Frank steals the money.
Hastily buckling the flap, he pushed the saddle-bags back to their place, and arose to his feet.
He spent a moment in arranging his blankets, so that anyone who took a casual glance at them would believe that they covered a human form, took his overcoat on his arm, picked up his rifle and accoutrements, which he had placed at the head of his bed, and stole silently away into the darkness.
He walked a few rods with noiseless footsteps, and then, breaking into a run, flew over the ground at a rate of speed he had never equalled before.
"I've got it! I've got it at last!" he kept whispering to himself; "and if I can only keep it, I am sure of seeing home and friends once more. I will keep it. I'll fight till I drop before I'll give it up. I am rather sorry that I had to take it all, but I was afraid that if I stopped to divide it, one or the other of them would wake up and discover me. Well, Leon stands in no need of it, for he doesn't want to go home. Besides, he has Eben to take care of him, while I must look out for myself."
The boy would have been greatly amazed if anyone had told him that the hunter had been laying his plans to do just what he (Frank) had done.
Eben never intended to guide the boys to Fort Laramie. His object was to lead them into the wilderness beyond Julesburg, where there were but few wagons to be met at that season of the year, steal Leon's money and Frank's rifle and blankets, and leave them to shift for themselves. But Frank got the start of him, and we shall see what the hunter did about it.
Frank very soon ran himself out of breath, and was obliged to settle down into a walk.
Knowing that his absence would ere long be discovered, and that an effort would be made to overtake him and recover the money, he stopped frequently to listen for sounds of pursuit, holding himself in readiness to leave the trail and seek a hiding-place in the grass if he heard the sound of horses' hoofs. But Leon and the hunter still slept soundly, and Frank went on his way unmolested.
The five miles that lay between his own camp and the camp of the emigrant seemed to have lengthened out wonderfully since Frank passed that way, but just as the day was breaking he came within sight of the canvas cover of the wagon, and saw the light of the camp-fire shining through it.
Breaking into a run, he dashed up to the wagon, creating no little excitement among the emigrant's children, who ran to their mother and clung to her dress for protection.
The woman looked up from her cooking, the man, who was harnessing his mules, faced suddenly about, and both stared at him, as if to ask what he meant by his intrusion.
"My friend," said Frank, speaking rapidly, and keeping his gaze directed down the trail in the direction from which he had come, "will you do a favor for me?"
"Anything in reason," was the encouraging reply.
"Thank you," said Frank gratefully. "Do you see this rifle? It cost forty dollars in Boston. I will give it to you if you will let me hide in your wagon and ride with you until we reach one of the mail-stations. I have a little money in my possession, and am in danger of being robbed."
"Mercy preserve us!" exclaimed the emigrant's wife.
"You see," continued Frank, "I started from St. Joe, intending to go to Fort Laramie, but I have seen enough of this Western country, and now I want to go home."
"I don't blame you," said the emigrant. "We want to go home, too."
"Then you can imagine how I should feel if I were robbed and left stranded here on the plains. I assure you that if you will let me go with you and hide in your wagon until all danger is past——"
At this moment Frank discovered something moving rapidly along the trail, about half a mile away.
He looked closely at it, and saw that it was a horseman, who was urging his way forward at full speed.
"That's Eben," said he, in a husky voice. "He is the man who wants to rob me. Don't you believe a word he says to you. If he asks you about me, tell him that you haven't seen me."
So saying, Frank sprang into the wagon and began covering himself up with the bedding that was scattered over the bottom.
In a second more he was concealed, boots and all.
"If we tell him that, we'll be lying," said the woman thoughtfully.
"Well, mebbe it would be stretching things just a little," said the man slowly, "but in a case like this—that's a mighty fine rifle of his'n, Jane, and squirrels are plenty in Kaintuck."
"And this rifle will bring them out of the tallest hickory in the woods," said Frank, sticking his head out from under the quilts for a moment, and then drawing it hastily back again.
The emigrant once more turned his attention to his mules, the woman went on with her preparations for breakfast, and presently the horseman galloped up to the camp and drew rein.
"Say, pilgrim, have you seen a boy dressed in store clothes, and carrying a rifle in his hands, pass along the trail this morning?" inquired the horseman.
The concealed runaway, who had taken care to leave a little opening among the quilts, so that he could hear all that was said, trembled violently as the familiar tones fell upon his ear.
It was the hunter, sure enough. He held his breath in suspense, while he waited for the emigrant's reply.
"Nary boy," drawled the man. "There aint nobody passed this camp since sundown last night."
"Then he must have left the trail and taken to the grass," said Eben. "I've missed him somewhere, but I'll find him if I have to hunt the whole country over."
"Has he been a-doing of anything?"
"I should say he had. He stole over three hundred dollars out of my saddle-bags early this morning."
The exclamations this statement called forth from the emigrant and his wife made Frank tremble again.
What if they should take it into their heads to believe Eben's story instead of his own? The emigrant's next words, however, put him somewhat at his ease.
"Well, I aint seen him go past here," said he. "What do you reckon you'll do with him if you ketch him?"
