"Come, now, Shank, old man, you mustn"t give way like that. You wouldn"t, you know, if you had not been terribly reduced by illness--"
"Yes, I would! yes, I would!" interrupted the sick man, almost pa.s.sionately; "I"d howl, I"d roar, I"d blubber like a very idiot, I"d do any mortal thing, if the doing of it would only make you understand how I appreciate your great kindness in coming out here to save me."
"Oh no, you wouldn"t," said Charlie, affecting an easy off-hand tone, which he was far from feeling; "you wouldn"t do anything to please me."
"What d"ye mean?" asked Shank, with a look of surprise.
"Well, I mean," returned the other, gently, "that you won"t even do such a trifle as to lie down and keep quiet to please me."
A smile lighted up the emaciated features of the sick man, as he promptly lay back at full length and shut his eyes.
"There, Charlie," he said, "I"ll behave, and let you do all the talking; but don"t let go my hand, old man. Keep a tight grip of it. I"m terrified lest you drift off again, and--and melt away."
"No fear, Shank. I"ll not let go my hold of you, please G.o.d, till I carry you back to old England."
"Ah! old England! I"ll never see it again. I feel that. But tell me,"--he started up again, with a return of the excited look--"is father any better?"
"N-no, not exactly--but he is no worse. I"ll tell you all about everything if you will only lie down again and keep silent."
The invalid once more lay back, closed his eyes and listened, while his friend related to him all that he knew about his family affairs, and the kindness of old Jacob Crossley, who had not only befriended them when in great distress, but had furnished the money to enable him, Charlie, to visit these outlandish regions for the express purpose of rescuing Shank from all his troubles and dangers.
At this point the invalid interrupted him with an anxious look.
"Have you the money with you?"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"Because," returned Shank, with something of a groan, "you are in a den of thieves!"
"I know it, my boy," returned Charlie, with a smile, "and so, for better security, I have given it in charge to our old chum, Ralph Ritson."
"What!" exclaimed Shank, starting up again with wide open eyes; "you have met Ralph, then?"
"I have. He conducted me here."
"And you have intrusted your money to _him_?"
"Yes--all of it; every cent!"
"Are you aware," continued Shank, in a solemn tone, "that Ralph Ritson is Buck Tom--the noted chief of the outlaws?"
"I know it."
"And you trust him?"
"I do. I have perfect confidence that he is quite incapable of betraying an old friend."
For some time Shank looked at his companion in surprise; then an absent look came into his eyes, and a variety of expressions pa.s.sed over his wan visage. At last he spoke.
"I don"t know how it is, Charlie, but somehow I think you are right.
It"s an old complaint of mine, you know, to come round to your way of thinking, whether I admit it or not. In days of old I usually refused to admit it, but believed in you all the same! If any man had told me this morning--ay, even half an hour since--that he had placed money in the hands of Buck Tom for safe keeping, knowing who and what he is, I would have counted him an incurable fool; but now, somehow, I do believe that you were quite right to do it, and that your money is as safe as if it were in the Bank of England."
"But I did not intrust it to Buck Tom, knowing who and what he _is_,"
returned Charlie, with a significant smile, "I put it into the hands of Ralph Ritson, knowing who and what he _was_."
"You"re a good fellow, Charlie," said Shank, squeezing the hand that held his, "and I believe it is that very trustfulness of yours which gives you so great power and influence with people. I know it has influenced me for good many a time in the past, and would continue to do so still if I were not past redemption."
"No man is past redemption," said the other quietly; "but I"m glad you agree with me about Ralph, for--"
He stopped abruptly, and both men turned their eyes towards the entrance to the cave.
"Did you hear anything?" asked Shank, in a low voice.
"I thought so--but it must have been the shifting of a log on the fire,"
said the other, in a similarly low tone.
"Come, now, Charlie," said Shank, in his ordinary tones, "let me hear something about yourself. You have not said a word yet about what you have been doing these three years past."
As he spoke a slight noise was again heard in the pa.s.sage, and, next moment Buck Tom re-entered carrying a lump of meat. Whether he had been listening or not they had no means of knowing, for his countenance was quite grave and natural in appearance.
"I suppose you have had long enough, you two, to renew your old acquaintance," he said. "It behoves me now to get ready some supper for the boys against their return, for they would be ill-pleased to come home to an empty kettle, and their appet.i.tes are surprisingly strong.
But you needn"t interrupt your conversation. I can do my work without disturbing you."
"We have no secrets to communicate, Buck," returned Shank, "and I have no doubt that the account of himself, which our old chum was just going to give, will be as interesting to you as to me."
"Quite as interesting," rejoined Buck; "so pray go on, Brooke. I can listen while I look after the cookery."
Thus urged, our hero proceeded to relate his own adventures at sea--the wreck of the _Walrus_, the rescue by the whaler, and his various experiences both afloat and ash.o.r.e.
"The man, d.i.c.k Darvall, whom I have mentioned several times," said Charlie, in conclusion, "I met with again in New York, when I was about to start to come here, and as I wanted a companion, and he was a most suitable man, besides being willing to come, I engaged him. He is a rough and ready, but a handy and faithful, man, who had some experience in woodcraft before he went to sea, but I have been forced to leave him behind me at a ranch a good many miles to the south of David"s store, owing to the foolish fellow having tried to jump a creek in the dark and broken his horse"s leg. We could not get another horse at the time, and as I was very anxious to push on--being so near my journey"s end--and the ranch was a comfortable enough berth, I left him behind, as I have said, with directions to stay till I should return, or to push on if he could find a safe guide."
While Charlie Brooke was relating the last part of his experience, it might have been observed that the countenance of Buck Tom underwent a variety of curious changes, like the sky of an April day. A somewhat stern frown settled on it at last but neither of his companions observed the fact being too much interested in each other.
"What was the name o" the ranch where your mate was left?" asked Buck Tom, when his guest ceased speaking.
"The ranch of Roaring Bull," answered Charlie. "I should not wonder,"
he added, "if its name were derived from its owner"s voice, for it sounded like the blast of a trombone when he shouted to his people."
"Not only his ranch but himself is named after his voice," returned Buck. "His real name is Jackson, but it is seldom used now. Every one knows him as Roaring Bull. He"s not a bad fellow at bottom, but something overbearing, and has made a good many enemies since he came to this part of the country six years ago."
"That may be so," remarked Brooke, "but he was very kind to us the day we put up at his place, and d.i.c.k Darvall, at all events, is not one of his enemies. Indeed he and Roaring Bull took quite a fancy to each other. It seemed like love at first sight. Whether Jackson"s pretty daughter had anything to do with the fancy on d.i.c.k"s part of course I can"t say. Now, I think of it, his readiness to remain behind inclines me to believe it had!"
"Well, come outside with me, and have a chat about old, times. It is too hot for comfort here. I dare say our friend Shank will spare you for quarter of an hour, and the pot can look after itself. By the way, it would be as well to call me Buck Tom--or Buck. My fellows would not understand Ralph Ritson. They never heard it before. Have a cigar?"
"No, thank you, I have ceased to see the advantage of poisoning one"s-self merely because it is the fashion to do so."