Bushy

Mr. Sukolt took her in his arms, thinking how near he had come to losing her, and what a lonely life his little girl was leading.

They had been at Hold Up Fort three days when Mr. Sukolt called Bushy to him and said: “You must not go far from the fort. It is unsafe now, on account of more Indians moving northward.”

“Oh, Padre, how could I stop here all day long while you are away drawing your old maps?” replied Bushy, with the most woe-begone face. “Jip and I will both die, sure as we live.” This funny remark sent Mr. Sukolt on his way, laughing most heartily.

For three days Bushy obeyed very faithfully, and did not lose sight of the wagons. When she stepped out into the sunshine on the morning of the fourth day, however, she felt as if she could not endure the imprisonment any longer. The wound in her head did not trouble her very much; it had been done up so carefully that now it seemed almost well. Why should she stay in the fort all day? The singing birds were free, the insects buzzing in the air were free, even the trees were free to wave their branches as they liked, and she, the most active of all the busy beings about, was told to sit down and keep still. She, who had such swift feet, and a swifter pony when she got tired of walking—was a prisoner.

“Ah!” argued Bushy, as she walked out to the stall where Jip fretted and pawed and snorted to get out, “this is very wrong, indeed. Padre has forgotten all about his little girl, Jip,” she murmured. “Don’t you wish we could go out as we used to? I should like to go after some flowers. The soldier captain said such beauties grew at the foot of the mountain, and I am sure that Padre would like some to press in his old botany book. I don’t think he would mind it much if we went out there, do you, Jip? You know that Padre just loves flowers. I think that we can go; shall we Jip?”

Jip neighed, stamped his feet, bowed his head, and showed such anxiety to get out that it quite settled the question. So Bushy jumped on his back, and tried to buckle her revolver into her belt, but in her hurry broke the clasp. “Oh, well, never mind!” she said aloud. “I don’t need a revolver to pick flowers, anyway,” and she thrust it into her blouse waist and let it fall to the belt line, where it swung as if in a pocket.

They galloped through the long grass, scaring the birds and chasing the rabbits before them, both hilarious with joy, at their recovered freedom.

“We have been in jail, Jip, haven’t we? And the sun seems brighter and the grass fresher and greener than when the Indians played us the bad tricks. And, oh, look, Jip, at the blue sky out there! It is beckoning us to come on.”

She gave the reins to Jip, and he fairly flew forward. Not a twinge of remorse disturbed Bushy, for was she not out solely to gather specimens for her father’s botany book? In the woods she dismounted, and, leading Jip by the bridle, walked briskly over the velvet moss, and ran and skipped from stone to stone, often making it difficult for Jip to follow her. She adorned the pony with flowers and then made a crown for herself, keeping up a constant chatter, Jip answering in his own peculiar way.

“Now, Jip,” said Bushy at last, as she sat down on the mossy mountain side, “I am going to make a trimming of wild flowers to go all around my blouse.” The joy of her freedom had blown Bushy’s usual good sense to the four winds. Without realizing it she had wandered far out of sight of the fort and the place was strange to her and time seemed to fly on wings. It was not until the trimming grew into yards and yards that she stopped to think.

Jip was making for the grass growing at a little distance—his dinner was all ready for him, but little girls can’t make a dinner on grass; and oh, she was so hungry! For some minutes she sat very still. All was silent about her, with only the insect buzzing, and Jip nibbling the grass, and a bough cracking here and there as a squirrel passed over it. The sunbeams fell through the leaves overhead and drew ever-varying patterns of light and shade on the grassy mound at her feet. Bushy thought, “I can’t see the fort anywhere,” and she began to feel uneasy.

“Jip,” she called, and the pony, ever watchful, trotted up to her.

“Guess we had better run home, old fellow, and get something to eat besides grass. I am awful hungry.” Jip neighed a yes and knelt for her to mount him. Off they went again, right down toward the valley; at least, that is what Bushy thought. But after they had gone on and on to her great surprise she came to a brook that leaped merrily over the stones, making beautiful little waterfalls that Bushy could never have seen before and forgotten. “How lovely!” she exclaimed; yet at the same time her face grew serious, and checking the pony she looked all about her.

“I do declare, Jip, we have taken the wrong way! Oh, of course, we ought to have gone to the left of the pine-tree. How stupid of you, Jip, to let me go wrong. Didn’t you know we were trying to get back to the fort?”

