twelve months passed away, and christmas came again, with its frost and snow and sunshine—its blazing fires, its good cheer, and its merry greetings.
many a christmastide had now passed over the head of our blacksmith, john thorogood, and his excellent wife mary, but time had touched them lightly in its flight. they both looked young and hale, and full of vigour. the only difference in them was a wrinkle or two at the corners of the eyes, and a few grey hairs mingling with the brown. perhaps john was a little more corpulent than when he was a youth; but he could wield the fore-hammer as easily and powerfully as ever.
a cloud, however, had been gathering over their happy home during the past year. molly—the sweet active girl who had never known a day’s illness from her childhood—had fallen into bad health. her step had lost its spring, but her cheerful spirit was unsubdued.
“you’re better to-day, molly darling?” asked the smith, in a tone which showed he was not sure of the answer.
“yes, father, much better.” molly did not use endearing terms, but the sweetness of her looks and voice rendered such needless.
she was pale and thin, and could not check the touch of sadness in her tones.
“fred is sure to come, darling,” said mrs thorogood, stopping in her preparations for supper to smooth her daughter’s fair head.
“oh yes, mother, i know that fred is sure to come,” returned molly, with a laugh and a little blush. “no fear of him. i was not thinking of him, but of jim. it is the first christmas we shall have spent without him. dear jim! i wonder what company he will have to spend it with him in the backwoods.”
“whatever company it may be,” returned the mother, “they’ll only have his body and mind—his spirit will be here.”
“well said, old moll; we shall have the best part of him to-night in spite of the atlantic ocean,” cried the blacksmith, who was seated on a stool making fun with the terrier, the cat, and the kitten—not the original animals, of course, but the lineal descendants of those which were introduced at the beginning of our tale.
“i hope they won’t be late,” remarked mrs thorogood, looking with some anxiety into a big pot which rested on the roaring fire.
“the boys are never late, moll,” remarked the smith, giving the cat a sly poke on the nose, which it resented with a fuff, causing the terrier to turn its head on one side inquiringly.
as he spoke the front door opened, and feet were heard in the passage stamping off the snow.
“there they are!” exclaimed old moll, slipping the lid on the big pot, and wiping her hands hastily.
“no, it is too soon for them yet; they’re always sharp to time. it is fred,” said molly with a quiet smile.
she was right. fred harper, a fine strapping young fellow—a carpenter—had met molly in london, and got engaged to her. she offered to let him off when she became ill and delicate, but he would not be let off. “molly,” this enthusiast had said, “if you were to become so thin that all your flesh were to disappear, i’d be proud to marry your skeleton!”
fred sat down by her side, but had scarcely begun to make earnest inquiries after her health, when the outer door again opened, and another stamping of feet was heard in the passage. it was a tremendous stamping, and accompanied with strong, loud, manly voices.
“no mistake now!” said the smith, rising and opening the door, when in walked four such men as any father and mother might be proud of. it was not that they were big—plenty of blockheads are big: nor was it that they were handsome—plenty of nincompoops are well-favoured; but, besides being tall, and strong, and handsome, they were free, and hearty, and sensible, and wise—even in their joviality—and so thorough-going in word, sentiment, and act, that it was quite a pleasure merely to sit still and watch them, and listen.
“i told ’ee they’d come in their togs, old woman,” said the smith, as his son tom appeared, dusting the snow from his coastguard uniform, on the breast of which was displayed the gold medal of the royal national lifeboat institution.
“you might be sure of that, mother, seeing that we had promised,” said dick, the blithe and hearty man-of-war’s man, as he printed a kiss on his mother’s cheek that might have been heard, as he truly said, “from the main truck to the keelson.” at the same time bushy-browed harry, with the blue coat and brass epaulettes of the fire-brigade, was paying a similar tribute of affection to his sister, while fiery bob,—the old uniform on his back and the victoria cross on his breast,—seized his father’s hand in both of his with a grip that quite satisfied that son of vulcan, despite the absence of two of the fingers.
they were all deep-chested, strong-voiced men in the prime of life; and what a noise they did make, to be sure!
“you’re not too soon, boys,” said the smith; “old moll has been quite anxious about a mysterious something in the big pot there.”
“let me help you to take it off the fire, mother,” said the gallant tar, stepping forward.
“nay, that’s my duty,” cried harry, leaping to the front, and seizing the pot, which he dragged from the flames with professional ability.
when the something was displayed, it was found to be a gorgeous meat-pudding of the most tempting character—round and heavy like a cannon-ball. of course it did not flourish alone. old moll had been mysteriously engaged the greater part of that day over the fire, and the result was a feast worthy, as her husband said, “of the king of the cannibal islands.”
“talking of cannibal islands,” said dick, the sailor, during a pause in the feast, “you’ve no idea what a glorious place that pacific ocean is, with its coral islands, palm-groves, and sunshine. it would be just the place to make you well again, molly. you’d grow fat in a month.”
