Bushy a romance founded on fact
ought to have gone to the left of the pine-tree. How stupid of you,
Jip, to let me go wrong. Didn’t you know we were trying to get back to
the fort?”
So back they went, but no pine-tree was to be found.
“Where is it, Jip? It was here a few minutes ago. We must have gone
wrong again. How very careless!” It was something new to Bushy to be in
a country where she could not travel as far as she wished yet never be
out of sight of some landmark that would point out to her the location
of Great Pine Mine. But now, after endless turning and walking, she
confessed that she was hopelessly lost.
“Oh, Jip,” she sobbed, “how I wish I had minded the Padre! After dark
the bears and maybe other dreadful animals will come after us, and I
have nothing but one revolver and no belt to carry it in to be ready
to shoot quick.” Remorse and grief such as she had not felt since she
carried Pete to the fort against her father’s orders now stormed her
heart.
After a few minutes’ thinking, some of her good sense came back to her,
and she understood that she would never get back to camp unless she
trusted to Jip or stayed where she was until some one came out to hunt
her. “If Jip doesn’t seem to know what to do, I’ll stay just here and
trust to Tom’s hunting me in the right place.
“Jip,” she said, patting his head and talking distinctly, “go home, go
back to the Padre, do you understand? Go back to your dinner and stall;
go hunt the Padre and take me home!” She jumped on him, threw down the
bridle and gave him a smart cut with the whip, a thing she had not done
ten times in the months she had possessed him. The horse whirled about
as if frightened; danced and capered as if undecided what to do.
“Jip, dear old Jip, see if you can find the way back to the Padre now.
I am sure you can.”
He whinnied intelligently, and Bushy, taking this as a token that he
understood her, trusted to him and good fortune.
Bushy soon felt faint with hunger. It must be about four o’clock, she
thought, looking at the sun. In two hours her father would come home
and miss her. Her heart beat loud. What would he think?
All of a sudden Jip stopped and began sniffing and neighing joyfully,
but before Bushy could think what was the matter with him off he
started at a flying gallop, faster and faster, hardly touching the
ground with his feet. Bushy clung to his mane breathless, never had the
pony acted in this way before. A feeling of relief came over her. “Jip
has smelled the way back and is running for dear life to get me home
safe,” she thought.
But surely that white mass in the distance with dark figures walking to
and fro was no soldiers’ fort. A cold shiver ran over her as they drew
nearer. Jip was taking her to an Indian camp! “Whoa, Jip, whoa, old
fellow!” but Jip did not seem to hear. Bushy knew that she was lost.
The pony had evidently scented some old friend in the group, and was
taking the little girl with him, a prey to her enemies. She was unable
to get at her revolver, even should there be any good in defending
herself. What service would killing one or even two Indians do her,
she quickly reasoned as Jip dashed onward. Nothing would be gained by
jumping off, for already her approach was observed.
Jip galloped in among the wigwams, Bushy clinging to his mane, pale
with fright, and staring wildly at the redskins she feared so much.
What a commotion followed! What jabbering! How the Indians crowded
about! What caresses Jip got, and how surprised the savages were over
the child’s appearance. The squaws fingered her blouse and pulled off
some of the flowers. The young bucks noticed her saddle and felt of the
bridle and bits. She was lifted from the pony by the young chief, who
had evidently at some time been the master of Jip, and he handed her
over to a cross old squaw, who was to hold her in safe-keeping.
“Oh, Jip!” wailed Bushy as she disappeared into the wigwam and faithful
Jip tried to go to her, but the chief prevented him. Night was closing
in and the thought of her poor father’s anxiety made her tears start
afresh. Her sobs stirred the pity of a young Indian girl, sitting near
the entrance of the wigwam. She gave Bushy a drink, and reassured her
as much as she could. Bushy was soon left alone. The excitement of the
day had made her feverish, and the wound on her head began to sting,
but notwithstanding the grief and pain she began to plan to get away.
She didn’t want to be roasted alive, or pierced with arrows. Of the
loss of her scalp she was almost sure, so she thought it was no use
fretting any more over her fluffy hair.
The more she thought the less she could conceive of any way to escape.
The Indians set a watch over her--this seemed very serious. If they
didn’t kill or scalp her now, they would certainly take her with them
in their first attack on the miners and kill her before their very
eyes. Indeed, now that she came to think of it, she was sure they would
do that.
Fatigue and pain had exhausted her, and the sickening fear of a cruel
death was too much. Brave Bushy for the second time showed weakness and
fainted away on the little bed of leaves where the squaw had placed
her.
CHAPTER XXIII
Bushy was very much surprised when, in the middle of the night, she
woke up. Generally when once she was asleep it required a good deal of
shaking to wake her before the usual time of getting up.
“I am feeling awful queer! I wish I knew what’s the matter with me.
There is something, but I cannot remember,” she thought drowsily.
Then by and by the dreadful truth came home to her. She was a prisoner
among the Indians!
The night was very clear, the bright moonshine made it almost like
twilight. She could distinguish the dark forms of the people in the
wigwam; they were all fast asleep, their regular breathing proved that.
