Читать книгу The White Squaw - Reid Mayne - Страница 4

Nelatu recovered from his wounds.

Warren had conducted him to a hut, the temporary residence of a man of the name of Cris Carrol.

This individual was a thorough specimen of a backwood’s hunter.

He was rough in manner, but in disposition gentle as a child.

He detested the formalities and restrictions of civilisation.

Even a new settlement had an oppressive air to him, which he could not endure.

It was only the necessity of disposing of his peltries and laying in a stock of ammunition that brought him into any spot where his fellow creatures were to be found.

To Cris Carrol the sombre forest, the lonely savannah, or the trackless swamp, were the congenial homes, and bitterly he adjured the compulsory sojourn of a few days every year amongst those to whom society is a pleasure.

It was always a joyful day to him when he could shoulder his rifle, sling his game bag over his shoulder, and start anew upon his lonely explorations.

When Warren brought the wounded Indian to Carrol’s rude hut, the old backwoodsman accepted the responsibility, and set himself to the task of healing his wounds with alacrity.

Nelatu was known to him, and he was always disposed to be a friend to the red man.

“No, of course not,” said he to Warren, in answer to his explanation; “I don’t see as how you could take the red-skin up to the governor’s house. Old dad wouldn’t say no, but he’d look mighty like wishin’ to. No, Warren, lad, you’ve done the right thing this time, and no mistake, and that there’s sayin’ more nor I would always say. Leave the boy to me. Bless you, he’ll be all right in a day or two, thanks to a good constitution, along of living like a nat’ral being, and not like one of them city fellows as must try and make ’emselves unhealthy by sleepin’ in beds, and keeping warm by sittin’ aside of stoves, as if dried leaves and dried sticks warn’t enough for ’em.”

Carrol’s skill as a physician was little short of marvellous.

He compounded and prepared medicines according to unwritten prescriptions, and used the oddest materials; not alone herbs and roots, but earths and clays were laid under contribution.

A few days of this forest doctoring worked wonders in Nelatu, and before a week was over he was able to sit at the back door of the hunter’s dwelling, basking himself in the sun.

Carrol, who had been in a fever of anxiety greater even than his patient, was in high glee at this.

After giving the Indian youth a preparation to allay his thirst, he was on the point of packing up his traps to start upon one of his expeditions, when he saw an individual approaching his cabin from the front.

Thinking it was Warren Rody, he called out to him that Nelatu was all right.

He was somewhat surprised to perceive that instead of Warren, it was his father.

“Good morning, neighbour,” said Elias.

“Mornin’, governor.”

“How is your Indian patient?” asked he whom Carrol called governor. “I hope he has entirely recovered.”

“Oh, he’s ready now, for the matter of that, to stan’ another tussle, and take another thrust. It wasn’t much of a wound arter all.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Elias; “I heard from my son Warren that it was a bad one.”

“Perhaps your son ain’t used to sich sights; there’s a good deal in that. Would you like to see the Injun? He’s outside, at the back.”

“No, thank you, Carrol; I didn’t come to see him, but you. Are you busy?”

“Well, not so busy but I kin talk a spell to you, governor, if you wishes it. I war only packin’ up a few things ready for a start to-morrow.”

Saying this, Carrol handed the governor a stool – the furniture of his hut not boasting of a chair.

“And so you’re off to-morrow, are you?”

“Yes, I can’t stand this here idle life any longer than I’m obleeged; ’taint my sort. Give me the woods and the savanners.”

At the very thought of returning to them the backwoodsman smacked his lips.

“When did you see Oluski last?” abruptly asked Elias.

“It war a fortnight ago, governor, near as my memory sarves me; just arter I’d shot the fattest buck killed this season. Oluski’s people war all in a state o’ excitement at the time.”

“Indeed; about what?”

“Wal, Oluski’s brother, who war chief o’ another tribe, died not long ’fore, and his son, Wacora, had succeeded to the chiefship. Oluski was mighty perlite to his nephy, who war on a visit to Oluski’s town when I war thar. I expect they’ll all be hyar soon. It’s about thar time o’ comin’ to Tampa.”

“Did you see this Wacora, as you call him?”

“I did so, governor,” answered Carrol, “and a likely Injun he is.”

Elias sat for some moments silent, during which time Cris busied himself over his gun.

After a time he put the question —

“Is that all you ha’ to say, governor?”

The governor, as Carrol styled him, started at this abrupt interrogatory.

“No, Carrol, that is not all. What I have to say is this. You are a friend to the red-skins?”

“Yes, siree, so long as they behaves themselves, I am,” promptly replied Cris.

“I also am their friend,” said Rody, “and want to deal fairly by them. They have, however, a foolish sort of pride that makes it difficult, especially in some matters. You know what I mean, do you not?”

“Yes, I see,” rejoined the hunter, in a careless drawl.

“Well, in a bit of business I have with Oluski, I thought a friend might manage with him better than I could myself.”

The governor paused to give Carrol an opportunity of replying.

The backwoodsman, however, did not avail himself of it.

“So you see, Carrol,” continued Elias, “I thought that you might act the part of that friend in the negotiation I allude to.”

“No, I don’t quite see that,” said Cris, looking up with an odd smile upon his face, and a twinkle in his eye. “But come, governor, tell me what you want done, and I’ll tell you whether I kin do it.”

“Well, then, Carrol, I will.”

The governor drew his stool nearer to Cris, as if about to impart some confidential secret.