“ha; get fat, would she,” growled bob, the soldier, “so as to be ready for the first nigger-chief that took a fancy to have her cooked for supper—eh? never fear, molly, we won’t let you go to the cannibal islands. give us another cut o’ that cannon-ball, mother. it’s better eating than those i’ve been used to see skipping over the battlefield.”
“but they’re not all cannibal islands, man,” returned dick; “why, wherever the missionaries go, there the niggers get to be as well-behaved as you are. d’you know, molly, i’ve really been thinking of cutting the service, and emigrating somewhere, if you and fred would go with me.”
“it would be charming!” replied molly, with a sweet though languid smile. “we’d live in a wooden hut, roofed with palm-leaves, and while you and fred were away hunting for dinner, i would milk the buffaloes, and boil the cocoa-nuts!”
“ah, molly,” said tom, the coastguardsman, stroking his bushy beard, “the same idea has been running in my head, as well as in dick’s, ever since we got that letter from jim, telling us of the beauty of his new home, and urging us all to emigrate. i’ve more than half a mind to join him out there, if you and the old folk will consent to go.”
“you’re not serious, are you, tom?” asked harry, the fireman, laying down his knife and fork.
“indeed i am.”
“well, you might do worse. i would join you myself, if there were only houses enough to insure a fire or two every month.”
“why, man,” said fred harper, “in these lands the whole forest goes on fire sometimes—surely that would suffice to keep your spirits up and your heart warm.”
“let’s have a look at jim’s last epistle, mother,” said dick, when the feast was nearly over, and fragrant coffee smoked upon the board, (for you know the thorogood family were total abstainers), “and let fred read it aloud. he’s by far the best reader amongst us.”
“well, that’s not sayin’ much for him,” remarked the fireman, with a sly glance at his sister.
“your lamp is not as powerful as it might be, mother,” said fred, drawing his chair nearer to that of the fair invalid, as he unfolded the letter. “turn your eyes this way, molly,—there, keep ’em steady on the page; i can see now!”
“eagle’s nest, rocky mountain slopes, 5th october 18—,” began fred. “darling mother,—you’ve no idea what a charming place god has given me here, with plenty of work to do of the most congenial kind. i have only an opportunity for a short letter this time, because the postboy has arrived unexpectedly, and won’t wait. postboy! you would smile at that word if you saw him. he’s a six-foot man in leather, with a big beard, and a rifle and tomahawk. he was attacked by indians on the way over the mountains, but escaped, and he attacked a grizzly bear afterwards which didn’t escape—but i must not waste time on him, well, i must devote all my letter this post to urging you to come out. this is a splendid country for big, strong, hearty, willing men like father and my brothers. of course it is no better than other countries—rather worse—for weak men, either in mind or body. idlers go to the wall here as elsewhere; but for men willing and able to work—ready to turn their hands to anything—it is a splendid opening. for myself—i feel that my heavenly father has sent me here because there is work for me to do, and a climate which will give me health and strength to do it. my health is better now than it has ever been mince the day of that fall which damaged my constitution so much as to render me one of the confirmed cripples of the earth. but it was a blessed fall, nevertheless. i was cast down in order that i might be lifted up. you would smile, mother,—perhaps you’d laugh—if you saw me at my work. i’m a jack-of-all-trades. among other things i’m a farmer, a gardener, a carpenter, a schoolmaster, a shoemaker, and a missionary! the last, you know, i consider my real calling. the others are but secondary matters, assumed in the spirit of paul the tent-maker. you and dear molly would rejoice with me if you saw my bible class on week-days, and my congregation on sundays. it is a strange congregation to whom i have been sent to tell the old old story of jesus and his love. there are farmers, miners, hunters, even painted savages among them. my church is usually a barn—sometimes a tent—often the open air. there are no denominations here, so that i belong to none. only two sects exist—believers and unbelievers. but the place is growing fast. doubtless there will be great changes ere long. meanwhile it is my happy duty and privilege to scatter seed in the wilderness.
“now, i urge you to come, because there is health for molly to be found on these sunny slopes of this grand backbone of america. that is my strongest point. if that does not move you, nothing else will! one glance from the windows of my wooden house—this eagle’s nest on the rocky mountain slopes—would be sufficient to begin the work of convalescence. woods, dells, knolls, hills, plains, prairies, lakes, streams—with the blue mountains in the far, far distance. oh! if i were a poet, what a flight i would make into the realms of—of—well, you understand me! i have no time for more. the big-bearded postboy is growing impatient. only this much will i add,—do, do come, if you love me. my kindest love to you all. may god guide you in this matter.—your affectionate son, jim.
“p.s.—one of the members of my congregation is a celebrated hunter named reuben dale. his wife is also one of my flock, and so is his friend jacob strang. the manner in which reuben got married is so curious that i have amused myself by writing an account of it for mother. i enclose it.”
