A Short Story.

Kaipara and Waitemata Echo, 17 April 1914, Page 8

A Short Story.

SAVED BY THE S&ls OF HIS TEETH.

"Quick, David, there's no time to ! •■.':><">. I don't think the rascals have seen us yet, but we'll have to move just as quick as we can, for if they do see us our lives won't be worth much;" and then • ii'Kse Broughton, the speaker, turn- ! i>l. d hurriedly into the thick under- i .'-■Tow'th and small trees which fringed the edge of a thick wood which ran for some miles along the bank :.>f one of the rivers of Northern Dakota. Mis son David, to whom the ivords were addressed, a lad of some ■\;Hrteen years of age, almost as tall ■;s his father, and as strong and Ju-.rdy as a life spent in hard work in the open air can make a boy, .'o'lowed quickly behind him, throwin'- an anxious glance across the prairie behind him as he disappeared amongst the timber. The lather and sou had, been out hunting, and quite by chance Jesse Brvinrhton had caught sight of a b.uid of Indians riding leisurely alu'ig the top of a stony ridge not ; -if a mile away. There was no i.:istnking the errand of the red- - i ins. Tor each warrior was leadi,'.v with him a spare pony, and, iVom experience, the back-woodsman I new well enough the 'Indians never •■> tie thus except when on the war■>ath. "Follow me, David,' 5 said his father. "We'll get down to the river as quick as we can, find the canoe hidden in the little creek, and paddle down and warn the village below. The Indians mayn't be going that way, but we'll go and warn 'em all the same." Jesse Broughton led the vay along I.he narrow track at a good pace, David hurrying along behind him. Although he had been on his feet since soon after daybreak, the lad was not at all tired, and could have run the eight miles or so to the village in little more than an I •iour, in spite of the heavy rifle ::nd ammunition he carried. But i Liie path to the village lay outside ■-he woods, and the risk was too -.■■real, and so the longer way through ihe woods, and down to the river had to be taken. Suddenly David uttered a low exclamation. There was a heavy fall iml a faii.t cry of pain, and his father turned round to see the lad lying on the ground close by a fallen tree which lay across the path. "What is it, Davy ?" exclaimed his father, anxiously, springing towards him. "It's my ankle, father," the boy groaned. "I jumped on top of the lug and my heel slipped on the muss, and 1 fell down. My ankle's sprained, I think ;" and he made a brave effort to rise. But the leg would not bear his weight, and he i'ell back with a sort of groan. "Oh, father, what will you do ?" he cried, as his father hastily untied the lace of his boot to get at the hurt joint. "You must go on to warn the people." "My boy, I'm going to stay with you. The people will have to get on without my warning. God help ,!<am, I can't leave you here !" "But the people at the village ?" ;ried the boy, anxiously. "You must •:fo and tell them. There's women •here, and little children, too. They '.'on't know the redskins are coming. They'll be taken by surprise, and ihty'il all be massacred. Oh, you ,'nust l>;o on !" .Jcf-;-T- Bronghton had finished binding up the sprained ankle, and now he. stood upright, his face turned away from his son. Yt'hat should he <!o ? Leave his son, helpless and a r.rny to the savages he would not ; and, yr-t, the poor villagers ? David vis right, if his warning were not iriven they would be surprised, and (ho man knew well enough what wo!'!ri then take place. Had he not lost, his own dear wife and two little ;a' y children not five years before at In- hands of the murderous Indians? Yei, on the other hand, he would not .leave his son, the only one of his Icar onr-s left, to him. He would not. Uo must stay and let the •>ihers take their chances. Then David spoke again, and his p.-ords only added to his father's .H';-;ilexiiy and agony of mind. "Father, you must go," the brave :' fi cr!"d. "Leave me here. I can't h> i.i:.n.' than hobble along on one !o ■■.■;. I can't go on with you. It's a :-.:ilo. to the river. Please go, dear "lithcr ; don't mind me. The In-! •Hans may not come this way at till : they didn't see us. [ shall be ■di ri:;bt,, and then perhaps you would .rome back and fetch me. There's twenty-three people in the village. Don't let them all die because of m<\ Besides,, I shall be all right ;" ;<v(] the lad's tone was cheery and !-o,rif|'u], although in his heart he i'i';-f".'i that the Indians had seen i hem and might even now be in pursuit. "I can't leave you, my hoy," groaned the father. 'You're all that's left to me in this world, and !en n't sacrifice you. Here, I'll carry you with me to the river;" and he picl-ed the boy up in his strong anus and strode along the track. Brit (.he burden was great and his progress slow, and before a couple of hundred yards had been covered j the terrible war-whoop of the Sioux caught the ears of both. The Indians had seen thorn and were pursuing, and ifi'- father groaned aloud in his anguish. "Put me down, father. You must leave me and go on and warn the

