Charlie to the Rescue

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

  HUNKY BEN AND CHARLIE GET BEYOND THEIR DEPTH, AND BUCK TOM GETS BEYONDRECALL.

  While hunting together in the woods near Traitor's Trap one day CharlieBrooke and Hunky Ben came to a halt on the summit of an eminence thatcommanded a wide view over the surrounding country.

  "'Tis a glorious place, Ben," said Brooke, leaning his rifle against atree and mounting on a piece of rock, the better to take in thebeautiful prospect of woodland, river, and lake. "When I think of theswarms of poor folk in the old country who don't own a foot of land,have little to eat and only rags to cover them, I long to bring them outhere and plant them down where God has spread His blessings sobountifully, where there is never lack of work, and where Nature payshigh wages to those who obey her laws."

  "No doubt there's room enough here," returned the scout sitting down andlaying his rifle across his knees. "I've often thowt on them subjects,but my thowts only lead to puzzlement; for, out here in the wilderness,a man can't git all the information needful to larn him about things inthe old world. Dear, dear, it do seem strange to me that any man shouldchoose to starve in the cities when there's the free wilderness to roamabout in. I mind havin' a palaver once wi' a stove-up man when I wasranchin' down in Kansas on the Indian Territory Line. Screw was hisname, an' a real kind-hearted fellow he was too--only he couldn't keephis hand off that curse o' mankind, the bottle. I mentioned to him mypuzzlements about this matter, an' he up fist an' come down on the tablewi' a crack that made the glasses bounce as if they'd all come alive,an' caused a plate o' mush in front of him to spread itself all over theplace--but he cared nothin' for that, he was so riled up by the thowtsmy obsarvation had shook up.

  "`Hunky Ben,' says he, glowerin' at me like a bull wi' the measles, `thereason we stay there an' don't come out here or go to the other parts o'God's green 'arth is 'cause we can't help ourselves an' don't know how--or what--don't know nothin' in fact!'

  "`That's a busted-up state o' ignorance, no doubt' said I, in a soothin'sort o' way, for I see'd the man was riled pretty bad by ancientmemories, an' looked gittin' waxier. He wore a black eye, too, caughtin a free fight the night before, which didn't improve his looks. `Yousaid _we_ just now,' says I. `Was you one o' them?'

  "`Of course I was,' says he, tamin' down a little, `an' I'd bin one o'them yet--if not food for worms by this time--if it hadn't bin for adook as took pity on me.'

  "`What's a dook?' says I.

  "`A dook?' says he. `Why, he's a _dook_, you know; a sort o' markis--somewheres between a lord an' a king. I don't know zackly where, anhang me if I care; but they're a bad lot are some o' them dooks--rich asPharaoh, king o' J'rus'lem, an' hard as nails--though I'm bound for tosay they ain't all alike. Some on 'em's no better nor costermongers,others are _men_; men what keeps in mind that the same God made us allan' will call us all to the same account, an' that the same kind o'worms 'll finish us all off at last. But this dook as took pity on mewas a true blue. He wasn't one o' the hard sort as didn't care a rushfor us so long as his own stummick was full. Neether was he one o' thebutter-mouths as dursen't say boo to a goose. He spoke out to me like aman, an' he knew well enough that I'd bin born in the London slums, an'that my daddy had bin born there before me, an that my mother had caughther death o' cold through havin' to pawn her only pair o' boots to paymy school fees an' then walk barefutt to the court in a winter day toanswer for not sendin' her boy to the board school--_her_ send me toschool!--she might as well have tried to send daddy himself; an' him outo' work, too, an' all on us starvin'. My dook, when he hear about ita'most bust wi' passion. I hear 'im arterwards talkin' to a overseer,or somebody, "confound it," says he--no, not quite that, for my dook he_never_ swore, only he said somethin' pretty stiff--"these people arestarvin'," says he, "an' pawnin' their things for food to keep 'emalive, an' they can't git work nohow," says he, "an' yet you worry themout o' body an' soul for school fees!" I didn't hear no more, for theoverseer smoothed 'im down somehows. But that dook--that good _man_,Hunky Ben, paid my passage to Ameriky, an' sent me off wi' his blessin'an' a Bible. Unfortnitly I took a bottle wi' me, an when I got to theother side I got hold of another bottle, an' another--an' there standsthe last of 'em.'

  "An' wi' that, Mr Brooke, he fetched the bottle in front of him such acrack wi' his fist as sent it all to smash against the opposite wall.

  "`Well done, Screw!' cried the boy at the bar, laughin'; `have anotherbottle?'

  "Poor Screw smiled in a sheepish way, for the rile was out of him bythat time, an', says he, `Well, I don't mind if I do. A shot like thatdeserves another!'

  "Ah me!" continued the scout, "it do take the manhood out of a fellow,that drink. Even when his indignation's roused and he tries to shake itoff, he can't do it."

  "Well do I know that, Ben. It is only God who can help a man in such acase."

  The scout gravely shook his head. "Seems to me, Mr Brooke, thatthere's a screw loose some wheres in our theology, for I've heardparsons as well as you say that--as if the Almighty condescended to helpus only when we're in bad straits. Now, though I'm but a scout andpretend to no book larnin', it comes in strong upon me that if God madeus an' measures our movements, an' gives us every beat o' the pulse, an'counts the very hairs of our heads, we stand in need of His help in_every_ case and at _all_ times; that we can't save ourselves frommischief under any circumstances, great or small, without Him."