Bushy’s heart gave a great bound. Oh, if she could only get out of
there! Suddenly in the silence her ear caught the sound of a rustle
outside the wigwam, as if some one were cautiously coming through the
long grass. She grew frightened, but soon all her fears changed into
great joy. A well-known sniffing and snorting betrayed to her that Jip
had been nosing about for his little mistress and had found her.
“Jip,” whispered Bushy, ever so softly.
To her unutterable alarm Jip neighed loudly and repeatedly; the Indians
in the wigwams moved uneasily.
Bushy kept motionless, almost breathless, for some minutes. Would the
Indians wake up? If she could only get outside. But creeping past
the sleeping savages was by no means an easy task, and Bushy almost
despaired of getting to the pony. But out she must go; it was her only
chance of escape.
She rolled over, her face downward on the floor, and lay perfectly
motionless for some time to make sure that the rustling of the dry
leaves had not been heard. Then she began to crawl cautiously along the
uneven ground. The entrance to the wigwam seemed miles off. She had
almost reached it, and could see the moonlit camp through the opening,
when the young Indian squaw who had been so kind to her the evening
before stirred in her sleep.
“She is going to wake up, and she will murder me sure for trying to
run off,” Bushy thought, pressing herself closely to the ground. Her
heart beat like that of a frightened bird, and cold perspiration stood
in great drops on her forehead. But good luck attended her, and a
few minutes afterward she crawled out into the long grass, free, and
outside of the wigwam. Jip trotted up to her.
“Sh! Keep still,” whispered Bushy.
He thrust his cold nose in her hand and welcomed her with his best
tokens of affection. A piece of halter, showing that he had broken
loose from some tree, was still hanging about his neck. Bushy was as
yet in danger. She had to pass all the redskins sleeping around the
camp-fire; and without a decent revolver, too, what could she do to
defend herself!
“I’ll go round by the edge of the camp,” she reasoned, “and hang on to
Jip and ride out sideways, so they won’t see me. They may let Jip roam
about, even if they should wake and see him.”
In her joy at the slight prospect of deliverance she had been a little
off her guard, and had not noticed an Indian boy stealing up behind
her. The boy was frightened. The mother squaw had told him the little
girl was dead when she fainted and fell over so still on the bed of
leaves early in the evening. This explains, in a measure, why the
Indians did not watch her more closely. They thought she was dying,
hence they curled up carelessly in the different corners of the camp
and went sound asleep.
Jip, moving uneasily, made Bushy turn her head and face the boy, who
with wild and frightened eyes gazed upon her. Her heart sank, but
freedom was worth another effort, she thought. With a rapid movement
she drew the revolver out of her blouse and threw it at his head.
He staggered and fell back without a cry, disappearing in the long
grass that surrounded the tent. Bushy then jumped on Jip’s back and
whispered: “Home, home! Jip; let us hunt the Padre. Quick!”
Bushy hung on one side, the side away from the Indians, and clung
desperately to Jip’s mane and to an old rope lariat that she had
dexterously and quickly thrown about his body. She had tied it with a
slip knot, thus making a surcingle to which she clung with her feet. In
the white moonlight, as Jip’s hoofs sank deep in the moss, they looked
like spectres moving noiselessly about at midnight.
Whether the Indian boy was dead or only stunned, and whether the other
Indians waked up, Bushy never knew, but when at last she was miles
from the camp, she felt that there was some hope of again embracing
her father. She resolved to stay in the bushes till daybreak, knowing
that neither Jip nor herself could find their way back in the pitchy
darkness. The moon had by this time disappeared, and she could scarcely
see her hand before her.
“I think I had better not lie down and sleep; wild beasts might come,
and I could not get away if I were not on the watch. I’ll just slip
off you, Jip, ’cause I am so tired, and sit down against the tree a
little while and keep my eyes open. I wish I had my revolver, I would
not be afraid then.
“There is no use crying over spilt milk,” Bushy murmured as she found a
good seat and firmly resolved not to go to sleep.
“Don’t leave me, Jip; keep right here.”
* * * * *
When Mr. Sukolt came home the day before, he had thought it rather
strange not to find Bushy waiting for him at the door of the fort as
she usually did.
“Playing hide-and-seek with the old Padre, little girl?” he exclaimed,
giving a merry whistle to let her know he was there. “Wait, I’ll find
you, you rascal!”
He went all over the rooms and through the passages, looking in every
corner and behind every barrel and bag, but no Bushy was to be found.
None of the soldiers knew where she had gone and no one remembered
seeing her all day.
No answer came to his repeated call. “Perhaps she is in the stable with
Jip,” and off he started for the stable. Just imagine his alarm when he
not only failed to find Bushy, but missed Jip, too!
“She has gone off, though I expressly forbade it! I am afraid the child
is running wild. All those Indians are abroad, too!”
Night began to close in and no Bushy came. Half mad with alarm, he
called the captain and told him about his little daughter’s absence.
“You had better let me send out some soldiers in search of her,” said
the captain.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Sukolt, his voice full of gratitude, and they
were soon on their way. The shifting lights of the lanterns and the
cries of “Bushy! Bushy!” disturbed the quiet of the sleeping birds. At