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

his fist as sent it all to smash against the opposite wall.

"`Well done, Screw!' cried the boy at the bar, laughin'; `have another bottle?'

"Poor Screw smiled in a sheepish way, for the rile was out of him by that time, an', says he, `Well, I don't mind if I do. A shot like that deserves another!'

"Ah me!" continued the scout, "it do take the manhood out of a fellow, that drink. Even when his indignation's roused and he tries to shake it off, he can't do it."

"Well do I know that, Ben. It is only God who can help a man in such a case."

The scout gravely shook his head. "Seems to me, Mr Brooke, that there's a screw loose some wheres in our theology, for I've heard parsons as well as you say that--as if the Almighty condescended to help us only when we're in bad straits. Now, though I'm but a scout and pretend to no book larnin', it comes in strong upon me that if God made us an' measures our movements, an' gives us every beat o' the pulse, an' counts the very hairs of our heads, we stand in need of His help in _every_ case and at _all_ times; that we can't save ourselves from mischief under any circumstances, great or small, without Him."

"I have thought of that too, sometimes," said Charlie, sitting down on the rock beside his companion, and looking at him in some perplexity, "but does not the view you take savour somewhat of fatalism, and seek to free us from responsibility in regard to what we do?"

"It don't seem so to me," replied the scout, "I'm not speakin', you see, so much of doin' as of escapin'. No doubt we are _perfectly_ free to _will_, but it don't follow that we are free to _act_. I'm quite free to _will_ to cut my leg off or to let it stay on; an' if I carry out my will an' _do_ it, why, I'm quite free there too--an' also responsible. But I ain't free to sew it on again however much I may will to do so-- leastwise if I do it won't stick. The consekinces o' my deed I must bear, but who will deny that the Almighty could grow on another leg if He chose? Why, some creeters He _does_ allow to get rid of a limb or two, an' grow new ones! So, you see, I'm responsible for my deeds, but, at the same time, I must look to God for escape from the consekinces, if He sees fit to let me escape. A man, bein' free, may drink himself into a drunkard, but he's _not_ free to cure _himself_. He can't do it. The demon Crave has got him by the throat, forces him to open his mouth, and pours the fiery poison down. The thing that he is free to do is to will. He may, if he chooses, call upon God the Saviour to help him; an' my own belief is that no man ever made such a call in vain."

"How, if that be so, are we to account for the failure of those who try, honestly strive, struggle, and agonise, yet obviously fail?"

"It's not for the like o' me, Mr Brooke, to expound the outs an' ins o' all mysteries. Yet I will p'int out that you, what they call, beg the question, when you say that such people `honestly' strive. If a man tries to unlock a door with all his might and main, heart and soul, honestly tries, by turnin' the key the wrong way, he'll strive till doomsday without openin' the door! It's my opinion that a man may get into difficulties of his own free-will. He can get out of them only by applyin' to his Maker."

During the latter part of this conversation the hunters had risen and were making their way through the trackless woods, when the scout stopped suddenly and gazed for a few seconds intently at the ground. Then he kneeled and began to examine the spot with great care. "A footprint here," he said, "that tells of recent visitors."

"Friends, Ben, or foes?" asked our hero, also going on his knees to examine the marks. "Well, now, I see only a pressed blade or two of grass, but nothing the least like a footprint. It puzzles me more than I can tell how you scouts seem so sure about invisible marks."

"Truly, if they was invisible you would have reason for surprise, but my wonder is that you don't see them. Any child in wood-craft might read them. See, here is the edge o' the right futt making a faint impression where the ground is soft--an' the heel; surely ye see the heel!"

"A small hollow I do see, but as to its being a heel-print I could not pronounce on that. Has it been made lately, think you?"

"Ay, last night or this morning at latest; and it was made by the futt of Jake the Flint. I know it well, for I've had to track him more than once an' would spot it among a thousand."

"If Jake is in the neighbourhood, wouldn't it be well to return to the cave? He and some of his gang might attack it in our absence."

"No fear o' that," replied the scout, rising from his inspection, "the futt p'ints away from the cave. I should say that the Flint has bin there durin' the night, an' found that we kep' too sharp a look-out to be caught sleepin'. Where he went to arter that no one can tell, but we can hoof it an' see. Like enough he went to spy us out alone, an' then returned to his comrades."

