Mildred at Home: With Something About Her Relatives and Friends.

"Did you see our new sister last night, Celestia Ann?" asked Annis, busy adorning the breakfast-table in her home with flowers.

"Yes, I reckon I did, Annis. Wasn't I in to the readin', prayin', and singin'? Yes, I see her, and I think she's about the purtiest creeter that I ever sot eyes on. I on'y hope she'll turn out as good as she's purty. I wish't she wasn't a furriner, though; for somehow I can't seem to like 'em quite so well as our own folks."

Chapter Fifteenth

"Calamity is man's true touchstone."

In their retreat after the attack upon the emigrant train to which Rupert and Don belonged, the Indians passed again over the ground where they had shot down the latter.

He still lay motionless and insensible, just as he had fallen from his horse. Several of the savages dismounted and stooped over him, one drawing a scalping-knife from his belt, and with the other hand seizing Rupert by the hair.

At that instant consciousness returned. Rupert opened his eyes, and seeing the gleaming knife lifted high in the air, sent up a swift but silent cry to God for help.

The Indian's hold upon his hair suddenly relaxed, and the knife was returned to his belt. He had changed his mind, as he gave his companions to understand in a few words quite unintelligible to Rupert, who was indeed again fast losing consciousness; an answering sentence or two came indistinctly to his ear as sounds from the far distance; then he knew nothing more for a time, how long he could not tell; but on recovering consciousness he found himself strapped to the back of an Indian pony which was slowly toiling up a steep ascent; a narrow path winding round a mountain; on the right a rocky wall, on the other a sheer descent of many hundred feet.

Rupert turned dizzy, sick, and faint as he caught a glimpse of the frightful precipice, the foaming stream and jagged rocks at its base; and but for the thongs that bound him firmly to the back of his steed, he must inevitably have fallen and been dashed to pieces upon them.

He could not in that first moment remember what had befallen him, and called in a faint voice upon his brother, "Don, where are we?"

No reply, and he called again, more faintly than before, for he was very weak from pain and loss of blood, "Don, Don!"

An Indian's "Ugh!" and a few words in an unknown tongue answered him from the rear.

The sounds were guttural and harsh, and seemed to him to command silence.

Instantly he comprehended that he was a prisoner and in whose hands; sorely wounded too, for every movement of his pony gave him exquisite pain; and now memory recalled the events of the afternoon – the chase, the stinging shot, the fall from his horse, then the waking as from a dream, to feel the grasp upon his hair and see the scalping-knife held aloft in the air and just ready to descend upon his devoted head.

Question upon question crowded upon his mind. Where were his late companions, Morton and Smith? were they killed? were they prisoners like himself? or had they escaped? Had the train been attacked; and if so, what was the result? Oh, above all, where was Don, the younger brother, over whom he was to have watched with paternal care? He would have defended Don's life and liberty with his own; but, alas, the opportunity was denied him.

He thought of his own probable fate: what was there to expect but torture and death? He remembered to have read that the Indians sometimes carried a prisoner a long distance that the rest of their tribe might share the delight of witnessing his dying torments. Rupert shuddered at the thought that this was the fate reserved for him, and feeling very weak, half hoped he might die on the way to meet it.

Silently he lifted up his heart in prayer to God for help and succor in this his sore extremity, and that the consolations of God might not be small to the dear ones at home – especially the tender mother – when the news of his sad fate should reach them.

The last gleams of the setting sun lighted up the lofty pathway they were pursuing, but down in that deep valley at the foot of the mountain it was already growing dark; he could see into its depths as he lay with his cheek resting on the neck of the pony; turning his head, the wall of rock towering on the other side came into view.

He was bound hand and foot and could lift only his head; he seemed to have hardly strength for that; but, anxious to learn the number of his captors and whether he were the only prisoner, he made an effort, feebly lifted it, and glanced before and behind him.