“read the story aloud, fred,” said molly. “what jim thought interesting must be well worth reading.”
thus urged, fred took the manuscript and read as follows:—
the hunter’s wedding.
a story of the rocky mountains.
on the summit of a green knoll, in one of those beautiful valleys which open from the prairies—like inviting portals—into the dark recesses of the rocky mountains, there stands, or stood not long ago, a small blockhouse surrounded by a wooden palisade.
although useless as a protection from artillery, this building was found to be a sufficient defence against the bullets and arrows of the red men of north america, and its owner, kenneth macfearsome, a fiery scotch highlander, had, up to the date on which our story opens, esteemed it a convenient and safe place for trade with the warlike savages who roamed, fought, and hunted in the regions around it. some people, referring to its peaceful purposes, called it macfearsome’s trading post. others, having regard to its military aspect, styled it mac’s fort.
reuben dale stood at the front gate of the fort conversing with a pretty, dark-haired, bright-faced girl of eighteen years or thereabouts: reuben himself being twenty-eight, and as strapping a hunter of the rocky mountains as ever outwitted a redskin or circumvented a grizzly bear. but reuben was naturally shy. he had not the courage of a rabbit when it came to making love.
“loo,” said reuben, resting his hand on the muzzle of his long rifle and his chin on his hands, as he gazed earnestly down into the quiet, soft little face at his elbow.
“well, reuben,” said loo, keeping her eyes prudently fixed on the ground lest they should betray her.
the conversation stopped short at this interesting point, and was not resumed. indeed, it was effectually checked by the sudden appearance of the macfearsome.
“what, have ye not managed it yet, reuben?” said the highlander, as his daughter tripped quickly away.
“not yet,” said the hunter despondingly.
“man, you’re not worth a gunflint,” returned macfearsome, with a twinkling glance from under his bushy grey eyebrows; “if ye had not saved loo’s life twice, and mine three times, i’d scorn to let you wed her. but you’ll have to settle it right off, for the parson won’t stop another day. he counted on spendin’ only one day here, on his way to the conference, and he has been two days already. you know it’ll take him all his time to get to beaver creek by the tenth.”
“but i’ll mount him on my best buffalo-runner and guide him myself by a short cut,” said the hunter, “so that he shall still be in good time for the circumference, and—”
“the conference, reuben; don’t misuse the english language. but it’s of no use, i tell you. he won’t stop another day, so you must have it settled right off to-day, for it shall never be said that a macfearsome was married without the benefit of the clergy.”
“well, i’ll do it—slick off;” said the hunter, shouldering his rifle, and striding away in the direction of a coppice into which he had observed loo disappear, with the air of a man who meant to pursue and kill a dangerous creature.
we will not do reuben dale the injustice to lift the curtain at this critical point in his history. suffice it to say that he went into that coppice pale and came out red—so red that his handsome sunburned countenance seemed on the point of catching fire. there was a pleased expression on it, however, which was eminently suggestive.
he went straight to a wigwam which stood near the fort, lifted the skin door, entered, and sat down beside the fire opposite to a hunter not unlike himself. the man was as tall and strong, though not quite so good-looking. he was at the time smoking one of those tomahawks which some indians have made with pipe bowls in their heads, the handles serving for stems, so that, when not employed in splitting skulls, they may be used for damaging stomachs—i.e. for smoking tobacco!
“i’ve done it, jacob strang,” said reuben, with a grave nod, as he slowly filled his pipe.
these two hunters were knit together with somewhat of the love that david bore to jonathan. jacob gazed at his friend for some time in mute admiration.
“honour bright?” he asked at length.
“honour bright,” replied reuben.
“well now,” said jacob to the cloud that issued from his lips, “i couldn’t ha’ done that to save my scalp. i’ve tried it, off an’ on for the last six year, and alers stuck at the p’int—or raither just before it, for i never got quite the length o’ the p’int. but i’ve bin very near it, reuben, more than once, uncommon near. one time i got so close to the edge o’ the precipice that another inch would have sent me right over. ‘my dear liz,’ says i; but i stuck there, an’ the sweet little thing runned away, larfin’, an’ so i’m a bachelor still. but i’m right glad, reuben, that you’ve got it over at last. how did it feel?”
“feel!” echoed the hunter, “it felt as bad, or wuss, nor the time that grizzly bar up the yellowstone river got his claws into the small o’ my back—only i hadn’t you to help me out o’ the difficulty this time. i had to do it all myself, jacob, and hard work it was, i tell ’ee, boy. hows’ever, it’s all over now, an’ we’re to be spliced this evenin’.”
“that’s raither sharp work, ain’t it, reuben?” said jacob, with a critical wrinkle of his eyebrows, and a remonstrative tone in his voice. “i ain’t much of an authority on sitch matters, but it do seem to me as if you might have given the poor gal a day or two to make sure whether her head or heels was uppermost.”
