairie in that part to an extent of about two square miles. Near the outer margin of this patch there was a curious steep mound which rose so high that from the top of it one could see over the surrounding trees. It rose somewhat in the form of a cone with a flat space at the apex of not more than twenty feet in diameter. On the outer rim of this
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