Rick Dale, A Story of the Northwest Coast Part 28

This exclamation was called forth by the poor lad's effort to gain his feet, which he found he was unable to do without a.s.sistance.

Although Alaric carried both packs, and lent Bonny all possible support besides, that one-mile walk proved the most difficult either of the lads had ever undertaken. Brave and stout-hearted as Bonny was, he could not help groaning with every step, and they were obliged to rest so often that the little journey occupied several hours. At its end both lads were utterly exhausted, and Bonny was suffering so intensely that he hardly noticed the place to which he had been brought. The moment he gained the hut he sank down on its pile of goat-skins with closed eyes, and so white a face that he seemed about to faint.

When Alaric was there before, he had mended the fire and set on a kettle of water, with a view to just such an emergency as the present. The water was still boiling, and so within three minutes he was able to give his patient a cup of strong tea that greatly revived him. Food was the next thing to be thought of, and Alaric did not hesitate to appropriate one of the strips of goat's flesh that hung overhead. Not being quite sure of the best way to cook this, he cut one portion into small bits, put them into the kettle with a little water, and set the whole on the fire to simmer. Another portion he sliced thin and laid in the fry-pan, which he also set on the fire. Still a third bit he spitted on a long stick and held close to a bed of coals, where it frizzled with such an appetizing odor that he could not wait for it to be cooked before cutting off small bits to sample. They were so good that he went to offer some to Bonny; but finding the latter still lying with closed eyes, thought best not to disturb him. So he sat alone and ate all the frizzled meat, and all that was in the fry-pan, and was still so hungry that he procured another strip of meat from the hut, and began all over again.

They had been nearly two hours in the camp before his ravenous appet.i.te was fully satisfied, and by that time the contents of the pot had simmered into a sort of thick broth. At a faint call from Bonny, Alaric carried some of this to him, and had the satisfaction of seeing him swallow a whole cupful. Then, as night was again approaching, he helped his patient into one of the sleeping-bags, which he underlaid with several goat-skins, and sat by him until he fell into a doze. When this happened Alaric went softly outside, and, to dispel the gathering gloom, piled logs on the fire until it was in a bright blaze. Sitting a little to one side, half in light and half in shadow, and having no present occupation, the lad fell into a deep reverie. How was this strange adventure to end? Who owned that camp, and why did he not return to it?

What would he think on finding strangers in possession? Had any boy ever stepped from one life into another so entirely different as suddenly and completely as he? One year ago at this time he was in France, surrounded by every luxury that money could procure, carefully guarded from every form of anxiety, and dependent upon others for everything. Now he was thankful for the shelter of a hut, and a meal of half-cooked meat prepared by his own hands. He not only had everything to do for himself, but had another still more helpless dependent upon him for everything.

Was he any happier then than now? No. He could honestly say that he preferred his present position, with its health, strength, and glorious self-reliance, to the one he had resigned.

Still there had been happy times in that other life. Two years ago, for instance, when his mother and he had travelled leisurely through Germany, halting whenever they chose, and remaining as long as places interested them. Thoughts of his mother recalled the plaintive little German folk-song of which she had been so fond.

_Muss i denn._ Yes, that was it, and involuntarily Alaric began to hum the air. Then the words began to fit themselves to it, and before he realized what he was doing he was singing softly:

"Muss i denn, muss i denn Zum Stadtele 'naus, Stadtele 'naus: Und du, mein Schatz, bleibst hier."

So engrossed was the lad with his thoughts and with trying to recall the words of the song running in his head that he heard nothing of a soft footstep that for several minutes had been stealthily approaching the fire-lit place where he sat. He knew nothing of the wild eyes that, peering from a haggard face, were fixed upon him with the glare of madness. He had no suspicion of the brown rifle-barrel that was slowly raised until he was covered by its deadly aim. But now he had recalled all the words of his song, and they rang out strong and clear:

"Muss i denn, muss i denn Zum Stadtele 'naus, Stadtele 'naus: Und du--"

At that moment there came a great cry behind him: "_Ach, Himmel! Wer ist denn das?_" and the startled lad sprang to his feet in terror.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

LAID UP FOR REPAIRS

About the time when Alaric was pleasantly travelling with his mother in Germany, Hans Altman, with Gretchen, his wife, and Eittel, his little daughter, dwelt in a valley of the Harz Mountains. Although Hans was a poor man, he found plenty of work with which to support his family in comfort, but he could never forget that his father had been a burgomeister, and much better off in this world's goods than he.