“you’re right, jacob; you’re judgment was always sound, but, you see, i was forced to do it slick off because the parson won’t wait another day, an’ i’d like to have it done all ship-shape, for i’ve a respec’ for the parsons, you see. a man who’s come straight down from the pilgrim fathers, like me, behoves to act discreetly—so, the weddin’s to be this evenin’.”
“well, you are the best judge, reuben, an’ it’s as well that it should come off when old fiddlestrings is here, for a weddin’ without a fiddle ain’t much of a spree. by good luck, too, there’s the lads from buffalo creek at the fort just now, so we’ll muster strong. no, i wouldn’t give much for a weddin’ without a good dance—not even yours, reuben.”
that afternoon the macfearsome arranged with the reverend william tucker to delay his departure for one day in order to unite his only daughter loo to reuben dale.
“you must know, mr tucker,” he explained, in a slightly apologetic tone, “although reuben is only a hunter, his parents were gentlefolks. they died when reuben was quite a little fellow, so that he was allowed to run wild on a frontier settlement, and, as a matter of course, took to the wilderness as naturally as a young duck takes to the water. but reuben is a superior person, mr tucker, i assure you, and as fine a disposition as you could wish. he’s as bold as a lion too, and has saved my girl’s life twice, and my own three times—so, you see, he—”
“he deserves a good wife,” said the reverend william tucker heartily.
“just so,” replied the old trader, wrinkling his fierce yet kindly face with a bland smile, “and you’ll confer a great favour on me if you will stay and perform the ceremony. of course, according to scotch law, we could marry them without your assistance, but i respect the church, mr tucker, and think it becoming to have a clergyman on occasions of this kind.”
having settled this important piece of business, kenneth macfearsome went off to make arrangements for the indispensable dance, and the clergyman, being fond of equestrian exercise, went out alone for an afternoon ride.
that same afternoon a band of indians belonging to the blackfeet tribe encamped in a gloomy defile of the rocky mountains, not far from mac’s fort. it was easy to see that they were a war-party, for, besides being armed to the teeth, their faces were hideously painted, and they had no women or children with them.
they had stopped for the double purpose of eating a hasty meal and holding a council of war.
one of the warriors stood up in the midst of his brethren and made a speech, which, to judge from its effect on the others, must have been highly inflammatory and warlike. during the delivery of it he turned his ugly visage frequently, and pointed, with his blue-striped nose, as it were, in the direction of fort macfearsome.
whatever might have been the tendency of the speech, it was suddenly cut short by the sound of a horse’s hoofs clattering in the glen below. after bestowing a united eagle glance on the approaching horseman, the blackfeet warriors turned a look of intelligence on each other, lay flat down in the long grass, and melted from the scene as completely and silently as snow-wreaths melt before the sun in spring.
the reverend william tucker was a muscular christian. that is to say, he believed that the body, as well as the soul, ought to be cultivated to the highest possible extent—both having the same origin—and held that physical health, strength, and vigour, if not absolutely necessary to the advancement of christianity in the earth, were at least eminently conducive thereto. holding such opinions, and being powerfully built, he threw himself heart and soul into whatever he did. hence the clatter of his horse’s hoofs as he galloped swiftly up the glen.
but the reverend william tucker was also merciful, and not only drew rein when the path became too steep, but dismounted and led his steed by the bridle when he reached the rugged ground near the spot where the war-party had melted away.
great and grand were the preparations made for the approaching festivities at mac’s fort. michel, the cook, constructed a venison pie, the tin dish of which, (repaired expressly for the occasion that afternoon by the fort blacksmith), might have served for a bath to an average baby. the carpenter arranged the hall, or large public room, cleared away the tables, fitted up a device in evergreens which was supposed to represent the words loo and reu, and otherwise garnished the ball-room with specimens of his originality and taste, while old fiddlestrings, who was a self-taught half-breed, fitted to his violin a new string made by his wife that day from a deer-sinew.
when the hour arrived for the performance of the ceremony, reuben dale appeared among the men of the fort, dressed, not like a gentleman in broadcloth, but, in hunter’s costume of the most approved cut and material—a yellow deerskin coat, ornamented with bead and quill work; blue cloth leggings, a small fur cap, moccasins garnished with silk flowers, fitting as tight to his feet as gloves fit the hands, and a crimson worsted sash round his waist. he also wore, slung on his shoulder by scarlet worsted cords, a powder-horn and shot-pouch—not that these implements of the chase were necessary to the occasion, but because he would as soon have thought of appearing at any time without them as without his nose. for the same reason his rifle accompanied him to the wedding.
a short time before the appointed hour the bride-elect adorned herself in simple yet tasteful costume, which, being peculiar to no particular nation or time, we prefer to leave to the reader’s imagination, merely remarking that as loo was simple and pretty her garb corresponded to her appearance and character.
but the appointed hour passed, and the reverend william tucker did not appear. hunters of the rocky mountains, however, are not an impatient race. reuben quietly waited as he would have done for a good shot at game. not so the macfearsome. his celtic blood fired, and he muttered a few uncomplimentary remarks about the reverend absentee, which it is well not to repeat.
as time passed, however, the dwellers in mac’s fort became anxious, then alarmed, and finally the wedding was postponed, while a search for the lost one was organised; but they searched in vain, because tracks which might easily be traced in the wilderness get inextricably mixed up in the vicinity of a fort.
next day kenneth macfearsome, coming rather hastily and angrily to the conclusion that mr tucker had given them the slip and gone off to his conference, determined himself to perform the marriage ceremony as directed in the church of england prayer-book.