So back they went, but no pine-tree was to be found.

“Where is it, Jip? It was here a few minutes ago. We must have gone wrong again. How very careless!” It was something new to Bushy to be in a country where she could not travel as far as she wished yet never be out of sight of some landmark that would point out to her the location of Great Pine Mine. But now, after endless turning and walking, she confessed that she was hopelessly lost.

“Oh, Jip,” she sobbed, “how I wish I had minded the Padre! After dark the bears and maybe other dreadful animals will come after us, and I have nothing but one revolver and no belt to carry it in to be ready to shoot quick.” Remorse and grief such as she had not felt since she carried Pete to the fort against her father’s orders now stormed her heart.

After a few minutes’ thinking, some of her good sense came back to her, and she understood that she would never get back to camp unless she trusted to Jip or stayed where she was until some one came out to hunt her. “If Jip doesn’t seem to know what to do, I’ll stay just here and trust to Tom’s hunting me in the right place.

“Jip,” she said, patting his head and talking distinctly, “go home, go back to the Padre, do you understand? Go back to your dinner and stall; go hunt the Padre and take me home!” She jumped on him, threw down the bridle and gave him a smart cut with the whip, a thing she had not done ten times in the months she had possessed him. The horse whirled about as if frightened; danced and capered as if undecided what to do.

“Jip, dear old Jip, see if you can find the way back to the Padre now. I am sure you can.”

He whinnied intelligently, and Bushy, taking this as a token that he understood her, trusted to him and good fortune.

Bushy soon felt faint with hunger. It must be about four o’clock, she thought, looking at the sun. In two hours her father would come home and miss her. Her heart beat loud. What would he think?

All of a sudden Jip stopped and began sniffing and neighing joyfully, but before Bushy could think what was the matter with him off he started at a flying gallop, faster and faster, hardly touching the ground with his feet. Bushy clung to his mane breathless, never had the pony acted in this way before. A feeling of relief came over her. “Jip has smelled the way back and is running for dear life to get me home safe,” she thought.

But surely that white mass in the distance with dark figures walking to and fro was no soldiers’ fort. A cold shiver ran over her as they drew nearer. Jip was taking her to an Indian camp! “Whoa, Jip, whoa, old fellow!” but Jip did not seem to hear. Bushy knew that she was lost. The pony had evidently scented some old friend in the group, and was taking the little girl with him, a prey to her enemies. She was unable to get at her revolver, even should there be any good in defending herself. What service would killing one or even two Indians do her, she quickly reasoned as Jip dashed onward. Nothing would be gained by jumping off, for already her approach was observed.

Jip galloped in among the wigwams, Bushy clinging to his mane, pale with fright, and staring wildly at the redskins she feared so much. What a commotion followed! What jabbering! How the Indians crowded about! What caresses Jip got, and how surprised the savages were over the child’s appearance. The squaws fingered her blouse and pulled off some of the flowers. The young bucks noticed her saddle and felt of the bridle and bits. She was lifted from the pony by the young chief, who had evidently at some time been the master of Jip, and he handed her over to a cross old squaw, who was to hold her in safe-keeping.

“Oh, Jip!” wailed Bushy as she disappeared into the wigwam and faithful Jip tried to go to her, but the chief prevented him. Night was closing in and the thought of her poor father’s anxiety made her tears start afresh. Her sobs stirred the pity of a young Indian girl, sitting near the entrance of the wigwam. She gave Bushy a drink, and reassured her as much as she could. Bushy was soon left alone. The excitement of the day had made her feverish, and the wound on her head began to sting, but notwithstanding the grief and pain she began to plan to get away. She didn’t want to be roasted alive, or pierced with arrows. Of the loss of her scalp she was almost sure, so she thought it was no use fretting any more over her fluffy hair.

The more she thought the less she could conceive of any way to escape. The Indians set a watch over her—this seemed very serious. If they didn’t kill or scalp her now, they would certainly take her with them in their first attack on the miners and kill her before their very eyes. Indeed, now that she came to think of it, she was sure they would do that.

Fatigue and pain had exhausted her, and the sickening fear of a cruel death was too much. Brave Bushy for the second time showed weakness and fainted away on the little bed of leaves where the squaw had placed her.