Thinking of this made him discontented and unhappy, until finally he determined to sell what little they had and come to America, or, as he called it, "the land of gold," with the hope of bettering his fortunes.

In vain did Gretchen protest that nowhere in the world could they be so happy or so well off as in their own land and among their own people.

Even her tears failed to turn him from his purpose. So they came to this country, and at length drifted to the far-away sh.o.r.es of Puget Sound, where they stranded, wellnigh penniless, ignorant of the language and customs of those about them, helpless and forlorn. With the distress of mind caused by this state of affairs, Hans grew melancholy and irritable, and when Eittel died he declared that he himself had killed her. The faithful Gretchen soon followed her little daughter, and with this terrible blow the poor man's mind gave way entirely. He not only fancied himself a murderer, but believed officers of the law to be in pursuit of him, and that if captured he would be hanged.

Filled with this idea, he fled on the very night of his wife's death, and having been born among mountains, now instinctively sought in them a place of refuge. He carried an axe with him, and somewhere procured a rifle with a plentiful supply of ammunition. Through the vast forest he made his way far from the haunts of men, ever climbing higher and penetrating more deeply among the friendly mountains, until finally he reached a tiny valley, in which he believed himself safe from pursuit.

Here he built a rude hut, and became a hunter of mountain-goats. Their flesh furnished him with food, their skins with bedding and clothing, while from their horns he carved many a rude utensil.

In this way he had lived for nearly two months, when our lost and sorely perplexed lads stumbled upon his camp, and found in it a haven of safety. In the peaceful quiet of those mountain solitudes the poor man had become calmly content with his primitive mode of life, and was even happy as he recalled how skilfully he had eluded a fancied pursuit, and how impossible it had now become for those who sought his life to discover his retreat.

It was in this frame of mind that, on returning from a long day's hunt with a body of a goat slung across his back, he saw, to his dismay, that his hiding-place had been found, and that his camp was occupied by strangers. Of course they were enemies who were now waiting to kill him.

He would fly so fast and so far that they could never follow. No; better than that, he would kill them before they were even aware of his presence. This was a grand idea, and the madman chuckled softly to himself as it came to him. Laying his dead goat on the ground, and whispering to it not to be afraid, for he would soon return, the man crept stealthily forward towards the firelight. At length he spied the form of what he believed to be one of his pursuers, sitting half hid in the shadows and doubtless waiting for him. Ha! ha! How disappointed that enemy would be when he found himself dead! and with a silent chuckle the madman lifted his rifle.

At that terrible moment the notes of Alaric's song were borne to him on the still night air, and then came the words:

"Muss i denn, muss i denn

Und du, mein Schatz, bleibst hier."

It was his Gretchen's song, and those were the very words she had sung to him so often in their happy Harz Valley home. The uplifted arm dropped as though palsied, and, like one who hears a voice from the dead, the man uttered a mighty cry of mingled fear and longing; at the same moment he stepped into the full glare of firelight and confronted Alaric, at whom he poured a torrent of questions in German.

"Who are you? How came you here? What do you want? Have you seen my Gretchen? Where did you learn to sing '_Muss i denn_'?"

"In Germany, of course, where everybody sings it," replied Alaric, answering the last question first, and speaking in the man's own language. "And I didn't think you would mind if we took possession of your camp until your return; for, you see, we are in great trouble."

"_Ach_, no! All who are in trouble should come with me; for I, too, have many, many troubles," replied the man, his blue eyes losing their fierce look and filling with tears. "But I never meant to do it. _Gott in Himmel_ knows I never meant to do it."

"Of course not," said Alaric, soothingly, anxious to quiet the man's agitation, and suspecting that his mind was not quite right. "n.o.body thinks you did."

"Yes, they do, the cruel men who would kill me; but you will stay and drive them away if they come, will you not? You will be my friend--you, to whom I can talk with the tongue of the fatherland?"

"Certainly I will stay and be your friend, if you will help me care for another friend who lies yonder very ill."

"_Ja! ja!_ I will help you if you will stay and talk to me of Gretchen, and sing to me '_Muss i denn_.'"

"Very good," agreed Alaric. "It is, then, a contract between us." At the same time he said to himself: "He is a mighty queer-looking chap to have for a friend; but I suppose there are worse, and I guess I can manage him. It's a lucky thing I know a little German, though, for he looked fierce enough to kill me until I began to talk with him."

