The news of Mr. Jones’s death, together with the atrocities connected with the Indian uprising, spread a gloom throughout the fort; and when, two days later, the funeral of the pioneer took place, tears were in many a veteran’s eye. General McElroy respected the qualities which had marked the last days of the deceased, and said,–

“He did not serve in the ranks, but if ever a man deserved a soldier’s burial, poor Jones does; and he shall have it.”

So the body was borne to the grave under military escort, the soldiers marching to the mournful strains of the funeral dirge and muffled drums; the corpse was lowered to its last resting-place; the burial service read with a trembling voice by the chaplain,–for the missionary had taken his place among the mourners by the side of the widow,–the usual salute was fired, and the procession retraced its steps.

Mrs. Jones felt that she was now bereaved indeed, and almost alone in the world, and it 261 became a question with her what she could do, under the circumstances, for herself and family. Disconsolately she discussed this matter with Tom.

“I cannot remain longer in these apartments, living on the hospitality of the general,” said she; “and as your dear father is gone, it becomes me to earn something for my own support. I must have Robert with me, he is so young, and make some humble home where you can be with us as much as possible. But what I can do to effect this I cannot now see, there are so few opportunities for women to earn.”

It goaded Tom that his mother was under the necessity of talking in so depressed a way, and that he could do nothing suitably to provide for her. At this juncture there was a gentle knock at the door, and Mrs. McElroy entered.

“You will excuse me if I have intruded,” said she; “but I came in to ask what arrangements, if any, you had made for the future, and to say that, if you have nothing better in view, the general and myself would like to have you remain with us.”

“But I have already been dependent on your hospitality too long,” objected Mrs. Jones, “and it seems proper that I should make a home for myself and Robert as soon as possible.” 262

“Have you any suitable place provided as yet?” asked Mrs. McElroy.

“Not decisively,” answered the widow.

“It could not be expected that you would so soon,” answered Mrs. McElroy. “Now we have a plan for you, which may be to our mutual advantage. The little community dwelling within these brick walls is a very social one, and the general’s time and my own is so much occupied, that my children suffer for a mother’s care. You are exactly the person we need to take the oversight of them. Your own children are a credit to you; they show that you have just the qualities of mind and heart for such a position. Now, if you will look a little after my children’s training, you will take a burden from my hands, and a load of anxiety from my mind, and between us both, I think we can manage so as not to be overcharged.”

“But Robert–” began Mrs. Jones, hesitatingly.

“The general has taken a great fancy to him, and says if he can have him he will make something of him; and what my husband undertakes he never does by halves. Robert would have the best of advantages, and be under your own eye.”

Mrs. Jones’s emotions were too great for words. This unexpected provision for herself and boy seemed truly providential. She might go the 263 world over and not meet with such delicate and appreciative treatment. Still she hesitated. Her life in the squatter’s cabin through so many years of deprivation and poverty placed her, in her own consciousness, in such painful contrast to the courtly and elegant Mrs. McElroy, that she felt diffident about accepting so responsible a trust. And she understood children well enough to know that the offspring of the rich often look down on those in humbler circumstances. Would the general’s children respect her as they should, in order for her to assume such a relation towards them as their mother wished? These thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, and, in justice to them as well as herself, she felt that she would like to have that point put to rest. She was a woman of straightforward good sense, and therefore decided to be frank in the matter, and asked,–

“But would the arrangement be agreeable to your children, madam?”

Mrs. McElroy had foreseen this, and was prepared with an answer. She rang the bell, and black Nancy appeared.

“Send Alice and Willie here,” she said; and in a moment the brother and sister came running in.

“Children,” said their mother, “I’ve been trying 264 to persuade Mrs. Jones to stay with us, and take charge of you. How would you like that?”

“O, that would be so nice!” said Alice, crossing to Mrs. Jones, and putting her arms around her neck–an action that was peculiar to her.

“It would be real good in her, I’m sure,” chimed in Willie; “and then I could have Robert to play with me,–he makes splendid popguns,–couldn’t I, mother?”

So it was settled, and in such a manner that Mrs. Jones was made to feel that she was conferring a favor, rather than having one conferred on her; and, in fact, the arrangement was mutually advantageous, as Mrs. McElroy had sincerely remarked.

Mr. Payson now called to take leave of the widow, and ask if Tom would like to return with him. He was much pleased with the arrangement, expressing anew his sympathy with her in her bereavements, and, charging her to cling to the consolation of the gospel, he and Tom took their departure, the latter tenderly kissing his mother and Robert as he bade them good by.