The hunter did not answer the question in words. He drew his revolver and held it off at arm's length, as if he were taking aim at something, at the same time digging his heels into the sides of his horse, which sprang away at the top of his speed.
When Eben was out of sight, the emigrant stepped upon the wagon-tongue and called to Frank:
"Look here, neighbor," he exclaimed, "that man says you robbed him! How is that?"
"There isn't a word of truth in it," replied Frank. "He never had his hands on the money I've got in my pocket. Did you take a good look at him? Well, now take a good look at me, and make up your mind which of us you would rather believe."
"There's something in that," said the emigrant. "You look like an honest boy, and I hope you be. You'd best stay in there a spell, I reckon. That feller may come back after a while, and if he gets his eye on you, I am afraid it will go hard with you. I'll hand you in a bite to eat."
The emigrant stepped down from the wagon-tongue, and when he came back again, he placed in Frank's hand a tin plate, containing a piece of bacon and corn-bread, and a quart cup filled with coffee. He and his family ate their breakfast while seated around the fire.
When the meal was over, the mules were hitched to the wagon, the woman and her children climbed in, and the emigrant mounted his seat and drove off.
They had not been on the trail more than two hours before Frank, who was constantly on the watch, discovered Eben coming back. The instant he caught sight of him he made a dash for his hiding-place, and the emigrant and his wife covered him up with the quilts.
There was no need of all this trouble, however, for the hunter never looked toward the wagon as he galloped by, and only shook his head sullenly when the emigrant asked him if he had found the boy of whom he was in search.
Frank's adventures on the plains were now ended. For a few hours he was extremely nervous and uneasy, and always sought his hiding-place whenever a horseman wearing a military overcoat made his appearance on the trail behind them; but Eben was a good many miles away, and it was a long time before Frank heard of him again.
He remained with the hospitable emigrant until they arrived at one of the stations of the Overland Stage Company, and there he took leave of him and his family, after presenting the man with his rifle, according to promise, and secured a seat in a coach bound for Atchison.
Having seen him fairly on his way toward home, we will bid him good-by for the present, and return to Leon, whom we left fast asleep on his blanket.
When Frank had been gone a little more than an hour, and the first gray streaks of dawn were beginning to make their appearance in the east, Eben suddenly sat up and looked about him.
After stretching his arms and yawning, he arose and mended the fire; and it was while he was thus engaged that he discovered Frank's bed was empty.
He looked toward the place where the horses were staked out, and saw that they were all there, but he noticed that Frank's rifle and overcoat were gone, and his suspicions were aroused at once.
Stepping quickly to Leon's side, he seized him by the shoulder and shook him roughly.
"Pilgrim! pilgrim!" he shouted, in stentorian tones. "Wake up here! That pardner o' your'n 's skipped!"
Leon was wide awake in an instant. He looked toward Frank's bed, and, uttering an exclamation of alarm, caught up his saddle-bags, unbuckled one of the flaps, and thrust his hand into the pocket.
Everything that ought to have been there was there except the article of which he was in search.
He tumbled the contents of both pockets on the ground, tossed them in all directions, but the little round package, wrapped in a piece of newspaper, was not to be found.
"It's gone!" gasped Leon, his hands falling helplessly by his side.
"You don't mean the money?" cried the hunter, whose excitement was fully equal to Leon's.
"Yes, I do mean the money," replied the boy, who felt like yelling with indignation. "It beats me how he got it, for I have kept a close watch over it ever since he told me that he wanted to go home. There were more than three hundred dollars in that roll, too."
The hunter muttered something that sounded very much like the heaviest kind of an imprecation.
"You're a nice one to have money!" said he angrily. "Why didn't you keep it in your pocket?"
"Because I was afraid it would work out and get lost. Where are you going?" said Leon, as the hunter turned and ran toward his horse.
"I'm going to have that money back," said Eben, in savage tones. "He can't be far off, for he hasn't been gone long enough to put many miles between him and us. He was in his bed the last time I fixed the fire, and fast asleep, too, for I saw him. If I come up with him, he'll never steal any more money, I bet you!"
"Don't be too hard on him," said Leon, who did not like the expression he saw in his companion's face. "He is my cousin, you know."
"I don't care if he's the President's cousin! We make short work of thieves in this country. You stay and watch the camp until I come back."
Eben put the saddle and bridle on his horse in a remarkably short space of time, and, springing upon his back, galloped away, paying no heed to Leon's repeated request that he would not harm Frank if he succeeded in overtaking him.
"I am really afraid that boy has got himself into a box," thought Leon, as he settled back on his hard bed. "I never saw a man in such a rage as Eben is. He takes a good deal of interest in my affairs, but I hope he'll not let his zeal carry him too far. Frank has got me into a box, too, for if I should grow tired of life in the mountains, and conclude to go back to the States, how am I to get there?"
The indignation Leon felt when he first discovered that his money had been stolen, had given away to a feeling of uneasiness.
