Part 21

Such things as these may seem apart and not of much interest, and very likely that is true enough; but to me they were everything, making up as they did my life when young, as they do, in fact, the lives of most country-bred youths. Looking back to it now, from under a fast-fading sun, its quiet and beauty, peaceful beyond measure, cause a sigh of regret as at some far-off vision that can never return, nor anything like unto it. When I had been in my new home some weeks, Mr. Blake fell into a habit of gazing upon me in a fixed, heavy way for hours at a time, and as if grieved at something beyond expression. Anxious as to the cause, I lost no time in speaking to Mrs. Blake about it, and what she said I thought remarkable; nor could I by any means understand it, or any part of it, so little do the young know the springs of human sympathy or liking. For it seemed that at the time of Constance's and my first visit great patches of freckles covered my face, and in these Mr. Blake saw a dear resemblance to his dead son, who, it appeared, was similarly marked. Now, with return of strength, the freckles one by one fading out of my face, he watched their going with surprise at first and then with grief, until in the end, all being gone, it seemed to him as if he had lost his son anew. Encouraged by his wife, however, he after a while overcame his despondency, treating me with gentle kindness, as before, but never, I thought, with the warmth I had noticed in him at first. Mrs. Blake, happily, having no such cause of disappointment, grew in her liking for me, so she would often say, with each passing day. The reason of this was, I think, that matronly women, such as she, when deprived of children, ever thus regard with increasing interest the thing, whatever it may be, which they set apart to fill the void in their lives. Thus she regarded me, and each day redoubled her efforts to win my love, and in this was so completely successful that as long as she lived I never ceased to regard her with the tender affection her great heart merited.

One fair day soon after my coming, Constance rode out to make us a visit, emerging from the shadows of the trees like an angel of light, which indeed she was; for straightway the place seemed as if enchanted. Giving her scarce a minute to greet Mrs. Blake, I hurried her away to show her the farm, but more that I might have her to myself during the short time she was to stay. Forgetful of all else except the happiness of being together, we wandered hand in hand in the edge of the forest, till at last, tired out, we sat down beneath an oak to watch the sky and sleeping clouds--except, indeed, when we were looking into each other's faces, which I know was the case most of the time. This until long after the hour when she should have started for home. Then, hastening, I brought her horse, and mounting one myself, rode beside her to the door of the Dragon, which we reached soon after dark. Returning as in a trance, I could not believe it night or that I was alone, for the sky was ablaze with stars, every one of which seemed to reflect back her image or to be the brighter for her having seen it.

The beauty of the Blakes' surroundings was such as one does not often meet with at this time, though it was common enough before the forests that lined the great river were disturbed by the hand of man. On every side the farm was bordered about by tangled shrubbery and overhanging trees, and now, it being autumn, they were tinged with a thousand shades of color, not one remaining steadfast, but shifting with the varying light, revealing some new beauty with each changing reflection of the sun. On one side, upon a ridge of sand, oaks with gnarled and rugged sides lifted their giant forms, and about the other borders boxwood and ash, mingled with maple and elm, grew in picturesque confusion. Near by, on the very edges of the farm, elders and a thousand vagrant bushes struggled to outdo each other in growth and show of beauty. Farther out, in the stubble of the field, fat weeds, green as in midsummer, uplifted their heads defiantly, as if shouting to the passer-by, "See! after all, nothing comes of thrift." In the meadow, and in homely confusion, wild sunflowers and rosin-weeds projected their stems high in the air, and upon these meadowlarks and bobolinks sat and sang the day through.

To one side of the farm, and along an old and abandoned highway, grasses and flowers spread quite across the sunken road, and on both its sides bushes crowded forward in confusion and such precipitancy of haste that in many places one could scarce make headway. Above this scramble of green the trees spread their limbs, and the sky peering down between their slender branches looked like a glimpse of some far-off summer sea.