settlement," implored the boy. : "Hark ! they are coming nearer. Leave me, father, or they will catch us up and kill both of us, and then the village will be surprised." j "The hut, father !" David suddenly cried, as Broughton, with labouring breath and aching muscles staggered on. "You can leave me there. The Indians '11 never find it, and then you can go on and escape in the canoe. It's close by here, and, if they do come, I've got my rifle and can keep 'em off until you come back." Jesse Broughton stopped ; the lad was right. Together they would never escape, and the settlement would fall beside. The hut was well hidden, and the Sioux might not discover it. It was a chance. He would try it, although it was hard to sacrifice his son. Perhaps God would give him lack his sacrifice, ' as He had done with Abraham and ! Isaac. ' Striking off at right angles to the track, witli careful steps he made his way through the tall bushes and close brushwood, until he reached a little clearing completely shut : in by tall trees, and in the middle of which stood a tiny little hut. ; Entering, he placed David gently on the ground. His heart was too full for words, and lie could not trust himself to speak ; but he gripped the ' boy's hand in one long squeeze, and then, with a muttered "God pre- • serve >you, Davy, my boy," he dashed from the hut. As he entered the track again a single Indian, the foremost of the ! pursuers, almost crashed into him. ! With a loud yell the Indian leaped back and raised the tomahawk he . held ; but quick as he was the . frontiersman was quicker. His club- ' bed rifle swung round and fell with a dull crash, and the redskin fell i with his skull smashed. Without pausing an instant Broughton turned and ran with the speed of a deer towards tne little creek wherein the canoe lay. Scarcely had he reached the water and springing into the i canoe sent it with a few quick ! strokes of the paddle away from the ! bank, when half a dozen yelling ; redskins rushed down to the w'ater's edge. Tn ten seconds their bows were in their hands and half a dozen arrows sent whistling through the air. Unharmed, however, Broughton continued paddling, and before they could shoot again he had reach- j ed the end of the creek and gained j the open river. Left to himself, David crawled to the door, clusing it, thrust through I the strong iron staples the two heavy wooden bars which secured it. The hut, although small, was very sfrongly built of tree trunks, roughly I squared and firmly fitted together, j and was roofed with thick slabs of I turf fastened down over rough rafters. Even if the fndians were to ! discover the hut, David felt quite ■ safe for a time, at, least ; the hut was far too strong to be destroyed !by any means, except by fire, and ' even against this the extreme thickness of the timber and the non-in-flammable roof seemed to afford a suilicient safeguard. There was some food in the hut, ■although of water there was none, unfortunately : still, he .had v.is rifle and plenty !of ammunition, and he hoped that if attacked he would bn able to stand Ja. siege until help came from the | settlonient, for he knew .that his father would lose no time in coming back to his assistance. But for his sprained ankle,, which ! pained him terribly whenever he ati templed to move, and the a.nxiety ihe felt for his father's safety, David ! would have been by no means altogether sorry for the adventure, al- | though he was quite old enough to I understand the gravity of, the situa- ; tion. For he knew the redskins ! well, and could easily recall that ! terrible night when the Indians had ! rushed the lonely camp out on the vast prairie, and lie, who had been away with his father hunting, had returned to find his dear mother, thej two little baby sisters, and his uncle | lying dead and mutilated amongst the charred remains of the waggons. Suddenly his ears caught the sound of the war-whoop of the terrible Sioux ; it was just then that the red-skins had reached the bank of the creek, and David's heart stood still, for he feared that awful sound ! proclaimed the death of his father. Dragging himself to the side of the hut, he painfully raised himself to his knees and gazed intently through one of the numerous little holes in the stout timbers through which the ■ muzzle of a rifle might be thrust to | get a shot at the approaching foe. I But he could see nothing ; the Indians had evidently not discovered ; j the hut, and his ankle pained him i so terribly he was forced to sink i , back on the ground. It was perhaps an hour since hia father had left the hut that David, j peeping through one of the loopholes, saw .something which caused his heart to beat fast and his fingers to grip .the barrel of his rifle j tighter. At the edge of the' clearing and close to the ground the head and ; shoulders of a redskin were, thrust ; I through the undergrowth as if the ' warrior were intently examining the i earth. From the footmarks the ' Sioux had seen plainly that for some distance there had been two fugitives ; that only one had reached ! the creek was equally plain to them, and they had been searching on both sides of the forest path to discover where the second had gone. i The head remained in view for ] scarcely ten seconds ; before David could bring his rifle to the loop- , hole it had disappeared, and a loud i yell announced that the Indian was informing his companions that the run away had been discovered. j For a long- tnne not a sound,