He could only see that there were several mounted Indians ahead, and one or more in his rear, all hideous in war-paint and feathers; there might be many more at each end of the line – for they were travelling single file, along the narrow, winding path, but a small portion of which came within the line of his vision. And there might be other prisoners, though he saw none.

Even that slight exertion had exhausted him; his head dropped, and again pain of body and distress of mind were forgotten in a long and death-like swoon.

It was night, lighted only by the stars, and the path winding downward, when again he revived for a few moments shivering and benumbed with cold, weak and faint with hunger and loss of blood, and suffering greatly from the pain of his wounds.

He heard no sound but the rush of a mountain torrent and the clatter of the horses' hoofs over the stony way; he had scarcely more than noted these things when again his senses forsook him.

When next he revived, two of his captors were busy in undoing the rope that made him fast to the pony, which was standing stock still on level ground only a few feet from a fire of brushwood, that sent up flame and smoke and blazed and crackled with a cheery sound which spoke of warmth for benumbed limbs, while some venison and trout broiling on the coals gave out a savory smell.

Several warriors were grouped about the fire, one giving particular attention to the cooking, the others lounging in picturesque and restful attitudes on the grass.

Rupert was quickly lifted from the pony and laid on the grass beside them, with his feet to the fire. Then the cord was taken from his wrists and a bit of the smoking venison put into his hand. He devoured it ravenously, and, his hunger appeased, presently fell into a deep sleep; having first committed himself and dear ones to the care and protection of that God who is everywhere present and almighty to defend and save.

His wounds had been rudely bound up in a way to stanch the flow of blood, it being the desire of his captors to keep him alive, at least for a time. More mercifully disposed than they oftentimes are, and knowing that he was too weak for flight, they left him unbound through the night, merely fastening a cord round each arm and securing the other end to the arm of a stout warrior, one of whom lay on each side of the prisoner.

Rupert had noted as they laid him down that no other white man was in sight; this gave him hope that the rest had escaped; yet he could not know that it was not by death, so that the discovery brought small relief to his anxiety of mind on their account.

Morning found him feverish and ill, his wounds very painful; but at an early hour the Indians resumed their line of march with him in the midst, strapped to the pony as before.

It was a terrible journey, climbing steep ascents, creeping along narrow ledges of rock, where a single false step would have sent them down hundreds of feet, to be dashed in pieces upon the sharp points of the rocks below; now descending by paths as steep, narrow, and dangerous as those by which they had ascended, and anon fording streams so deep and swift that the helpless, hapless prisoner was in imminent danger of drowning.

He, poor fellow, was too ill to note the direction in which they were travelling, though he had a vague idea that it was in the main south-westerly.

Beside the difficulties and dangers of the way, he suffered intensely from the pain of his wounds, and often from intolerable thirst.

One day he woke as from a troubled sleep to find himself lying on a bearskin in an Indian wigwam, a young girl sitting beside him embroidering a moccasin.

Their eyes met, and hers, large, soft, and dark as those of a gazelle, lighted up with pleased surprise.

"You are better, señor," she said, in low musical tones, and in the Spanish tongue.

Rupert understood her; he was fond of languages, and had gained a good knowledge of Spanish from Dr. Landreth, who had learned to speak it fluently during his long sojourn in South America.

"Yes," he said faintly in that tongue, "and you have been my kind nurse?"

"It has been happiness to care for the weak and wounded stranger," she said in her liquid tones, "though I little thought he could speak to me in my own language; for you are not my countryman, señor; your face is too fair."

"I am from the United States," he replied. "And you, fair lady?"

"I am a Mexican, a captive among the Indians like yourself," was the mournful reply, tears gathering in the beautiful eyes.

His heart was touched with sympathy, and he was opening his lips to express it; but with playful authority she bade him be quiet and not waste his feeble strength in talk.

Then she brought him food and drink prepared by her own fair hands, and fed him too – for he had scarce strength to feed himself – and directly his hunger was satisfied he fell asleep again.