*CHAPTER XXXV*

*CONSPIRACY IN BLACK HAWK'S CABIN*

Among other things, Mrs. Blake never tired of speaking of the great chief Black Hawk, and more particularly of his wife, whom she regarded with tender love. Black Hawk she thought a kingly man, and it was vastly to his honor, she maintained, woman-like and truly, that he had taken to himself but one wife, remaining faithful throughout to her whom he had won in his youth.

"Were you greatly harassed by the war?" I asked her one day.

"No, for at the commencement Black Hawk sent an Indian runner to us to say we would not be molested; nor were we."

"How did he happen to do that?" I asked, surprised.

"We had been neighbors; but it was quite like him, anyway, though he was much embittered at the last toward the whites because of their treachery and the wrongs of his people. Of all the Indian chiefs I ever saw," she went on, the color mounting to her face at the remembrance, "he was the most commanding, in amiability the greatest, in argument the most persuasive, and in anger the most terrible. I sometimes thought him vain, because on occasions of ceremony, and indeed at other times, it was his habit to adorn his person, savage-like, with garments of the most brilliant hue, encircling his head with feathers of glistening black and placing above them a plume of crimson red. Always, too, I thought, he was inclined to make much of his hereditary rank of king, but never in an offensive way."

"You must have seen a good deal of him if you were neighbors?" I asked, interested, as I always was, in reference to everything that concerned him.

"Yes, but more of his wife and children. They had a cabin near here, on the river-bank, hid away in the woods, which they used to visit, sometimes occupying the place for weeks at a time. It was not generally known, though, I think; and I have heard they came back there after they had been driven from the country, but we never saw them if they did."

"Maybe they are there now," I answered, my blood stirred at the thought of being near the great chief.

"No, I hardly think so; but since the old ferry was abandoned, communication has been cut off, so that they might be there and we not know it."

When I learned of the close proximity of Black Hawk's former home, I determined to pay it a visit, not doubting but what I could find it from Mrs. Blake's account. This chance happily occurred the next day when trying a horse; for being carried near the river before I could bring the animal under control, I determined to go on, and doing so, soon came to the edge of a great bluff, from whence I looked down on the river across a plain that intervened. Hastening on, strangely moved, I knew not why, yet conscious that everything I saw was familiar to me, I cried aloud in surprise and terror on reaching the shore to find myself on the spot where I had emerged from the water that fatal day when we were all thrown into the foaming river together. This, then, was the abandoned ferry about which I had so often heard, and how strange that I should have lived so near the spot and not have known it. Yet not strange, for at what point we had crossed I did not know, only that some one had called it Tip Top, but whether seriously or in play I did not know.

Looking out on the broad river with throbbing heart and tear-dimmed eyes, I saw again my father and mother, as on that other day, struggling in the icy water; but only for a moment and as in a vision. Their mishap, alas! like their chance of life, had passed forever. For that which the water gave up, albeit so grudgingly, the earth still more cruel, now held, and would forevermore.

Grieving, I stood for a long time lost in memories of the past, and in this mood remembrance of the Indian woman who had befriended us came back to me with pleasurable sadness. With it, however, and like a flash of light in the darkness of a cloudy night, the knowledge, not before dreamed of, came to me that it was Black Hawk, and none other, who had rescued my father and mother on that fatal day; and his wife, too, the gentle doe who had so tenderly nourished us afterward. The raven feathers and towering plume of red! Why had I not known him before in all that had been said? This it was, then, unknown to me, that had ever made me tenderly responsive to all that concerned him, whether in war or peace. So much so that as I grew in years he had come to form a part of the romance of my life, not resembling others of his kind, but apart and peculiar, like some unknown deity. His gentle wife, the bent and sorrowful figure sitting desolate in the lonely cabin! Was she still there? Spurred by the thought, I turned, and urging my horse to his utmost speed rode headlong down the stream, as on that other day now so far away. Alas! on reaching the little bay I found only tangled undergrowth, too dense to penetrate, and of sign of life none whatever. Fastening my horse, I made my way as best I could to the little cabin, now wholly hidden by the rank vegetation, but only to find it still and tenantless. Reaching the door, trembling with the sorrowful recollections that flooded my heart, I lifted the latch and entered. It was as I had thought, abandoned; and yet as I looked about in the dim light it had the air of being used, but by vagrants it might be, or outlaws. To this, however, I did not give a thought, for my mind was full of the past, and with such excess of sorrow that scalding tears burned my cheeks as I stood motionless where I entered. The desolation of the place and its stillness, as of death, filled my sorrowing heart to overflowing. Before me, as in the days that had passed, I saw my father and mother, and kneeling in tender care of her, La Reine; Black Hawk, too, stern and threatening, stood at my elbow! and then again on the broad river, with face upturned, in regret of life and scorn of his enemies! and still again bearing my mother tenderly to his hut! Alas! it was but a vision, and where they had been only solitude and desolation now reigned.