He was certain that Eben would overtake his cousin. A boy on foot could not possibly escape from a man on horseback, especially on the plains, and if he would simply bring him back and hand over the three hundred dollars, all would be well; but he was afraid that the angry hunter might take it into his head to punish Frank in some way.
He felt the loss keenly, but he was not troubled concerning the future.
Eben had told him that the traders, who were located at the various posts during the winter, were in the habit of furnishing supplies on credit to responsible hunters and trappers, who would bind themselves to sell their furs to no one but the man of whom the supplies were obtained.
So the loss of his money would not prevent him and Eben from spending a few months in the mountains, as they had intended to do.
But still he wanted funds to use, in case of emergency, and he hoped that Eben would succeed in overtaking Frank.
Leon did not cook any breakfast, for he could not have eaten a mouthful if he had tried; his anxiety and suspense were too great.
He spent four hours in walking back and forth between the camp-fire and the trail, and presently he saw Eben coming back.
The expression his face wore when he rode up made Leon afraid to speak to him. It was evident that he had had his trouble for his pains.
While the boy was wondering how Frank could have effected his escape, the hunter dismounted, and walking over to the place where the two mustangs were staked out, he cut the lariats with which they were confined, and set them at liberty.
This done, he hurried into the camp, and, without saying a word, proceeded to gather up all the articles Frank had left behind, as well as those belonging to Leon.
He picked up the saddle-bags, all the blankets, the meal-bags which contained the boys' clothing, and threw them across the neck of his horse.
After balancing them so that they would not fall off, he came back and picked up Leon's double-barrel, and also the powder-flask and shot-pouch belonging to it.
"What are you going to do?" asked the boy, who had watched the singular movements with surprise, not unmingled with alarm.
"I am off for the mountains," answered Eben in sullen tones. "I have the best notion in the world to knock you over before I go for not keeping that money in your pocket where it belonged."
"But what are you taking my horse for? If you are going to the mountains, why can't I go with you?"
The hunter made no reply. He sprang upon the back of his own horse and galloped away, followed by the liberated mustangs, and leaving Leon standing beside the fire, almost overwhelmed with astonishment and terror.
Leon, who was by no means dull of comprehension, had no difficulty in finding an explanation of the hunter's actions. The latter had deliberately robbed and deserted the boy who had trusted him.
This conviction came upon Leon with stunning force, and literally crushed him to the ground.
He fell down beside the fire, and for a few moments gave way to the most violent grief. Then, suddenly recovering himself, he sprang to his feet and ran swiftly down the trail, shouting the hunter's name and imploring him to come back.
But Eben was out of hearing. In a few seconds more he disappeared over a swell, and Leon was alone on the prairie.
How he managed to exist during the next few hours he never knew.
He was animated with but one idea, and that was to reach Julesburg in the shortest possible space of time.
He knew it was a military post, and he hoped to find the hunter there. If he did, he would seek an interview with the commandant, tell him his story, and have the thief arrested.
"But how much better off will I be then than I am now?" sobbed Leon, after he had thought the matter over. "I shall get my property back, of course; but what use will it be to me? I would not dare start for St. Joe alone, for there are Indians along the route, and I have heard Eben say that it will not be long before the roads will be blocked with snow. I suppose I might find a train of empty freight-wagons going back, but who will feed me when I have no money to pay for what I eat? I can't become a hunter, now that Eben has gone back on me, and I—— Oh, I wish I had never seen or heard of Frank Fuller! I wouldn't be here now if he had stayed at home."
Leon ran until he was all out of breath, and then slackened his speed to a walk.
He had heard the hunter say that the nearest post was only ten miles distant; but the miles on the prairies are longer than they are in the States, and it was past the middle of the afternoon when he came in sight of the little collection of tents and mud-houses that bore the name of Julesburg.
He directed his course toward the stockade, which stood on a hill a little apart from the town, but when he came to the gate he paused, for there was an armed sentinel pacing back and forth in front of it.
"Do you allow strangers in here?" asked the boy timidly.
"Yes; if they come on business," answered the sentry.
Leon, replying that he had come on business, and very important business, too, walked through the gate and paused to see which way he would go next.
He was surprised at the extent of the fortifications. In the center was a parade-ground large enough to admit of the evolutions of a regiment.
This parade-ground was surrounded by broad, level walks, the space between the walks and the stockade being occupied with warehouses, the sutler and trader's stores, barracks, officers' quarters, and stables, all built of sun-dried bricks.
A tall flag-staff arose from the parade-ground, and from it floated the Stars and Stripes.
Leon could see nothing of Eben, but he did see three or four men lounging in front of the open door of one of the buildings, and toward them he bent his steps.
The building proved to be a stable, and the men were government teamsters.
When they saw Leon approaching, they ceased their conversation and looked at him with curiosity.
"Good-afternoon!" said the boy, speaking in as steady a voice as he could command. "Do any of you happen to know a hunter named Eben Webster?"
"I reckon," replied one of the men; "and we don't know nothing good of him, neither."
"Have you seen him about here to-day?" asked Leon.