When again he woke it was night; the stars were shining in the sky, as he could see through the opening in the top of the wigwam left for the escape of smoke, and by their glimmer he could faintly perceive the outlines of dusky forms lying on all sides of him; their quietude and the sound of their breathing telling that they slept.

The impulse came strongly upon him to rise and flee – captivity was so dreadful, liberty so sweet – and it might be that, though so strangely spared up to this time, torture and death were yet to be his portion if he remained.

He started up, but only to fall back again in utter exhaustion. He could do nothing to save himself, and there was no earthly helper near; but sweetly to his mind came the opening verses of the forty-sixth psalm, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will we not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea," and silently committing himself and loved ones – all, alas, so far distant – to the care of that almighty Friend, he fell asleep again.

He was quite alone when next he woke, and it was broad daylight, for a bright sunbeam had found its way through the opening in the roof, and laid bare to his view the whole interior of the wigwam, with all its filth and lack of the comforts of civilized life.

All was silence within, but from without came the merry shouts and laughter of the Indian children at play. Presently one pushed aside the curtain of skins answering for a door, and a pair of wild black eyes stared Rupert in the face for a moment; then the curtain fell, and soft, swift-retreating footfalls came faintly to his ear.

Not many minutes had passed when it was again drawn aside, and Juanita, the Mexican girl he had seen the day before, stepped within, dropping it behind her.

Her sweet though melancholy smile seemed to light up the forlorn hut as she bade Rupert good-morning in her liquid tones, using the Spanish tongue as before, and asked if he could eat the morsel she had brought. Alas, not such a breakfast as would have been served him in his own far-away home.

It was a broiled fish, hot from the coals, laid upon a bit of bark covered with green oak-leaves in lieu of a napkin. He thanked her gratefully, and asked if she could give him some water with which to wash his face and hands before eating.

Setting his breakfast on the ground beside him, she went out, and presently returned with a gourd filled with cold, clear water from a little stream that ran sparkling and dancing down the mountain-side but a few yards away.

He first took a long deep draught, for he was suffering with feverish thirst, then laved face and hands, she handing him his own pocket-handkerchief, which had been washed in the stream and dried in the sun, to use in place of a towel.

He recognized it; then glancing down at his person, saw that he was attired in the clothes he had on when taken, and that, as they were free from blood-stains, they too must have been washed by some kindly hand and replaced upon him after their cleansing.

"How much I owe you!" he said, looking gratefully at her.

"No, not much," she answered, with shy modesty. "Now eat, señor, or your breakfast will be cold."

"I must first rest a little," he returned, with a sigh of weariness, as he fell back exhausted upon his rude couch.

She caught up several deer and bear skins that lay scattered about, rolled them together and placed them as a pillow under his head; then drawing two small objects from beneath that one on which he had been lying, she held them up to his gaze, asking, "Do you value these, señor?"

"Indeed do I," he cried, stretching out an eager hand; "my precious little Bible and my medicine case! I am thankful beyond expression that they have been preserved to me. How did it happen, señora?"

She explained that she had seen them in the possession of his captor, had begged that they might be given to her, and the Indian, thinking them of little worth, had readily complied with her request.

He poured out renewed thanks as he took up his Bible and turned over the leaves, gazing upon it the while with loving, delighted eyes.

"An English book, is it not?" she asked, watching him with mingled surprise and curiosity.

"Yes," he said, "the Book of books; God's own holy Word. You have read it in Spanish, señora?"

"The Bible? We are not allowed to touch it; our Church forbids; I never saw one before," and she gazed upon it with a kind of awed curiosity and interest.

"A Papist," he thought, pityingly; "peradventure it was for her sake I was sent here – that I may lead her from that darkness into the true light. If life be spared me, I will, with God's help, do my best."

She broke in upon his thoughts. "Come, señor, eat, your fish will be quite cold."

When Juanita left him, carrying away with her the remains of his repast, an old squaw paid him a short visit, looking curiously at him, and grunting out several questions which were utterly unintelligible to him; he could only shake his head and feebly sign to her that he did not understand.