Thus I stood grieving, until my tears being wasted, I set about to find, if I might, some memento that I could take away in remembrance of the dear ones who were gone. Alas! even the worn bow, relic of other days, that I hoped still to find, it too was gone. Searching vainly in the darkened room, I finally turned in despondency of spirit to retrace my steps; but while my hand was on the latch, and I stood looking back in vain regret, the voices of men reached me from without. Alarmed, and remembering the cabin in Murderer's Hollow--for such things one does not easily forget when young--I stopped and listened. As I did so, and as if to give the thought reality, the soft voice of Burke reached me, coming toward the door behind which I stood. Frightened, and yet having some control over myself, I looked about for a place of concealment, and doing so, caught sight of the darkened room from which Black Hawk had taken the oaken paddle. Hastening thither, I had barely reached its welcome shade when Burke entered. Finding no exit, nor indeed having time to search for one, I crouched down in an angle of the little room, scarce breathing for the fear that laid hold of me. Lying quiet, my heart beat aloud and with such strokes that Burke must surely have heard had he listened; but unsuspecting, he did not cease speaking to the man who followed. At first I did not much regard what was said, expecting each moment to be discovered and dragged to the light; but of search they seemed not to think, believing the cabin tenantless as before. Thus left alone, I quickly recovered myself, so that, whether I would or no, I could not but hear what they said.

"You have better quarters here than in the old place," Burke's companion at last exclaimed, "though they are as gloomy as the portals of the infernal regions!"

"Yes, yes; and such places are the best for my trade. I don't spend much time here, though. I've learned that it's less dangerous in the forest," Burke replied.

"Yes, curse the country! There is no safety or profit in our business any longer, though the venture we have in hand ought to afford us something and to spare."

"Yes; and I hope you have come ready to close up the business," Burke answered. "I am tired of delay--always delay; and you will admit it is your fault, not mine."

"Neither yours nor mine. You are not more impatient to see the end of it than I, and on more accounts than one in my case," the other answered; "but nothing can be done till the time is ripe."

"When will that be? When will that be?" Burke asked, impatiently, but in his soft, purring way; "and what is the nature of the business, anyway?"

"I can't tell you; nor is it necessary you should know till the time comes. It is all arranged, though, as far as can be, and I am only waiting the opportunity. That depends on others, or it would come to-night; but it can't be far off, so don't lose heart or complain."

"What will it amount to--the money, I mean?" Burke purred. "It ought to be great after all this waiting and riding back and forth across the country."

"It will, and all cash, too--something that can't be traced or cause its possessor harm."

"That is good; but how are we to get hold of it, and when? That is what I want to know," Burke answered, and so softly I could hardly hear his voice.

"That I can't explain now, as I have told you; only there will be no great risk, and it will be clean money, as I say, and in packages."

"In packages?"

"Yes; one of paper and the other of coin. They will be sealed, too, and that being so there will be no need of your opening them till I come."

"Why not, why not?" Burke seemed to whisper, so soft was his voice.