"About here? About this fort?" exclaimed another teamster. "Not much. He'll never come through one of our gates unless he comes with a guard over him. You don't want no dealings with him, pilgrim. He's a thief."
"I know it," replied Leon, his lips quivering and his eyes filling with tears. "He stripped me of everything I had, except the clothes I stand in, and left me alone on the prairie."
The teamsters began to prick up their ears when they heard this, and two or three of their companions, who were at work in the stable, came to the door to listen to the conversation.
Leon, finding that he had an attentive audience, began and told the story of his troubles, hoping that, if he could get the men interested, they would assist him in some way.
He told nothing but the truth as far as he went, but he omitted one very important thing which the wagon-master, an old, gray-headed man, who had not yet spoken, supplied for him, after asking a few questions.
"Have you got a father?" he asked.
Leon replied that he had.
"And a mother, too?"
The boy nodded his head.
"Then, my young tenderfoot, you're a runaway, that's what you are. No father or mother livin' would let a kid like you come out here to make his bread and bacon by huntin' and trappin'. You're a nice lad to talk about roughin' it in the mountains, aint you, now? Jest step over here 'longside of me and look at yourself."
The old wagon-master spoke seriously, and his words did not raise a laugh at Leon's expense, as the latter expected they would. He hung his head, and it was all he could do to keep his tears from bursting out afresh.
One of the teamsters declared that it was a perfect shame, and this remark brought about a general conversation, during which Leon learned how foolish he had been in taking into his confidence a man with whom he was not acquainted.
Eben had never been post-hunter at Laramie, nor anywhere else. He was nothing but a renegade, who had married an Indian wife that he might share in the annuities that are yearly distributed among the different friendly tribes.
Leon was also informed that Eben had fled the country a few months before to escape arrest; that he had never killed eight hundred buffaloes during all the years he had been on the plains, and that he was too lazy and too big a coward to spend a winter in the mountains, hunting and trapping. He much preferred to settle down in his teepee and eat government rations.
As for the articles he had stolen, the boy might just as well give them up for lost. Eben had doubtless drawn a bee-line for the place where the band to which he belonged was encamped, and Leon would never see him again.
While this conversation was going on, the wagon-master arose and walked away.
He was gone but a few minutes, and when he came back he beckoned to Leon, who promptly joined him.
"Pilgrim," said he, as they walked away together, "I wish I was your father for 'bout half an' hour, so 't I could gin you a good trouncin' to pay you for runnin' away from a good home, and comin' out here where you aint got no sort of business in the world. But seein' I aint your father, I'm kinder sorry for you, though you aint wuth no sorrer, and I've been sayin' a good word to the trader for you. I heard him tell one of the leftenants last night that he reckoned he'd have to send to the States for a boy to help him take care on the store. You see, his last clerk, growin' tired of stayin' here, stole some money of his'n and put for home. Now, mebbe you can work yourself into his place."
Leon's thanks were cut short by their arrival at the door of the trader's store.
He followed the wagon-master in, and was presented to a rough-looking man, who stood behind the counter.
A long conversation followed, and when Leon was asked to tell his story, he omitted nothing. The trader scanned him closely, and finally inquired:
"Can you keep a set of books?"
"Yes, sir," replied Leon. "Either by single or double entry."
"Now, I don't want to hear no more about double-entry!" exclaimed the trader, growing red in the face, and dashing his clenched hand upon the counter. "That's the way my last clerk kept my books, and a nice mess he made of it. He swindled me out of five hundred or a thousand dollars. There's the books, just as he left them," added the trader, waving his hand toward the desk, "and I can't make head nor tail of them."
"Let me try," said Leon.
"Are you honest?"
"Well, I'll tell you what I am willing to do. I will come here on trial, if you will take me, and you can withhold my wages, whatever they are. If you see anything wrong about me, you need not pay me a cent."
"That's a fair proposition," said the trader. "Hang up your overcoat somewhere, and come around here."
Leon paused long enough to thank the kind-hearted wagon master for the assistance he had rendered him, and then, taking his stand behind the desk, set manfully to work to earn the money that was to pay his way back to the States. That was all he had in his mind now. His ambition to become a hunter was dead and buried out of sight.
All the rest of the day, and until twelve o'clock that night, the trader and his new clerk stood at the desk trying to straighten out the accounts, which Leon found to be in the greatest confusion.
And we may add that his mind was in great confusion, too. The sudden blighting of his long-cherished hopes seemed to have stunned him, and that strange malady, homesickness, from which Frank had suffered actually ever since leaving Albany, assailed him with the greatest fury.
Frank had not given way to it, for he had been buoyed up by the thought that, if he could only secure his cousin's money, he could at once turn his face toward Boston; but Leon had absolutely nothing to encourage him.
While they were at work, the trader casually remarked that he had paid his former clerk twenty dollars a month and board, and when Leon thought of the long months he must spend in that dreary place before he could save enough to take him back to Eaton, he felt like crying out in despair.