“you see, reuben,” he said, “i have a great respect for the church, and would fain have had this matter knocked off by one of its parsons, but as this parson appears to be little better than a wolf in sheep’s clothing—if as good—i’ll just do it myself, for i’ll not have my daughter’s wedding delayed another day for any man, woman, or beast alive.”
“wouldn’t it be as well, sir,” suggested the hunter modestly, “to have a hunt after the parson by daylight first?”
“no, it wouldn’t,” said the old trader, with the air and decision of—we were going to say the great mogul, but perhaps it would be more emphatic and appropriate to say—the macfearsome.
knowing that appeal from that decision would be in vain, reuben once more arrayed himself in the wedding dress, (which he had changed when the search for mr tucker was undertaken), and once again presented himself before his admiring friends in the decorated hall of mac’s fort. the cook warmed up his gigantic pie, old fiddlestrings re-tuned his home-made violin, and pretty little loo at last appeared on the scene with two half-breed young women as bridesmaids, and two indian females as backers-up.
“my friends,” said kenneth macfearsome, taking up the prayer-book, and commencing a speech which he had spent the entire forenoon in preparing, “i have a few words to say to you on this interesting occasion.”
the old gentleman’s usually stern and handsome countenance had relaxed, and assumed a bland, sweet expression, which was more consonant with the circumstances in which they were assembled. before he could utter another word, however, he was interrupted, to his great surprise, by reuben.
“excuse me, mr macfearsome,” said that bold though bashful hunter, “but my friend and comrade, jacob strang, has not yet arrived, and it would grieve me to the heart if he was absent at such a time as this. couldn’t we wait a bit? i wouldn’t ask you to do so for any other man alive, but i’ve hunted wi’ him since we were slips of boys, and—and i can’t help thinkin’ that somethin’s gone wrong wi’ him, for jacob’s good and true, and trusty as steel, an’ wasn’t used to fail in his engagements.”
while the hunter was speaking the bland expression faded from the highlander’s countenance, and a fierce look flashed from his blue eyes as he replied in stern, decided tones:—
“reuben dale, if your friend jacob was the great israel of bible story, or even moses himself, i would not wait for him. don’t interrupt me again, lad.”
he turned to the assembled company with a wave of his hand, as if to dismiss the interruption from memory, and attempted to reassume the benignant expression, with only partial success.
“my friends,” he said, but said no more, for at that moment he was a second time interrupted. a shout was heard outside, the door of the hall burst open, and jacob strang himself strode in, bearing the reverend william tucker on his shoulders.
depositing his burden on the floor, he said hurriedly, “he’s not dead, only stunned. the reptiles did their best to kill him. they’re not far off, macfearsome. we’d better go after them.”
the macfearsome usually gave vent to his feelings in gaelic when labouring under strong excitement. on this occasion his utterances were terrible in tone whatever their meaning might be.
“go after them?” he cried, in a blaze of wrath, “yes, we’ll go after them. saddle my horse and fetch my gun. arm yourself, boys! some of you will remain to guard the fort, and see that you keep the gates shut. can you guide us to the villains, jacob?”
“i can at least follow up the trail.”
“stay, i can guide you,” said a voice behind them.
it was the reverend william tucker himself, who had recovered, and was sitting up on the floor looking rather confused.
“no, sir; you will remain at the fort and take care of the women,” said macfearsome gruffly.
in a few minutes the chief of the fort was galloping over the prairie at the back of his establishment, followed by six of his best men, with reuben dale, and led by jacob strang.
in thus giving chase to the red men the highlander did not act with his wonted caution. his wrath was too much for him.
jacob the hunter, while out after deer, had come on the trail of the war-party of blackfeet. suspecting them of mischief, he had followed them up and found them just at the time when they made prisoner of mr tucker. he saw them bind the unlucky pastor and carry him off, mounted behind a savage chief. jacob chanced fortunately to be concealed in a rugged piece of ground where horses could not act. as the indians were riding away he shot the horse that bore the pastor, and at the same time uttered a series of yells and extempore war-whoops so appalling that the savages gave him credit for being at least a dozen foes, and fled over a ridge before turning to see what had happened. the fall of the horse had stunned the pastor, but the indian leaped up and drew his knife. fortunately jacob’s rifle was a double-barrelled one. uttering another ferocious yell he fired, and by good fortune hit the right arm of the indian chief, who, dropping his knife, followed his companions like a hunted stag. jacob immediately dashed out of his ambush, lifted the reverend gentleman on his own horse, which he had left in a hollow close at hand, and brought him, as we have seen, safe back to the fort.
