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

“Business that will not be put off calls me back to New York. In fact, I had appointed to-morrow for my departure.”

Melville and Herbert exchanged a glance. It was evident that the same thought was in the mind of each.

“Mr. Falkland,” said George Melville, “I have a proposal to make to you.”

The artist eyed him in some surprise.

“Go on,” he said.

“I will buy this cottage of you, if you are willing.”

Falkland smiled.

“This seems providential,” he said. “We artists and men of letters are apt to be short of money, and I confess I was pondering whether my credit was good with anybody for a hundred dollars to pay my expenses East. Once arrived there, there are plenty of publishers who will make me advances on future work.”

“Then we can probably make a bargain,” said Mr. Melville. “Please name your price.”

Now, I do not propose to show my ignorance of real estate values in Colorado by naming the price which George Melville paid for his home in the wilderness. In fact, I do not know. I can only say that he gave Falkland a check for the amount on a Boston bank, and a hundred in cash besides.

“You are liberal, Mr. Melville,” said Falkland, gratified. “I am afraid you are not a business man. I have not found that business men overpay.”

“You are right, I am not a business man,” answered Melville, “though I wish my health would admit of my being so. As to the extra hundred dollars, I think it worth that much to come upon so comfortable a home ready to my hand. It will really be a home, such as the log cabin I looked forward to could not be.”

“Thank you,” said Falkland; “I won’t pretend that I am indifferent to money, for I can’t afford to be. I earn considerable sums, but, unfortunately, I never could keep money, or provide for the future.”

“I don’t know how it would be with me,” said Melville, “for I am one of those, fortunate or otherwise, who are born to a fortune. I have sometimes been sorry that I had not the incentive of poverty to induce me to work.”

“Then, suppose we exchange lots,” said the artist, lightly. “I shouldn’t object to being wealthy.”

“With all my heart,” answered Melville. “Give me your health, your literary and artistic talent, and it is a bargain.”

“I am afraid they are not transferable,” said the artist, “but we won’t prolong the discussion now. I am neglecting the rites of hospitality; I must prepare supper for my guests. You must know that here in the wilderness I am my own cook and dishwasher.”

“Let me help you?” said Melville.

“No, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, “it is more in my line. I have often helped mother at home, and I don’t believe you have had any experience.”

“I confess I am a green hand,” said Melville, laughing, “but, as Irish girls just imported say, ‘I am very willing.’”

“On the whole, I think the boy can assist me better,” said Falkland. “So, Mr. Melville, consider yourself an aristocratic visitor, while Herbert and myself, sons of toil, will minister to your necessities.”

“By the way, where do you get your supplies?” asked Melville.

“Eight miles away there is a mining camp and store. I ride over there once a week or oftener, and bring home what I need.”

“What is the name of the camp?”

“Deer Creek. I will point out to Herbert, before I leave you, the bridle path leading to it.”

“Thank you. It will be a great advantage to us to know just how to live.”

With Herbert’s help an appetizing repast was prepared, of which all three partook with keen zest.

The next day Falkland took leave of them, and Melville and his boy companion were left to settle down in their new home.

CHAPTER XXX. A TERRIBLE MOMENT

Melville’s purchase comprised not only the cottage, but its contents, pictures and books included. This was fortunate, for though Herbert, who was strong, and fond of outdoor sports, such as hunting and fishing, could have contented himself, Melville was easily fatigued, and spent at least half of the day in the cabin. The books, most of which were new to him, were a great and unfailing resource.

Among the articles which Falkland left behind him were two guns, of which Herbert and Melville made frequent use. Herbert had a natural taste for hunting, though, at home, having no gun of his own, he had not been able to gratify his taste as much as he desired. Often after breakfast the two sallied forth, and wandered about in the neighboring woods, gun in hand. Generally Melville returned first, leaving Herbert, not yet fatigued, to continue the sport. In this way our hero acquired a skill and precision of aim which enabled him to make a very respectable figure even among old and practiced hunters.

One morning, after Melville had returned home, Herbert was led, by the ardor of the chase, to wander farther than usual. He was aware of this, but did not fear being lost, having a compass and knowing his bearings. All at once, as he was making his way along a wooded path, he was startled by hearing voices. He hurried forward, and the scene upon which he intruded was dramatic enough.

With arms folded, a white man, a hunter, apparently, stood erect, and facing him, at a distance of seventy-five or eighty feet, was an Indian, with gun raised, and leveled at the former.

“Why don’t you shoot, you red rascal!” said the white man. “You’ve got the drop on me, I allow, and I am in your power.”

The Indian laughed in his guttural way; but though he held the gun poised, he did not shoot. He was playing with his victim as a cat plays with a mouse before she kills it.

“Is white man afraid?” said the Indian, not tauntingly, but with real curiosity, for among Indians it is considered a great triumph if a warrior can inspire fear in his foe, and make him show the white feather.

“Afraid!” retorted the hunter. “Who should I be afraid of?”

“Of Indian.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you pesky savage,” returned the white man, coolly, ejecting a flood of tobacco juice from his mouth, for though he was a brave man, he had some drawbacks. “You needn’t think I am afraid of you.”

“Indian shoot!” suggested his enemy, watching the effect of this announcement.

“Well, shoot, then, and be done with it.”

“White man no want to live?”

“Of course I want to live. Never saw a healthy white man that didn’t. If I was goin’ to die at all, I wouldn’t like to die by the hands of a red rascal like you.”

“Indian great warrior,” said the dusky denizen of the woods, straightening up, and speaking complacently.

“Indian may be great warrior, but he is a horse thief, all the same,” said the hunter, coolly.

“White man soon die, and Indian wear his scalp,” remarked the Indian, in a manner likely to disturb the composure of even the bravest listener.

The hunter’s face changed. It was impossible to reflect upon such a fate without a pang. Death was nothing to that final brutality.

“Ha! White man afraid now!” said the Indian, triumphantly—quick to observe the change of expression in his victim.

“No, I am not afraid,” said the hunter, quickly recovering himself; “but it’s enough to disgust any decent man to think that his scalp will soon be dangling from the belt of a filthy heathen like you. However, I suppose I won’t know it after I’m dead. You have skulked and dogged my steps, you red hound, ever since I punished you for trying to steal my horse. I made one great mistake. Instead of beating you, I should have shot you, and rid the earth of you once for all.”

“Indian no forget white man’s blows. White man die, and Indian be revenged.”