"I can't stand it! I can't stand it!" sobbed the repentant runaway, as he tossed about on his hard bed in the little room off the store that had been occupied by his predecessor. "I shall die—I know I shall. Oh, mother! if I could only see you just one minute!"
Leon's grief was so intense that he seemed to be on the point of suffocating. He threw open the door of the room and walked the floor until he was almost exhausted; but when he went to bed again he did not sleep, and neither did he get up to open the store at six o'clock, as his employer had told him to do. He was too ill to hold up his head.
The trader opened the store himself, and, after holding a few minutes' conversation with his clerk, walked across the parade-ground and entered the doctor's office.
Returning to his store, he found there a party of teamsters who were waiting for him.
While he was attending to their wants, the hospital-steward entered and went into Leon's room.
He stayed there about a quarter of an hour, and when he came out the trader was alone.
"What's the matter with that boy?" he asked.
"Nostalgia; and I suppose that is one of the worst things a poor mortal can be afflicted with," replied the steward. "I have known it to throw every raw recruit in a battalion flat on his back."
"Jerusalem!" cried the trader, his face betraying the greatest consternation. "Is it as bad as that?"
He did not understand the learned term which the steward had applied to Leon's malady, but believing that a disease that bore a name like that must of necessity be something dreadful, he was very badly frightened.
If there was any one thing of which he stood in the most abject fear, it was contagion. He had had some experience with it during his life among the Indians.
The steward, who seemed somewhat surprised at the trader's words and actions, replied:
"Yes, he is a pretty sick boy. He has told me his story, and I'm going to speak to the doctor about him at once. He ought to be shipped back to the States with as little delay as possible."
The steward went out, and the trader paced up and down behind his counter in a state of mind bordering on frenzy.
"If I ever befriend a vagabond again, may I be shot" said he. "He must be got out of here at once, for I might catch it myself. It is a pretty rough thing to do," he added, as he hurried toward Leon's door, "but self-preservation is the first law of nature. Say, pilgrim," he shouted, as he entered the room where his clerk lay tossing and moaning on his bed, "you climb out o' that and waltz!"
"Sir?" said Leon faintly.
"'Sir!'" yelled the trader. "Get up and clear out! Do you understand that?"
"Oh, yes, I understand it; but what have I done? I couldn't possibly get up. I couldn't stand."
"You must, and you will!" roared the trader, flourishing his fists in the air. "The steward says you ought to be kicked out of the fort directly, and that shows you've got something that's catching. Now, you get up and dust. Start this minute, or I'll take you by the collar and drag you out."
This threat put a little life and energy into Leon. He arose to his feet, and although he was so weak that he could scarcely maintain an upright position, he succeeded in putting on his clothes.
Then he picked up his overcoat and staggered through the store and out at the door, the trader shouting after him:
"Now, you go over to the other side of the fort and stay there. Don't let me catch you on this part of the parade-ground again."
Poor Leon! All his hopes of seeing home and friends again were gone now.
Leon made the best of his way across the parade-ground, and threw himself helplessly down upon the steps of a warehouse. He was so ill, and so utterly discouraged, that he almost wished he might die then and there, and so bring his sufferings to an end.
He sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, looking the very picture of misery.
His gaze being directed toward the gate through which he had entered the day before, he did not fail to see the neatly dressed young civilian who walked briskly up the hill and stopped to speak to the sentry.
At the sight of him Leon started up, and even attempted to get upon his feet; but he was so weak that he fell back upon the steps again.
"I thought at first it was Oscar Preston," said he. "He looks like him, walks like him, and dresses like him. How much good the sight of one familiar face would do me! I wish I was at Oscar's side this minute. I tell you, it wouldn't take me long to get home!"
"Corporal of the guard number seven!" shouted the sentry.
As Leon wearily raised his head he saw the corporal come out of the barracks in response to the call and hasten toward the gate. He exchanged a few words with the visitor, after which he conducted him along the path toward where Leon was sitting.
Again the boy raised his head; his eyes opened to their widest extent; his under-jaw dropped downward; he trembled in every limb. He staggered to his feet, winked hard to clear away something that seemed to be obstructing his vision, and when he looked toward the visitor again he and the corporal were just disappearing through the door of the colonel's quarters.
"That's Oscar Preston, if I ever saw him!" panted Leon; "but what brought him out here? Did my father send him after me? No, that can't be, for he did not know where Frank and I were going."
Leon picked up his overcoat, which was as heavy a load as he wanted to carry now, and, moving slowly along the path, seated himself upon the threshold of the first door below the colonel's quarters, intending to wait there until the visitor came out again.
He would have a good view of his face as he passed, and then he would know whether or not he had been mistaken in regard to his identity.
At the end of half an hour—it seemed an age to the impatient runaway—a door opened in the commandant's quarters, voices sounded in the hall, and presently the visitor came out, accompanied by the colonel, the post surgeon, and several subordinate officers.
They walked leisurely down the path, conversing gayly, and Leon's heart seemed to stop beating when he heard the colonel say:
"Mr. Preston, when you write to the professor, give him my kindest regards, and assure him that I will do all in my power to assist you. Hallo, here!" he added, in a very different tone of voice, as a pale and trembling figure arose from a door-step close at his side. "Who are you?"
