Do and Dare — a Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune

“So you’re back?” he said, surveying Warner with a lowering brow.

“Yes.”

“And a pretty mess you’ve made of the job!” said the landlord, bitterly.

“It’s as much your fault—nay, more!” said his superior, coolly.

“What do you mean?” demanded Brown, not over cordially.

“You would persist in discussing our plan last night in my room, though I warned you we might be overheard.”

“Well?”

“We were overheard.”

“What spy listened to our talk?”

“The young man, Melville—the one traveling with a boy. He kept it to himself till the stage was well on its way, and then he blabbed the whole thing to all in the stage.”

“Did he mention you?”

“Yes, and you.”

“Why didn’t you tell him he lied, and shoot him on the spot?”

“Because I shouldn’t have survived him five minutes,” answered the colonel, coolly, “or, if I had, his companions would have lynched me.”

Brown didn’t look as if he would have been inconsolable had this occurred. In fact, he was ambitious to succeed to the place held by the colonel, as chief of a desperate gang of outlaws.

“I might have been dangling from a branch of a tree at this moment, had I followed your plan, my good friend Brown, and that would have been particularly uncomfortable.”

“They might have shot me,” said Brown, sullenly.

“I prevented that, and gave you timely warning. Of course it’s a disappointment, but we shall have better luck next time.”

“They’ve got away.”

“Yes, but I propose to keep track of Melville and the boy, and have my revenge upon them in time. I don’t care so much about the money, but they have foiled me, and they must suffer for it. Meanwhile, I want your help in another plan.”

The two conferred together, and mutual confidence was re-established.

CHAPTER XXIX. A NEW HOME IN THE WOODS

George Melville had no definite destination. He was traveling, not for pleasure, but for health, and his purpose was to select a residence in some high location, where the dry air would be favorable for his pulmonary difficulties.

A week later he had found a temporary home. One afternoon Herbert and he, each on horseback, for at that time public lines of travel were fewer than at present, came suddenly upon a neat, one-story cottage in the edge of the forest. It stood alone, but it was evidently the home of one who aimed to add something of the graces of civilization to the rudeness of frontier life.

They reined up simultaneously, and Melville, turning to Herbert, said: “There, Herbert, is my ideal of a residence. I should not be satisfied with a rude cabin. There I should find something of the comfort which we enjoy in New England.”

“The situation is fine, too,” said Herbert, looking about him admiringly.

The cottage stood on a knoll. On either side were tall and stately trees. A purling brook at the left rolled its silvery current down a gentle declivity, and in front, for half a mile, was open country.

“I have a great mind to call and inquire who lives here.” said Melville. “Perhaps we can arrange to stay here all night.”

“That is a good plan, Mr. Melville.”

George Melville dismounted from his horse, and, approaching, tapped with the handle of his whip on the door.

“Who’s there?” inquired a smothered voice, as of one rousing himself from sleep.

“A stranger, but a friend,” answered Melville.

There was a sound as of some one moving, and a tall man, clad in a rough suit, came to the door, and looked inquiringly at Melville and his boy companion.

Though his attire was rude, his face was refined, and had the indefinable air of one who would be more at home in the city than in the country.

“Delighted to see you both,” he said, cordially, offering his hand. “I don’t live in a palace, and my servants are all absent, but if you will deign to become my guests I will do what I can for your comfort.”

“You have anticipated my request,” said Melville. “Let me introduce myself as George Melville, an invalid by profession, just come from New England in search of health. My young friend here is Herbert Carr, my private secretary and faithful companion, who has not yet found out what it is to be in poor-health. Without him I should hardly have dared to come so far alone.”

“You are very welcome, Herbert,” said the host, with pleasant familiarity. “Come in, both of you, and make yourselves at home.”

The cottage contained two rooms. One was used as a bedchamber, the other as a sitting room. On the walls were a few pictures, and on a small bookcase against one side of the room were some twenty-five books. There was an easel and an unfinished picture in one corner, and a small collection of ordinary furniture.

“You are probably an artist,” suggested Melville.

“Yes, you have hit it. I use both pen and pencil,” and he mentioned a name known to Melville as that of a popular magazine writer.

I do not propose to give his real name, but we will know him as Robert Falkland.

“I am familiar with your name, Mr. Falkland,” said Melville, “but I did not expect to find you here.”

“Probably not,” answered Falkland. “I left the haunts of civilization unexpectedly, some months ago, and even my publishers don’t know where I am.”

“In search of health?” queried Melville.

“Not exactly. I did, however, feel in need of a change. I had been running in a rut, and wanted to get out of it, so I left my lodgings in New York and bought a ticket to St. Louis; arrived there, I determined to come farther. So here I have been, living in communion with nature, seeing scarcely anybody, enjoying myself, on the whole, but sometimes longing to see a new face.”

“And you have built this cottage?”

“No; I bought it of its former occupant, but have done something towards furnishing it; so that it has become characteristic of me and my tastes.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Three months; but my stay is drawing to a close.”

“How is that?”