"Oh, for no particular reason, only it will prevent any dispute between us, as in the Hogge case. I know you would divide fairly, but keep it in the shape it is in and you will not be tempted to spend any part of it for drink, and so get both of us into trouble."

"Well, it will only be a few hours, anyway."

"More than that, for I can't come to you for several days--a week or more," the other replied.

"Why not? What is to prevent?" Burke asked, his voice plainly showing surprise and irritation.

"It might excite suspicion, for I may be watched. Who can tell what will happen? You can hide the money meanwhile without risk, or keep it by you, as you think best."

"Yes, yes; but just when will you come?" Burke answered. "I may not see you again, and I am not going to hang around a day on any uncertainty after the thing is done; the danger is too great."

"There will be no risk to you whatever. I might come in a week, but ten days would be better," the other answered, slowly, as if reflecting on the matter.

"Well, I can see no point to what you say; but if it must be so, let us be precise about it. Name the hour."

"Well, then, meet me here at nine o'clock on the tenth night after the robbery. At nine o'clock at night, mind you!" the other answered, decisively, after some moments' hesitation.

"All right, if you can't come sooner," Burke answered, as if fixing the date and hour in his mind; "but how am I to know the time and place to do the thing?"

"I will let you know as soon as it is determined. It may be necessary to kill a man, you understand, and I think it would be to your liking if it turned out that way."

"Where will I get word when the time comes to act? Here?" Burke asked, paying no attention to what the other said.

"No, at the Craig. You must be there every night at eight o'clock until you hear from me; I will meet you if I can, or if that is impossible, leave a line in the hiding-place telling you just what you are to do."

"All right, but hurry, for I am getting tired of the whole thing," Burke purred.

"I will not delay a moment, you may be sure," the other answered. "And now, if there is nothing more to say, I must be off, for I have a long way to ride."

"All right; but before you go have something from Black Hawk's cupboard," and with the words Burke came toward the closet where I lay concealed, but passing the opening, returned presently with what he sought. "Here is something that will shorten your ride. I always keep a drop where I am likely to be. It cheers one and makes fine company," Burke went on, as if liquor was the one solace of his forlorn life.

"Yes, but too much of it makes men tattle, Burke; don't forget that," the other answered.

"Yes, yes; but did any one ever know me to tattle?" he responded.

"Well, here's luck to you," the other answered

"Here's to your health, and hoping you will fix the thing up without more delay," Burke responded, drinking in his turn.

"Thank you; I'll not put it off a minute longer than necessary. Now will you come with me, or do you stay here?"

"No; I will go with you. I have no great fancy for this place. It might turn out to be a trap like the other," Burke responded.

"Well, let us be off, then."

"Yes," Burke answered, coming toward me, but, as before, without entering the closet where I lay. Returning presently, the two left the room without saying more, closing the door after them.

For a time I lay still, lest they should return, but nothing of the kind happening, I crept into the main room and so to the door, which I opened, and without looking to the right or left, plunged into the dark forest. Running some distance, I stopped and listened, but could hear nothing save the wash of the waves on the river-bank and the soft murmuring of the wind in the tops of the trees. Circling the cabin, I found my horse as I had left him, and mounting made my way through the forest to an abandoned piece of ground back of the hut. This I discovered to be the cornfield Black Hawk had once tilled, as the mounds plainly showed. Stopping, I surveyed it, thinking how simple of occupation had been the life of this, the greatest among the savage men of the earth; and to this day, not less than then, I cannot think of the place and its neglect and solitude except with a sigh of wonder and regret. Crossing the field, I made my way home, arriving there ere night had set in and without notice having been taken of my absence. For this I was glad, being determined to say nothing of what I had heard or seen. I knew not who was to be robbed nor when, and nothing therefore would come of speaking, save the discovery of my hiding-place. When I went to the house some time afterward, Mrs. Blake on seeing me cried out in affright:

"Are you ill, Gilbert, or what has happened? You are pale as death!"