She left him, and he took up his book, but found the light was not sufficient to enable him to read, for it was a very small edition which he had been accustomed to carry in his pocket.

He was heartily glad when Juanita again appeared, this time with the moccasin she was embroidering in her hand, and seated herself at his side.

"I am stronger to-day, señora," he said, "and can listen and talk; tell me of yourself."

To that she answered briefly that she was an orphan, both parents having died while she was yet a mere infant; that she had lived in the family of an uncle, where she was made to feel her poverty and dependence, and her life rendered far from happy; that some months ago the Indians had made a raid upon her uncle's ranch, killed him and all his family, and carried her off a prisoner to this mountain fastness; that she had been adopted by one of their chiefs, Thunder-Cloud, and had no hope of any better fate than a life spent among the savages.

"Too sad a fate for one so beautiful, señora," Rupert said; "but do not despair; God, who rescued Daniel from the lions' den, and Jonah from the belly of the whale, can save us also even from this stronghold of our savage foe."

"I know nothing of the occurrences you speak of," she said, "and I dare not venture to address any petition directly to the great God; but I pray daily to the Blessed Virgin and the saints to have pity upon a poor friendless girl and restore me to my country and my people, though, alas! I know not of one in whose veins flows a single drop of my blood."

"Ah, señora," replied Rupert, "you need not fear to approach the great God in the name of His dear Son, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. He bids us do so, and tells us that He is the hearer and answerer of prayers."

He paused, closed his eyes, and lifted up his heart in silent supplication for her and for himself.

She thought he slept, and sat very quietly, busy with her embroidery and waiting for him to wake again.

At length he opened his eyes, and asked her if she knew what fate the Indians had reserved for him.

She told him a council had been held while he lay unconscious from his wounds; that there was a heated discussion, some of the braves being set upon putting him to a torturing death, while others would have held him for ransom; but finally Thunder-Cloud, whose shot had brought him to the ground, had claimed him as his peculiar property, and declared his intention to adopt him as his son. "So," she concluded, "you, señor, need have no fear of being slain by any of the tribe, unless caught in an attempt to escape."

"God be praised!" he ejaculated, with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, "for life is sweet so long as there is a possibility of future restoration to home and loved ones."

"You will attempt to escape?" she asked, with a look of apprehension; "it will be very dangerous, señor, for they are terribly fierce – these Apaches."

He looked at her with a faint smile. "I am far too weak to think of it now, but one day, when I have recovered my health and strength, I may find an opportunity."

"And I shall be left alone with the savages as before," she said, with a touchingly mournful cadence in her exquisite voice.

"You must fly also, señora," he answered. "I think it is to you I owe my life, for have you not been my faithful nurse through I know not how long a sickness? Then how could I be so ungrateful as to leave you here in captivity while I seek home and freedom for myself?"

"You have home and kindred, father and mother perhaps, señor?" she said inquiringly, the soft eyes she fixed upon his face wistful and dim with unshed tears.

"Ah," he answered with emotion, "the thought of their anguish when they shall learn my fate doubles my distress."

"Then," she sighed, "better to be alone in the world, like me, with none to care whether you live or die."

"Nay, sweet lady, there is one who cares very much, though he has known you so short a time," he said with a grateful look; "one who would feel doubly desolate were you to leave him here alone with his captors."

Chapter Sixteenth

"Calamity is man's true touchstone."

"You have talked too much, señor," Juanita said with concern, noting the look of utter exhaustion that came over his face with the last words; "I am but a poor nurse to have allowed it. Your lips are parched too," she added, dropping her work and gliding from the tent to return a moment later with a gourd full of the cold, sparkling water of the mountain stream.

She raised his head and held the cup to his lips.

He drank with feverish eagerness.

As he lay back upon his couch again Juanita remarked that his wounds must be painful and in need of dressing, adding that Light-of-the-Morning, Thunder-Cloud's wife, who had great knowledge of the virtues of many plants and roots growing in that region, would soon come in and dress them with a certain kind of leaf that was famed among the Indians for its healing qualities, and had already worked wonders for him.