Leon could not reply. He covered his face with his hands, and tottered as if he were about to fall; but Oscar (for it was he), who was struck motionless and dumb with astonishment, recovered himself in time to spring forward and catch the runaway in his arms.
"Leon! Leon!" he exclaimed, in a voice that was husky with emotion, "is this you? Look up and speak to me."
But Leon's sobs effectually choked his utterance. Supporting him with one arm, Oscar forcibly drew away his hands, and was amazed at the sight of the pale and sunken face which rested on his shoulder.
"It is Leon, as sure as the world!" cried Oscar, who was almost beside himself with excitement. "Doctor, this is a friend and schoolmate of mine, and he is sick. Won't you do something for him?"
"Did you call him Leon?" asked the surgeon, stepping up and putting his hand under the boy's arm. "Then he must be that runaway my steward was telling me about. Ah!" he added, as Oscar nodded his head to him. "If that's the case, you can do more for him than I can."
Leon was at once assisted into the surgeon's quarters and placed on a sofa.
The doctor felt his pulse, while Oscar knelt beside him, and rested his arm over Leon's shoulder, as if to assure him of protection.
"What's the matter with him, sir?" he asked.
"Oh, I've got something that's catching," sobbed Leon, "and I'm to be kicked out of the fort. The trader told me so. He wouldn't let me stay about where he was."
Oscar and the surgeon looked at each other in surprise, and the latter said:
"Why, my young friend, you're homesick. There's nothing else the matter with you."
"But that's bad enough," said Leon, who was, nevertheless, greatly encouraged. "I shall never see my home again."
"Yes, you will," exclaimed Oscar. "You can start to-morrow, if you are strong enough to sit on a stage-coach."
"There!" said the surgeon. "That assurance will do him more good than all the medicine in the dispensary. Sit down and talk to him," he added, handing Oscar a chair. "I'll give him a tonic and go out for half an hour. He will be all right at the end of that time."
When the surgeon had seen Leon swallow the medicine he prepared for him, he left the room, and Oscar drew his chair up beside the sofa and sat down.
Leon pinched himself to make sure that he was not dreaming, and then took Oscar's hand in his own and clung to it as if he were afraid that his friend might vanish into thin air.
"Oscar," said he, "I don't deserve this treatment at your hands."
"Yes, you do," replied Oscar cheerfully. "I shall do all I can for you, and then I shall not begin to cancel the debt I owe your father."
"But you don't owe me anything but ill-will. It was I who shot Bugle."
"I know it; but you didn't hurt him. You only made him angry. Now, drop that—it is all forgotten—and tell me what in the world brought you to the plains. If I had met my own mother in the fort, I certainly could not have been more surprised."
"I came out to be a hunter," confessed Leon.
"You did? So did I."
It was now Leon's turn to be astonished.
"Yes, sir," continued Oscar. "I expect to make my living for years to come by hunting. I am sent out here to procure specimens for the museum connected with the Yarmouth University."
"Well," sighed Leon, after thinking a moment, "your way of becoming a hunter is better than mine."
"Tell me your story from beginning to end," said Oscar, "and then I'll tell you all about myself."
We know the story of Leon's adventures and mishaps; so we will not repeat what he said to Oscar.
We know everything that happened to Oscar, too, up to the time he left Sam Hynes at his mother's gate on the night he returned from Yarmouth. We dropped the thread of his narrative there, and will now go back and take it up.
Oscar's mother, you may be sure, was overjoyed to see him. The letters she had received from him during his absence had prepared her for a portion of the story he had to tell, but there were also some things for which she was not prepared, because the boy had had no time to write about them.
"I was never so surprised in my life as I was this morning," said Oscar, after he had told of his reception and experience at the university. "The committee invited me into their room and gave me a check for sixteen hundred dollars. There it is. The thousand dollars I am to use in paying my expenses, and the rest belongs to me. I shall leave it all with you, with the exception of a hundred dollars, which I shall need to buy an outfit; so you will be well provided for during my absence."
"O Oscar!" exclaimed Mrs. Preston; "I don't see how I can consent to this. You will be so far away from home and among strangers——"
"But I shan't be among strangers, either," interrupted Oscar, handing his mother a package of papers which he drew from the inside pocket of his coat. "There are my credentials, my instructions, which tell me just where to go and what to do, and letters of introduction to high government officers, both civil and military. You see, Professor Kendall—he is the geologist, you know—has taken two parties of students out to the plains, and during his excursions he made the acquaintance of these officers, who gave him every assistance. These letters will bring me the same aid and comfort. The professor is going to take another party out there next summer, and I am going to arrange matters so that they can camp with me for a few days."
The conversation was kept up until midnight, and when Oscar went to bed he had the satisfaction of knowing that, although his mother could hardly bear the thought of so long a separation, she would adhere to her promise and throw no obstacles in his way.
He set about making preparations for the journey as soon as he arose the next morning, and when Monday came he was all ready to start.