"It's nothing, only the horse was new, and I have had a hard ride," I answered, putting her off; "but I'm tired and will go to bed without waiting for supper, if you don't care."

"Very well; I will bring you something later when you have rested a little," she answered, with motherly love.

"No, don't bother; I'll be all right in the morning. Sleep always makes me well."

"As it does all young people, bless your heart," she answered, embracing me as I passed her on the way to my room.

Bidding her good night, I sought my bed, and lying there strove to find some clew to the robbery that was being planned, but in vain; and when the night was far spent, and in sheer weariness of body and mind, I fell asleep, not to wake till noon of the following day.

*CHAPTER XXXVI*

*PHANTOMS OF THE WOODS*

After my visit to Black Hawk's cabin, things went on as before, except that I no longer wandered far from the house, lest in some way I should run across the outlaw Burke. Mr. Blake being away, I was now more than ever taken up with the care of things, and so, being occupied, the events I have related little by little faded from my mind. In this way the autumn closed, and winter came on with high winds that moaned and shrieked in the trees and about the windows of the house, as if seeking in vain for some place of warmth and comfort. This till one day, when we had heard nothing from the outer world for a long time, Mr. Blake returned from Appletop, where he had work of some kind. Going about his business, he had scarce a word to say, being more reticent than ever before, I thought, if that could be. When, however, I would have asked him about Uncle Job, he put me off with some abruptness of manner, and doing so, appeared greatly disturbed. At this, and upon his persisting, I cried out in alarm and as a peevish child might have done:

"Uncle Job is dead!"

"No, no! not that, my son," he answered, his eyes wavering, as men's will who are weak or seek to mislead you.

"He is ailing, then?"

"No, he is well; as well as you are," he answered, glancing toward his wife, as if asking her aid.

"Then what is the matter? I know you are keeping something from me?" I persisted.

"There is nothing the matter; or nothing you could help one way or the other," he answered, his embarrassment growing greater.

"Tell me what it is, then?" I cried, feeling sure he was hiding something from me.

"There, don't get excited, my son. It's nothing, I'm sure, if the truth were known," he answered, floundering about in his speech.

"Nothing!" I answered, forgetting myself and laying hold of his arm. "What is it, then?"

"It's nothing bad, anyway," he replied, sweat starting from his forehead; "only a bit queer, maybe, but that's all."

"What is it that's queer?" I exclaimed, ready to fly at his throat, so great was my rage at his continued attempt to evade my inquiry.

"Strange, I had better have said," he answered, closing his mouth as if nothing would induce him to say more.

"What's strange?" I persisted. "Whatever it is, I am sure Uncle Job would want me to know."

"Don't keep him in suspense longer, dear," Mrs. Blake here interposed. "It can't do any good."

"Is it best?" he asked, as if not agreeing with her.

"Yes; for it can't be kept from him forever," she answered.

"Well, then, my son," he spoke up at last, with sorrowful voice, "your Uncle has been arrested, but none of us believes he has done anything wrong, and know that it will all be cleared up at last."

"Arrested!" I exclaimed, scarce able to speak; "Uncle Job arrested, and for what?"

"Oh, the charge is of no account. It is not true, of course. It can't be; every one says that!" Mr. Blake went on, the effort to talk and to lighten the force of what he was saying being altogether beyond him.

"Tell him, my dear; it will do no good now to keep anything back," Mrs. Blake spoke up again, putting her arm about me as a mother might a stricken child.

"All right; you know best, my dear, I suppose. Well, then, my son, your uncle is accused of taking--taking money, but no one believes he stole it."

"Uncle Job steal money!" I cried, too much overcome to say more.

"Well, the money was left with him, and in the morning it was gone."

"What money?" I exclaimed, "and why do they say he took it?"

"Because he slept in the office that night."

"Oh, but some one else might have taken it. Uncle Job wouldn't!"