now, if the white men had been satisfied with this, all would have been well, but the macfearsome had been roused, as we have said, and set off needlessly in pursuit of the savages. it chanced that the blackfeet had arranged to attack the fort in two bands that night—advancing on it from opposite directions. the consequence was that while macfearsome and his men were away after one band, the other—a much larger band—ignorant of what had occurred to their comrades, advanced after dusk on the fort, and gave the signal for attack. they were surprised at receiving no reply from their comrades, but did not delay the assault on that account.
the men who had been left in charge of the fort were quite worthy of the trust. stationing themselves a few yards apart all round the palisades inside, they kept guard. mr tucker, armed with an axe-handle as a bludgeon—for he objected to taking life if he could avoid it—mounted guard at the gate. pretty little loo kept him company. the other women were stationed so as to carry ammunition to the men, or convey orders from the blacksmith who had been left in command.
“this is a sad interruption to your wedding,” remarked the pastor, as he leaned against the fort gate, and examined his weapon.
“it is,” assented loo meekly, “but you will marry us to-morrow. my father will return too late to have it done to-night, i fear.”
“however late he comes we must get the ceremony over to-night, loo, for i positively cannot delay my journey another day. indeed, even as it is, i shall be late for the conference of my brethren. hark! what sound was that?”
“i heard nothing but the hoot of an owl,” said loo.
as she spoke an arrow, entering between the palisades, whizzed past her. at the same moment a volley was fired from the other side of the fort.
“keep closer to the gate, loo,” said mr tucker, grasping his club with a feeling that the girl’s safety depended on the use he made of that unclerical weapon.
“come round to the east angle, all of you,” shouted the blacksmith.
all the men in the fort obeyed the summons in time to repel a vigorous assault made on that point by what seemed to be the whole band of the enemy, but the bride and one of her maids remained at the front gate to keep watch there. just as the victory was gained and the enemy were driven off at the east angle, a loud scream was given by the women. mr tucker heard it and was first to run to the rescue. he found that three of the blackfeet, during the assault on the other side, had crept round to the front gate. one of these had placed his head against the stockade, a second had mounted on his shoulders, and a third had thus gained the top of the pickets.
seeing at a glance how matters stood, mr tucker ran forward and thrust his bludgeon with a straight point between the posts, right into the painted face of the lower savage, who fell back at once, carrying the second savage along with him: but the third had already laid his hands on the top, and, vaulting over with monkey-like agility, came down on the pastor’s shoulders with such violence that both rolled together on the ground. but the savage was no match for the athletic pastor, who compressed his throat with a grip that soon caused him to relax his hold.
“here, give me your kerchief, loo,” gasped the pastor; “i’ll tie his hands.”
“why don’t you stick him?” asked one of loo’s bridesmaids with great simplicity.
“because i won’t take life if i can help it,” replied mr tucker as he bound the indian’s wrists.
at that moment there arose a wild war-whoop from another part of the fort, and a volume of smoke and flame burst from the back of the chief dwelling-house which stood in the centre of the square. the blackfeet had gained an entrance at another point, and set fire to the western wing of the building unperceived.
with a shout of rage the blacksmith and his men rushed to the scene of disaster.
“there’s father!” said loo, with a cry of joy.
“where?” exclaimed mr tucker, looking round with a bewildered air.
“help to open the gate,” cried loo.
the pastor did so at once, and, as he heaved at the bar which held it, he could hear the clatter of hoofs and the shouts of men outside.
the heavy gate swung back just as the cavalcade came up, and they dashed in at full gallop.
“open the back gate wide, loo, and leave this one open, too,” shouted macfearsome, as he flew past like an enraged thunderbolt.
our bride possessed that most valuable quality, a tendency to prompt, unquestioning obedience. running lightly to the other side of the fort she undid the fastenings and forced the back gate wide open. meanwhile her father and our bridegroom, with his friend jacob and the six men, charged down on the savages with wild yells of fury. the sight of them was sufficient! the blackfeet turned and fled through the open gates in consternation. as they coursed towards the woods like hares the blacksmith managed to turn on them a small ship’s-cannon loaded with buckshot, which awoke the echoes of the wilderness with a deafening roar. the horsemen also pursued and scattered them right and left. then the gates were reclosed, while the bright flame of the burning buildings lit up the scene as at noon-day.
“hold your hands now, boys,” shouted macfearsome, drawing rein.
those nearest to the chief obeyed, and the others, soon perceiving what was being done, rejoined their comrades.