His friend Sam, who went around looking as though he had lost everything on earth that was worth living for, was with him night and day, and accompanied him when he went to say good-by to his friends.
Early on Monday morning the omnibus drew up before the door. Oscar assisted the driver to carry out his trunk, and then went back to take leave of his mother.
This was by no means an easy thing to do, and when he came out he held his handkerchief to his face.
The only other passenger was Sam Hynes, who did not speak to or even look at him, although Oscar walked to the forward end of the vehicle, where his friend was sitting, and took a seat by his side.
He resolutely kept his back turned, and looked steadily out of the window until they reached the depot; then he jumped up, wrung Oscar's hand for a moment, and started for the door.
"Say good-by, Sam, and tell me that you wish me success," cried Oscar.
But Sam did not act as though he heard him. He dashed open the door, and sprang to the ground and hurried away.
There was a large company of schoolboys assembled on the platform to see Oscar off, and if he had stopped to shake all the hands that were stretched out to him, he would have been obliged to wait for the next train.
He sprang upon the steps of the nearest car as the train was moving off, waved his cap to the boys, and looked around for Sam Hynes.
Presently he discovered that young gentleman far up the street, striding along with his hands in his pockets and his chin resting on his breast.
"Good luck to you, Sam, wherever you go and whatever you do!" said Oscar, while a big lump of something seemed to be rising in his throat. "You're the best friend any fellow ever had."
Oscar stopped one day in St. Louis to make a few purchases, and then went on to Atchison, where he took the stage for Julesburg. He arrived there on time, ate a hearty breakfast, and, leaving his luggage at the station, walked up to the fort to present his letters of introduction to the commandant and surgeon.
The reception these gentlemen extended to him was all he could have desired. They were astonished that a boy like himself should have been selected for so arduous and dangerous a mission, but they entered heartily into the spirit of the matter, and promised to assist him in every way.
We have seen that Oscar's arrival was most opportune. Had he delayed his coming a few days longer, there is no telling what would have become of Leon Parker.
Oscar spent the afternoon in writing long letters to his mother and Sam. The one intended for Sam, which was marked "confidential," contained a full history of Leon's adventures, and wound up with the request that Sam, for the sake of the friendship he bore the writer, would take Leon under his protection. Oscar hoped in this way to make things smooth for Leon.
There were mean boys in Eaton, as there are everywhere, but they would not be likely to say much to Leon about running away from home when they found he had a friend in such a heavy hitter as Sam Hynes was known to be.
The two boys took their meals with the officers' mess, and slept at the surgeon's quarters that night.
Leon's recovery was wonderfully rapid, as the doctor said it would be, but he was not yet himself by any means. What would his father and his acquaintances in Eaton say to him when he reached home, was the question that worried and haunted him continually.
Oscar said all he could to cheer him, and the next morning he placed in his hands a sum of money sufficient to bear all his expenses, and accompanied him to the station.
The coach arrived in time and the runaway, after shaking Oscar warmly by the hand, and thanking him over and over again for his kindness, climbed to a seat on the top, and in five minutes more was whirled away out of sight.
It was a clear, cold afternoon in February. School had just been dismissed, and among those who came down the stairs, and paused to put on their gloves and pull the collars of their overcoats about their ears before venturing out into the frosty air, were Sam Hynes and Leon Parker.
These two were often seen together now, and we may add that the former had twice been kept after school since Leon came home, and reprimanded for fighting.
But Sam declared that he had never had a fight in his life. Perhaps he hadn't; but it is nevertheless true that he had shaken one boy until every tooth in his head rattled, and washed another's face in the snow.
It is hard to tell what Oscar would have thought if he had known how faithfully Sam was carrying out his wishes.
The two boys walked together until they arrived at Mrs. Preston's house, and there they separated—one turning in at the gate, and the other keeping on his way toward home.
Sam, followed by Bugle, who came out to meet him, went into the woodshed, and proceeded to fill his arms with stove-wood.
This done, he walked into the kitchen without ceremony, and deposited the wood in the box.
Mrs. Preston, hearing the racket he made, came out to see who was there.
"Now, Sammy," said she, "I wish you wouldn't put yourself to so much trouble."
"No trouble at all," answered Sam. "I happened to pass through the woodshed, and thought I wouldn't come in empty-handed. Heard anything from Oscar lately?"
"No, I haven't; and I begin to feel very uneasy."
"No use feeling uneasy," said Sam cheerfully. "They have had some hard storms out there, and of course the roads are blocked. When the letters do come, they'll come in a bunch."
While Sam was speaking, he was looking about the room, and, seeing that the water-bucket was empty, he went out and filled it at the pump.
Mrs. Preston again protested, but Sam silenced her by declaring that he happened to be thirsty, and didn't know any easier way to get a drink.
It was a singular fact that somehow Sam always "happened" to pass through the woodshed about the time the box was empty and the kindling-wood getting low, and that he always "happened" to be thirsty when he came out of school and the water-bucket had to be filled.