"And she has been dressing my hurts all these days?" asked Rupert.

"Yes."

"Ah, how long have I lain here, señora?"

"Three weeks, señor," she answered, and at that moment the old squaw he had seen before came in bearing a bark basket filled with the healing leaves.

Juanita withdrew to the farther side of the wigwam, and seated herself with her back toward them while Light-of-the-Morning did her work.

The task was performed a trifle roughly, but with dexterity and skill, and the applications proved very cooling and soothing to Rupert's wounds, which before had tortured him with a sensation of dryness and burning heat.

He returned warm thanks, Juanita acting as interpreter.

The squaw nodded, her grim features relaxing in a slight smile, as of pleasure, that her labors were appreciated; then pointing to Rupert's medicine case, lying by his side, asked what it was.

Juanita repeated the query in Spanish, and translated Rupert's answer into Apache, which she had learned to speak with tolerable fluency.

The squaw then asked for some medicine for a sick child in the camp, whose ailment baffled her skill.

Rupert was a good druggist, and had sufficient knowledge of medicine to prescribe for the child when he had heard what were the symptoms; also the proper remedy was in his case, and he gave it. The result was satisfactory, and raised him in the esteem of the whole village.

Squaws, pappooses, a few lads and young girls, and a sprinkling of old men were all that were in it at this time, the braves having gone again upon the war-path. This Rupert learned from Juanita.

In a few days he was able to crawl out from the wigwam and lie on a bearskin, which she laid for him underneath a spreading tree. He found the pure mountain air very delightful and invigorating, and from that time his recovery was rapid.

He was soon able to sit up a part of the day and amuse himself with whittling bits of soft wood, making whistles for the little Indian boys and a variety of toys for the girls – tiny chairs, tables, spoons, knives and forks – which greatly delighted them.

Thus he made friends of the children, and also of their mothers, while to his generous nature it was a great satisfaction to be able to give such pleasure even to these rude children of the desert.

Also, as he picked up their language, he tried to tell them the old, old story so dear to every Christian heart. To Juanita he was able to tell it at once, and often as she sat by his side during his convalescence, he read to her passages from his Bible, stopping now and then to give an explanation or answer a question; for she listened with interest and a desire to fully comprehend.

That his Bible had been spared to him was a source of deep joy and thankfulness, such comfort did he find in its many great and precious promises.

His heart was often oppressed with sadness as he thought of Don, and longed to know his fate, or of the dear ones at home and the distress they would undoubtedly feel on account of his disappearance. He supposed the report would be that he had been killed by the Indians, and pictured to himself his mother's anguish on hearing the terrible tidings; his father's also, for he knew that to both their children were very near and dear.

When overwhelmed by these sorrowful reflections, his only comfort was in prayer to Him who is mighty to save, and who, he doubted not, was able both to give consolation to his loved ones and to deliver him from the hands of his foes.

His situation was not an enviable one at the first, but it became less so upon the return of the braves, most of whom regarded him with scowls and looks of hate.

He gave them back pleasant looks, was on the watch to do them any little service in his power, but avoided them when he could without offence. As time went on he found opportunities to win their good-will.

From a boy he had made a practice of learning all that he could on every subject, and about every kind of work that came in his way; and now he found use for some kinds of knowledge that most lads would think it beneath them to acquire; and he was not only an expert whittler, but equally accomplished as a cook, and he taught the squaws to make savory dishes that the braves, their husbands and sons, loved, thus winning favor for himself.

Yet it seemed not altogether good policy; for finding him so useful they were the more determined never to part with him; and while treating him well in other respects, kept him a close prisoner in that little mountain fastness, watching with vigilance his every movement, and never suffering him to go out of sight of the village.

Still, Rupert never for a moment faltered in his determination to effect his escape; but while constantly on the alert for an opportunity, was extremely careful to do nothing to excite suspicion that such was his purpose.