So saying, the scout "hoofed it" through the woods at a pace that tested Charlie Brooke's powers of endurance, exceptionally good though they were. After a march of about four miles in comparative silence they were conducted by the footprints to an open space in the midst of dense thicket where the fresh ashes of a camp fire indicated that a party had spent some time.

"Just so. They came to see what was up and what could be done, found that nothin' partiklar was up an' nothin' at all could be done, so off they go, mounted, to fish in other waters. Just as well for us."

"But not so well for the fish in the other waters," remarked Charlie.

"True, but we can't help that. Come, we may as well return now."

While Charlie and the scout were thus following the trail, Buck Tom, lying in the cave, became suddenly much worse. It seemed as if some string in his system had suddenly snapped and let the poor human wreck run down.

"Come here, Leather," he gasped faintly.

Poor Shank, who never left him, and who was preparing food for him at the time, was at his side in a moment, and bent anxiously over him.

"D'you want anything?" he asked.

"Nothing, Shank. Where's Dick?"

"Outside; cutting some firewood."

"Don't call him. I'm glad we are alone," said the outlaw, seizing his friend's hand with a feeble, tremulous grasp. "I'm dying, Shank, dear boy. You forgive me?"

"Forgive you, Ralph! Ay--long, long ago I--" He could not finish the sentence.

"I know you did, Shank," returned the dying man, with a faint smile. "How it will fare with me hereafter I know not. I've but one word to say when I get there, and that is--_guilty_! I--I loved your sister, Shank. Ay--you never guessed it. I only tell you now that I may send her a message. Tell her that the words she once said to me about a Saviour have never left me. They are like a light in the darkness now. God bless you--Shank--and--May."

With a throbbing heart and listening ear Shank waited for more; but no more came. The hand he still held was lifeless, and the spirit of the outlaw had entered within the veil of that mysterious Hereafter.


CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.


CHASE, CAPTURE, AND END OF JAKE THE FLINT.

It was growing dark when Brooke and the scout reached the cave that evening and found that Buck Tom was dead; but they had barely time to realise the fact when their attention was diverted by the sudden arrival of a large band of horsemen--cowboys and others--the leader of whom seemed to be the cow-boy Crux.

Hunky Ben and his friends had, of course, made rapid preparations to receive them as foes, if need were; but on recognising who composed the cavalcade, they went out to meet them.

"Hallo! Hunky," shouted Crux, as he rode up and leaped off his steed, "have they been here?"

"Who d'ye mean?" demanded the scout.

"Why, Jake the Flint, to be sure, an' his murderin' gang. Haven't ye heard the news?"

"Not I. Who d'ye think would take the trouble to come up here with noos?"

"They've got clear off, boys," said Crux, in a voice of great disappointment. "So we must off saddle, an' camp where we are for the night."

While the rest of the party dismounted and dispersed to look for a suitable camping-ground, Crux explained the reason of their unexpected appearance.

After the Flint and his companions had left their mountain fastness, as before described, they had appeared in different parts of the country and committed various depredations; some of their robberies having been accompanied with bloodshed and violence of a nature which so exasperated the people that an organised band had at length been gathered to go in pursuit of the daring outlaw. But Jake was somewhat Napoleonic in his character, swift in his movements, and sudden in his attacks; so that, while his exasperated foes were searching for him in one direction, news would be brought of his having committed some daring and bloody deed far off in some other quarter. His latest acts had been to kill and rob a post-runner, who happened to be a great favourite in his locality, and to attack and murder, in mere wanton cruelty, a family of friendly Indians, belonging to a tribe which had never given the whites any trouble. The fury of the people, therefore, was somewhat commensurate with the wickedness of the man. They resolved to capture him, and, as there was a number of resolute cow-boys on the frontier, to whom life seemed to be a bauble to be played with, kept, or cast lightly away, according to circumstances, it seemed as if the effort made at this time would be successful.

The latest reports that seemed reliable were to the effect that, after slaying the Indians, Jake and his men had made off in the direction of his old stronghold at the head of Traitor's Trap. Hence the invasion by Crux and his band.

"You'll be glad to hear--or sorry, I'm not sure which--" said the scout, "that Buck Tom has paid his last debt."

"What! defunct?" exclaimed Crux.

"Ay. Whatever may have bin his true character an' deeds, he's gone to his account at last."

"Are ye sure, Hunky?"

"If ye don't believe me, go in there an' you'll see what's left of him. The corp ain't cold