Mrs. Preston had not lived alone since Oscar's departure. She had two young lady boarders for company; and as Sam had a way of dropping in and saying something cheerful just at the time when she was growing downhearted and longed to see Oscar, she managed to keep up pretty good spirits. Sam always brought sunshine with him, and the lonely mother felt the better for his visits.
Having satisfied himself that there was nothing else he could do, Sam departed, with the remark that he might happen around to the post office that evening, and if he did, he would bring up Mrs. Preston's mail, should there chance to be any.
He went there as straight as he could go, and, to his great delight, three letters, addressed to Mrs. Preston in Oscar's well-known hand, were pushed out to him.
With the muttered threat that if he did not find at least one letter for himself from the same source somebody would hear from him, he walked to the other end of the office and looked into his father's box.
It happened that there were two for him, and so Oscar escaped a blowing up. One of the letters was bulky—it took three stamps to bring it through—and the other was much smaller.
"I'll read the mean little one first," thought Sam, as he tore open the envelope after putting the other letters into his pocket, "and save the best for the last."
Sam took the letter out of the envelope and read it as he walked along—that is, he read a few lines near the end of it. Then he stopped, and stood motionless for a few moments, looking the very picture of astonishment.
Suddenly arousing himself, he crammed the letter back into the envelope, jumped up and knocked his heels together, at the same time uttering a suppressed whoop, and started off at a rapid run.
The longer he ran the faster he ran, and the consequence was that when he reached Mrs. Preston's house he was nearly out of breath.
"I've got three letters for you!" he exclaimed, as he burst into the sitting room. "There they are!"
"And you have run all the way from the office?" said Mrs. Preston.
"Yes'm. This cold weather makes one pretty lively."
Sam banged the door again and set off at the top of his speed. He ran past his father's house, and, mounting the steps that led to Mr. Chamberlain's door, rang the bell furiously.
The summons was answered by the principal, who looked at the boy in great surprise.
"Oscar has gone and done it, sure enough!" exclaimed Sam, who was so full of news, and so eager to communicate it, that he couldn't wait to be questioned. "You remember the last evening but one that we spent with you, do you not? You asked Oscar if he would have the courage to hunt the savage animals we were talking about. Well, he has; and he has proved himself a hero, too. I just got the letter out of the office, and brought it around here, thinking that perhaps you would like to hear it."
"Certainly I would," answered the principal. "It was very kind and thoughtful of you. Sit down."
While Sam was talking, he and the principal had been walking along the hall, and now turned into the library.
The boy, taking the seat pointed out to him, slammed his cap down upon the floor, drew Oscar's letter from his pocket, and read as follows:
Camp in the Foot-Hills,
January 25, 18—Dear Sam: I wrote you a long letter last week (I know you haven't received it yet, for it is at this very moment lying snugly stowed away in one of the pockets of my saddle-bags), but I want to write just a few lines more, for I have something to tell you.
I have but a very few minutes to tell it in, because my guide is getting ready to make another attempt to reach the fort. He tried a few days ago, but the snow was so deep and soft that he was obliged to turn back before he had gone five miles. He has made a pair of snow-shoes since then, and will travel on them until he strikes the prairie, where he hopes to find the snow all blown off the trail. I tell you, Sam, you don't know anything about storms or snow or drifts in Eaton. You ought to be here now; and I really wish you were, for I hardly know what I shall do with myself while my guide is gone. Of course, I might hunt, but I think I shall be safer in camp. I saw something the other day, and since then I have lost some of my enthusiasm.
The valley in which our camp is located is so effectually protected that there is very little snow in it, and I have been able to go shooting every day. I have secured a very fine pair of mule-deer (called black-tails out here); but, although I have shot sixteen elk, I have not yet found a specimen, the horns not being as perfect as I wish they were. I have stalked one old fellow, who carries a magnificent pair of antlers, more than a dozen times, making use of all the caution and skill I was master of, but he has always been too smart for me. I have a rod in pickle for him, however, and in my next letter I shall tell you that I have got him.
But if I have failed in one thing, I have been remarkably successful in another. Give me a good grip and shake, old fellow, and then go and look at that skin hanging up there. A black bear? No, sir! You never saw one of that species with claws eight inches long. It's a grizzly, and my guide says he never in his life saw but one larger. I killed him myself with a single bullet. How I did it, or how I had the courage to shoot at him at all, I can't tell for the life of me. It seems more like a dream than a reality. He was close upon my guide, who had wounded him and could not run fast enough to get out of his way, and in a minute more there would have been sad work in that little grove of scrub oaks, had it not been for my lucky snap-shot which broke the bear's neck. I don't hunt alone any more, and now you know the reason why.
Sam, not a word to mother about this. While I shall keep you posted in everything, I shall be careful what I write to her. Don't mention it to anybody who will be likely to repeat it.
But my guide is ready and waiting. I am going to see him a mile or two on his way, and won't I be lonely when I come back to camp! Remember me to all my friends in Eaton, pat Bugle for me, and believe me, as ever,
Faithfully yours,
Oscar Preston.
THE END.