“where is reuben?” asked macfearsome, as they were turning towards the fort.
each looked at the other, but none could answer.
“i saw him down in the hollow, charging the indians,” said one.
“and i saw him coming back by the stable-fence,” said another.
“off with you to both places and look for him,” cried the chief, “and the rest of you follow me.”
they searched swiftly to and fro for some minutes, and soon found his riderless horse. then a cry from one of their number was heard from the hollow. galloping thither they found reuben lying on his back, apparently dead, with an arrow in his chest.
in a moment jacob was on his knees at his friend’s side, and soon the arrow was extracted, but it was found that blood gushed freely from the wound. stanching this as best they could they bore the wounded man carefully to the fort.
“oh, father! i hope the fight is over now,” exclaimed loo, as her sire rode through the gateway.
“yes, the fight is over,” replied the highlander, sternly, “but it has cost us much. our house is on fire and reuben is—”
he did not finish the sentence. indeed, there was no occasion to do so, for, while he spoke, the men advanced who bore reuben’s all but lifeless body.
loo did not scream or utter a word, but her white face and compressed lips told their own tale as she walked by her bridegroom’s side into the hall which had been so gaily fitted up, but was now a blackened and partially burned room.
while the hunter’s wound was being examined every one, save the pastor and the women, was sent from the hall to aid in extinguishing the fire, which had been nearly subdued. macfearsome was somewhat expert as an amateur doctor, and so was the reverend william tucker. their united opinion was that the hunter’s case was a very grave one. they did all that could be done to stop the bleeding and sustain the strength of the wounded man, whose consciousness returned after a short time.
“is it all over with me, father?” asked reuben, in a faint voice, addressing the macfearsome for the first time by that endearing title.
“i fear it is, my son,” replied the chief. “you know it is not my habit to mince matters at any time, and i don’t think you are such a baby as to fear death when it is sent to you. however, i will not say that your case is hopeless till i have tried my medicine on you—so keep up your heart, reuben.”
“father,” said reuben, “will you allow me to be alone with loo, for a little?”
“certainly, my dear boy, but you must have your medicine first.”
reuben replied with a smile and a nod.
after taking the physic he was left alone with loo. for some time neither could speak. at last loo said, “oh, reuben dear! you are not going to die?”
“i hope not, dearest, but when the lord’s time comes we must be ready to answer to our names. if i am to go now i would spend the few hours that remain to me listening to your sweet voice reading the master’s word.”
“reuben,” said loo, with sudden animation, “will you grant me a favour?”
“you know i will, whatever it be,” replied the hunter, with a languid smile; “what is it?”
“that we may be married to-night—within this hour,” said loo, with decision.
“why? of what use to wed a dying man?”
“because i want to nurse you as your wife, to the end, if it be his will that you shall go, and i wish to be for ever after called by your dear name.”
“it is a strange notion—a sweet one to me, dearest loo. it shall be as you wish. call father.”
at first the highlander strongly objected to the wish of his child, but loo knew how to overcome her father’s objections! in the course of half-an-hour reuben sent for mr tucker. the macfearsome’s medicine, whatever it was, was potent as well as patent. reuben was able to talk with considerable energy when the pastor appeared—summoned, as he fancied, to prepare the dying man for the great change. great, therefore, was his amazement when reuben begged of him to make arrangements for performing the interrupted marriage ceremony within half-an-hour.
“but you seem to be dying, friend?” said the perplexed pastor.
“that may be so,” replied the hunter quietly, “but loo wants to be wed before i die, and we’d better waste no time about it.”
there was no resisting this, so the reverend william tucker made arrangements for the wedding, while the macfearsome and his men were busied extinguishing the last sparks of the fire.
it was near midnight before these arrangements were completed. then the men were summoned once more to the hall, but how different were their feelings now from what they had been earlier on that day! the occupation of old fiddlestrings was gone. even the huge pie was dismissed from the scene. the wedding guests crept quietly in, their gay costumes torn and covered with charcoal, and bearing other evidences of the recent conflict. they were very silent, too, and sad, for they were aware of the critical condition of the bridegroom.
when all was at last prepared a new and unexpected difficulty arose. it was found that reuben had fallen into a sound sleep!
thereupon a whispered but anxious conversation took place at the end of the hall farthest from the wounded man’s couch.
“we must waken him,” said macfearsome, with stern look and tone.
“no, father,” said loo, with a tearful smile, “we must wait.”
“your daughter is right,” whispered mr tucker. “whatever be the condition of reuben, sleep is the best thing for him.”
“but you must start for your conference at four in the morning, and he may not awake before that,” objected macfearsome.
their perplexities were suddenly removed by reuben himself, who awoke while they were consulting, and asked his friend jacob—who watched at his side with the tenderness of a brother—where loo had gone to.