  "I have thought of that too, sometimes," said Charlie, sitting down onthe rock beside his companion, and looking at him in some perplexity,"but does not the view you take savour somewhat of fatalism, and seek tofree us from responsibility in regard to what we do?"

  "It don't seem so to me," replied the scout, "I'm not speakin', you see,so much of doin' as of escapin'. No doubt we are _perfectly_ free to_will_, but it don't follow that we are free to _act_. I'm quite freeto _will_ to cut my leg off or to let it stay on; an' if I carry out mywill an' _do_ it, why, I'm quite free there too--an' also responsible.But I ain't free to sew it on again however much I may will to do so--leastwise if I do it won't stick. The consekinces o' my deed I mustbear, but who will deny that the Almighty could grow on another leg ifHe chose? Why, some creeters He _does_ allow to get rid of a limb ortwo, an' grow new ones! So, you see, I'm responsible for my deeds, but,at the same time, I must look to God for escape from the consekinces, ifHe sees fit to let me escape. A man, bein' free, may drink himself intoa drunkard, but he's _not_ free to cure _himself_. He can't do it. Thedemon Crave has got him by the throat, forces him to open his mouth, andpours the fiery poison down. The thing that he is free to do is towill. He may, if he chooses, call upon God the Saviour to help him; an'my own belief is that no man ever made such a call in vain."

  "How, if that be so, are we to account for the failure of those who try,honestly strive, struggle, and agonise, yet obviously fail?"

  "It's not for the like o' me, Mr Brooke, to expound the outs an' ins o'all mysteries. Yet I will p'int out that you, what they call, beg thequestion, when you say that such people `honestly' strive. If a mantries to unlock a door with all his might and main, heart and soul,honestly tries, by turnin' the key the wrong way, he'll strive tilldoomsday without openin' the door! It's my opinion that a man may getinto difficulties of his own free-will. He can get out of them only byapplyin' to his Maker."

  During the latter part of this conversation the hunters had risen andwere making their way through the trackless woods, when the scoutstopped suddenly and gazed for a few seconds intently at the ground.Then he kneeled and began to examine the spot with great care. "Afootprint here," he said, "that tells of recent visitors."

  "Friends, Ben, or foes?" asked our hero, also going on his knees toexamine the marks. "Well, now, I see only a pressed blade or two ofgrass, but nothing the least like a footprint. It puzzles me more thanI can tell how you scouts seem so sure about invisible marks."

  "Truly, if they was invisible you would have reason for surprise, but my
wonder is that you don't see them. Any child in wood-craft might readthem. See, here is the edge o' the right futt making a faint impressionwhere the ground is soft--an' the heel; surely ye see the heel!"

  "A small hollow I do see, but as to its being a heel-print I could notpronounce on that. Has it been made lately, think you?"

  "Ay, last night or this morning at latest; and it was made by the futtof Jake the Flint. I know it well, for I've had to track him more thanonce an' would spot it among a thousand."

  "If Jake is in the neighbourhood, wouldn't it be well to return to thecave? He and some of his gang might attack it in our absence."

  "No fear o' that," replied the scout, rising from his inspection, "thefutt p'ints away from the cave. I should say that the Flint has binthere durin' the night, an' found that we kep' too sharp a look-out tobe caught sleepin'. Where he went to arter that no one can tell, but wecan hoof it an' see. Like enough he went to spy us out alone, an' thenreturned to his comrades."

  So saying, the scout "hoofed it" through the woods at a pace that testedCharlie Brooke's powers of endurance, exceptionally good though theywere. After a march of about four miles in comparative silence theywere conducted by the footprints to an open space in the midst of densethicket where the fresh ashes of a camp fire indicated that a party hadspent some time.

  "Just so. They came to see what was up and what could be done, foundthat nothin' partiklar was up an' nothin' at all could be done, so offthey go, mounted, to fish in other waters. Just as well for us."

  "But not so well for the fish in the other waters," remarked Charlie.

  "True, but we can't help that. Come, we may as well return now."

  While Charlie and the scout were thus following the trail, Buck Tom,lying in the cave, became suddenly much worse. It seemed as if somestring in his system had suddenly snapped and let the poor human wreckrun down.

  "Come here, Leather," he gasped faintly.

  Poor Shank, who never left him, and who was preparing food for him atthe time, was at his side in a moment, and bent anxiously over him.

  "D'you want anything?" he asked.

  "Nothing, Shank. Where's Dick?"

  "Outside; cutting some firewood."

  "Don't call him. I'm glad we are alone," said the outlaw, seizing hisfriend's hand with a feeble, tremulous grasp. "I'm dying, Shank, dearboy. You forgive me?"

  "Forgive you, Ralph! Ay--long, long ago I--" He could not finish thesentence.

  "I know you did, Shank," returned the dying man, with a faint smile."How it will fare with me hereafter I know not. I've but one word tosay when I get there, and that is--_guilty_! I--I loved your sister,Shank. Ay--you never guessed it. I only tell you now that I may sendher a message. Tell her that the words she once said to me about aSaviour have never left me. They are like a light in the darkness now.God bless you--Shank--and--May."

  With a throbbing heart and listening ear Shank waited for more; but nomore came. The hand he still held was lifeless, and the spirit of theoutlaw had entered within the veil of that mysterious Hereafter.