not even the crackling of a dead 3tick, betrayed that the forest around the hut was being occupied, by the red men. The Sioux knew well what a desperate white man armed [ with a rifle would do, given the advantage of fighting behind the walls of a hut, and they were not anxious to risk their lives in a rush across the clearing to reach the hut and break in the door. Suddenly a shot was fired, the bullet embedded itself in the stout timber wall, and David, catchingsight of a dark form partially hid- , den by a tree trunk, poked his rifle ! through one of the loopholes and j fired ; but the gloom of the forest made accurate shooting difficult, and 1 the bullet merely grazed the Indian's shoulder. Instantly a fusilade was poured into ili« hut from all sides, David replying whenever he saw an opportunity of replying with effect. The seige had lasted a couple of hours or more, and David was as yet unwounded, although the pain of his ankle was becoming worse. By dragging himself from one wall to the other he had boon able to reply on all sides to the firing of the Indians, and he -had made two or three effective shots ; one warrior already lying dead shot through the brain, just at the edge of the clearing, while another had been rendered powerless, a bullet, having smashed the bones of his right forearm. It was beginning to get dusk, and David, stout of heart as he was, could not but look forward with horror to a night spent all alone in the deep forest surrounded by watchful and bloodthirsty foes, who under cover of the darkness would ! attempt what they had not dared to do in the daylight, and by breaking down the door make him a prisoner. The loopholes would be useless ; he would be unable to see the advance of his foes ;he was like a rat in a dark pit, without the smallest hope of escaping, and so he was forced to do the hardest thing there is for any one, grown-up man or young boy, to sit down and wait | quietly fo" what might come. Any moment after nightfall might bring with it the stealthy advance of the Sioux, and for him eitiior death or capture, which was far worse. His thoughts went back to his dear dead mother and little sisters ! and his father, whom he knew not |to be either alive or dead, and he prayed to God to deliver him from danger, or else send him by a quick and merciful death to join the dear ones who had gone before. Suddenly he heard a voice calling loudly ; it was the voice of an Indian, and he spoke in English, saying : "Let! the white man come out, and his life shall be spared. The white man cannot escape, for my braves surround the hut, and help cannot come to him, for there are no white men left living at the village. If the white man will not come out, then ere clay dawns my warriors will enter the hut and take him alive, and he shall die by torture. Rolling Thunder has spoken ; let the white man nuswer." The words came clear and distinct, and, as David listened, his heart sank. Was it true that the settlement had oeen surprised and the people slaughtered ? Then his father must be dead, too. If so, the Indian was right—no help could come to him. And yet the redskin might be lying. Should he come out ? No, no ; better to die fighting than to yield himself to the treacherous Indians, who, in spite of their promises, would undoubtedly put him to death when once he was in their hands. So the lad made no answer, but sat jn the darkness of the hut, gripping his rifle tightly, determined to sell his life as dearly as possible when the attack came. For hours he sat thus in total darkness, his ears strained to catch the slightest sound. Soon he became drowsy, his exertions of the day and the excitement began to toll, and more than once he found himself nedding. With a great effort he aroused himself, but at last Nature conquered, and in spite of the pain of his ankle he fell into a deep and heavy slumher. As' he slept, he dreamed that he was in the midst of a terrible battle. He could hear the thunder of rifles and the yelling of many voices, and then a sound as of violent hammering, followed by a loud cracking, and a hand laid on his a-rm, and he awoke with a loud cry jon his lips. It was not all a dream. Someone was holding him by the arm, and the interior of the hut was I filled with light. With a choking | gasp he tried to raise himself—the end had at last come —when a wellknown voice fell on his ear : "All's well, my dear lad. It is me, David j —your father." The door of the hut was open. It was broad daylight, and it was, indeed, his father who was standingover him, and with a loud cry of gladness David fainted. His father I had reached the settlement safely | ar> warned the people, so that when ! the Indians appeared they had met [ with a warm reception and had (led. IHe had then gone to find his son, accompanied by several men from | the village, and, reaching the hut, I had driven off the Indians surrounding it. It was the sound of their rifles j which David had hoard in his sleep. The door had been hastily broken down, and the anxious fathr-r had rushed in to find his son fast asleep on the ground.