“she’s here, reuben, waitin’ to get married,” replied his friend.
the hunter roused himself, looked hastily round, raised himself one one elbow, and said in a strong voice, “come, i’m ready now. let’s get it over.”
immediately loo was at his side; the whole party assembled round his couch; the pastor opened his book, and in these exceptional circumstances reuben dale and louisa macfearsome were married!
“now, reuben dear,” whispered loo, as she pressed his lips, “lie down again and go to sleep.”
“on one condition only,” said the wounded man, with something like a twinkle in his eye, “that you go on with the wedding feast. jacob says a wedding is worth nothing without a dance. now, as this wedding is worth all the world to me, loo, i’m determined that it shall be worth something to my old friend and comrade.”
it was found that remonstrances were in vain, so, as resistance to his wishes might have proved hurtful to the invalid, the wedding feast was continued and carried through with far more vigour than might have been expected, reuben himself being, apparently, one of the most interested spectators.
so jacob had his dance, and he performed his part with unwonted energy,—for the sake of pleasing his friend rather than himself.
when the lights were waxing low, and the great pie had been eaten, and old fiddlestrings had been used up, reuben called his friend to his side.
“what with searchin’,” he said, “an’ fightin’, and fire-stoppin’ an’ dancin’ you’ve had a pretty stiff time of it, jacob. but you’re a strong man—leastwise you used to be—an’ i daresay there’s plenty of go in you yet.”
“i’m fresh as a lark, reuben,” replied his friend. “what want ye wi’ me?”
“i just want ye go fetch your horse, an’ saddle my best buffalo-runner for the parson, an’ take him to beaver creek. do it as fast as you can, jacob, and by the short cut, and don’t spare the cattle.”
“i’ll do it, reuben.”
jacob was a man of few words. he did it, and thus it came to pass that when grey dawn began to break over mac’s fort, it found the reverend william tucker and his guide scouring over the western plains at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour—more or less—while reuben dale lay sound asleep in his blood-stained wedding dress, his strong hand clasping that of pretty little loo, who was also sound asleep, in an easy chair by his side.
about the same time the macfearsome flung himself down on his half-burned bed, where in dreams—to judge from his snorting, snoring, and stertorous breathing—he waged war with the whole blackfeet race single-handed!
when the pastor bade farewell to reuben he had done so with the sad feelings of one who expected never to see his face again, but the pastor’s judgment was at fault. reuben dale lived—he lived to become as strong and able a hunter of the rocky mountains as ever he had been; he lived to take loo to the western settlements, and squat down beside the macfearsome’s new farm, as a species of hunting farmer; he lived to become a respected member of the reverend william tucker’s church in the wilderness, where he filled two pews with little dales, which, as an irish comrade remarked, was a dale more than he deserved; and last, but not least, he lived to urge, argue, badger, bamboozle, worry, and haul jacob strang up to that “p’int” at which he had so often stuck before, but over which he finally fell, and managed to secure that “dear liz” who was destined to become the sunshine of his after-life.
in regard to this matter, jacob was wont to say to his friend at times, when he was particularly confidential, that “the catchin’ of liz was the best bit of trappin’ he had done since he took to huntin’ in the rocky mountains, and that if it hadn’t bin for his chum reuben dale, he never would have bin able to come up to the p’int, much less git over it, though he had lived to the age of methuselah and hunted for a wife all the time.”
“a good story,” said dick thorogood, as fred folded up the manuscript; “but to return to matter of greater importance than this hunter’s wedding, curious though it be: what about emigrating?”
“i’ll go, for one!” exclaimed the blacksmith bringing his huge fist down with a heavy thud on the table.
“john, john, it’s not the anvil you’ve got before you,” said old moll.
“no, nor yet is my fist the fore-hammer,” rejoined the smith, with sparkling eyes. “nevertheless, i repeat that i’ll go—always supposing that you and molly have no objections.”
it was one of the dearest wishes of the old woman’s heart to be near her crippled and favourite son, but she would not commit herself at once.
“what says molly?” she asked, turning to her daughter.
molly cast a sidelong glance at fred, who gave the slightest possible nod, and then said, in her gentle voice, “the sooner we begin to pack the better!”
“bravo, lass!” cried the young sailor, slapping his thigh; “well said, and we’ll all go together. what say you, boys?”
“agreed—agreed!” was the hearty reply.
and this was no idle talk. that night at worship, the father of the family spread jim’s letter, as he said, before the lord, and asked for guidance. the end of the whole matter was that, a few months later, the thorogood family emigrated to the backwoods of america, and began that career of useful, energetic, patient, god-directed labour which ended in the formation of a happy garden in a part of the wilderness which had formerly been the haunt of wild beasts and wilder men.
and here, kind reader, we must close our little tale, for it would take a large book, if not two books, to tell the story of that thorough-going family’s adventures while endeavouring to spread the truth in the far west. suffice it to say, that they all found what they went in search of—health and happiness—because they sought for these blessings in accordance with the teachings of the blessed word of god.