The appearance of the man was certainly calculated to inspire uneasiness, especially when taken in connection with his incoherent words. He was an immense fellow, with s.h.a.ggy hair and untrimmed beard.

On his head was perched a ridiculous little cloth cap, while over his shoulders was flung a cloak of goat-skins, that added greatly to his appearance of size and general s.h.a.gginess. His lower limbs were covered with leggings of the same hairy material. His ordinary expression was the fierce look of a hunted animal, but now it was softened by the rare pleasure of meeting one who could talk with him in his own language.

From that first moment of strange introduction his eagerness to be with Alaric and induce him to talk was pathetic. To him he poured out all his sorrows, together with daily protests that he had never meant to kill his Gretchen and little Eittel. For the sake of this companions.h.i.+p he was willing to do anything that might add to the comfort of his guests.

He scoured forest and mountain-side in search of game, and rarely returned empty-handed. He fetched amazing loads of wood on his back, went on long expeditions after berries, set cunningly devised snares for ptarmigan, and found ample recompense for all his labor in lying at full length before the camp-fire at night and talking with Alaric. Bonny he mistrusted as being one who could speak no German, and only bore with him for the sake of his friend.

Nor was he greatly liked by the lad, whose injuries compelled a long acceptance of his hospitality. "I know he's good to us, and won't let you do any work that he can help, and all that," Bonny would say; "but somehow I can't trust him nor like him. He'll play us some mean trick yet, see if he don't."

"But he saved our lives; for if we hadn't found his camp we should certainly have starved to death."

"That's just it! We found his camp. He didn't find us, and never would have. Anyhow, he's as crazy as a loon, and will bear a heap of watching."

For all this, Bonny did not allow his anxiety to interfere with a speedy recovery from his injuries, and by the aid of youthful vigor, a splendid const.i.tution, complete rest, plenty of food, and the glorious mountain air, his broken bones knit so rapidly that in one month's time he declared himself to be mended and as good as new.

Although Alaric insisted that he should carry his arm in a sling for a while longer, they now began to plan eagerly for a continuance of their journey down the mountain and a return to civilization. By this time they were as heartily sick of goat-meat as they had ever been of fish in Skook.u.m John's camp, tired of the terrible loneliness of their situation, and, more than all, tired of their enforced idleness, with nothing to read and little to do. Alaric had beguiled many long hours with his baseball, which he could now throw with astonis.h.i.+ng precision and catch with either hand in almost any position. As this ball, bought in San Francisco, was the sole connecting-link between his present and his former life, it always reminded him of his father, whom he now longed to see, that he might relieve the anxiety he felt certain Amos Todd must be suffering on his account.

The boys often talked of M. Filbert, and wondered what had become of him. At first Alaric made an earnest effort to induce Hans Altman to go in search of the Frenchman's camp and notify him of their safety; but the German became so excitedly angry at the mere mention of such a thing that he was forced to relinquish the idea. He would gladly have undertaken the trip himself, but could not leave Bonny.

Their strange host became equally angry at any mention of their leaving him, and refused to give any information concerning their present locality or the nearest point at which other human beings might be found. Nor did he ever evince the least curiosity as to where they had come from. It was enough for him that they were there.

When the time for them to depart drew so near that the boys could talk of nothing else, Alaric made another effort to gain some information from the German that would guide their movements, but in vain. He only succeeded in arousing the man's suspicions to such an extent that he grew morose, would not leave camp unless Alaric went with him, and watched furtively every movement that the boys made. Bonny realized this, and spoke of it to his comrade. "I believe this Dutchman regards us as his prisoners, and has made up his mind not to allow us to escape him," he said. But Alaric only laughed, and answered that he guessed they would get away easy enough whenever they were ready to go.

The two lads slept at one end of the hut with their host at the other, and that very night something happened to confirm Bonny's worst fears and fill him with such horror that he determined never again to sleep within miles of that vicinity.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

CHASED BY A MADMAN

Bonny's bed was nearest the side of the hut, while Alaric lay beyond him towards its centre. Morning was breaking when the former awoke from a troubled dream, so filled with a presentiment of impending evil that his forehead was bathed in a cold perspiration. For the s.p.a.ce of a minute he lay motionless, striving to rea.s.sure himself that his terror was without foundation. All at once he became conscious that some one was talking in a low tone, and, glancing in that direction, saw the form of their host, magnified by the dim light into gigantic proportions, bending over Alaric. The man held an uplifted knife, and was muttering to himself in German; but at Bonny's cry of horror he leaped to his feet and disappeared through the doorway.