“You must come often and see your mother,” said Mrs. McElroy, cordially; “you know we shall be like one family hereafter; and not only Robert and your mother will be lonesome without you, but the rest of the children will be glad to 265 have you join them in their amusements and studies,” to which assurance Alice and Willie looked their approval. As the wheels of the missionary’s buggy rumbled out of the square, Mrs. Jones said with a sigh,–

“What a change has come over my flock within a few days! my husband, and Sarah, and dear little Bub murdered by the Indians, and Charlie, also, I suppose I must say, although there is something peculiarly trying in the mystery that hangs over his fate.”

“You do not really know, then, what became of him,” observed Mrs. McElroy.

“No; and this uncertainty is agonizing. Perhaps he was captured by the Indians, and may be at this very moment suffering the most barbarous treatment from them; or the dear boy may have been devoured by a wild beast, or he may be starving in the wilderness. This suspense concerning him is too much to bear;” and she looked anxiously out of the window.

But the hour for dinner had arrived, and Mrs. Jones and Robert went down with the others to dine. As they entered the dining-room, the general directed their attention to the corner of the room; and there, wrapped in his blanket, sat an Indian, whom Mrs. Jones, after the first start of surprise, recognized as Long Hair.

“Mrs. Jones,” said the general, “perhaps you 266 can find out what the red-skin wants. He isn’t very communicative with me, but seems anxious to see your Tom.”

“I am glad to meet you,” said Mrs. Jones, kindly, to the savage. “Have you anything of importance to communicate?”

But Long Hair appeared as if something had gone wrong with him, and sat in moody silence.

“Will you not speak to me, Long Hair?” asked Mrs. Jones. “You know I’ve always treated you well–have I not?”

“White squaw good to Injin. Sojer say Injin lie; sojer call Long Hair dog; tell him go way.”

“Some of your men have ill-treated Long Hair, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Jones to the general.

“Well,” said the general, “I’ll see that they don’t do it any more;” and, wishing to propitiate the tawny brave, he added, “perhaps Long Hair would take some dinner with us.” But the Indian wasn’t so easily appeased, and said,–

“Long Hair no beggar-dog; Long Hair shoot deer, shoot raccoon, catch fish, plenty!”

“But,” interposed Mrs. Jones, “didn’t you bring some venison to my cabin one day, and did I refuse it, Long Hair?”

“White squaw good,” he repeated; “Long Hair never forget. Long Hair sick; white 267 squaw medicine him. Long Hair kill deer for white squaw.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Jones; “you were sick, and I took care of you, as I ought to; and you have been very kind to me and mine, and I shall never forget it.”

Under her gentle influence, the Indian was persuaded to partake of the food placed before him. He ate with a voracity which showed that he had been long fasting, and his appearance indicated that he had seen hardship and danger. Mrs. Jones was satisfied that his coming portended something to her, either good or evil; and, from his reserve, she feared it might be the latter, and the better to draw out of him the tidings, whatever they might be, related the circumstances attending her husband’s death, referring to the murder of Sarah and little Bub, and the disappearance of Charlie, adding, that she supposed he was also killed. The Indian listened in silence till she spoke of Charlie and little Bub, and then, with energy, exclaimed,–

“Charlie no dead! Bub no dead!”

“But Bub must be dead,” said Mrs. Jones; “for I saw him shot by Yellow Bank.”

“No; Injin speak truth.”

“What makes you think so?” asked she, astonished.

Long Hair made no reply; but drawing from 268 beneath his blanket a little shoe, he placed it on the edge of the table; then, by its side, he laid an old battered jackknife.

“Why, Long Hair!” cried Mrs. Jones, deeply agitated; “that’s Bub’s shoe, and Charlie’s knife. Where did you get them?” a ray of hope springing up in her heart.

“Long Hair went find Charlie; travel much; peep in wigwam much; no find. Long Hair say Charlie no killed; Charlie no taken prisoner; Charlie hid near cabin. Long Hair look all ’bout near cabin; see Charlie hand put down so,” spreading his fingers, “in mud at spring; den Long Hair say, Charlie thirsty; been spring for water; find trail; find knife in trail, near big tree; find shoe near big tree; Bub hid in tree; then Long Hair push bush way; see hole in tree. Long Hair hear Injins coming; Long Hair crawl in tree quick; no Charlie there; no Bub there; find these in tree;” taking from his blanket a handful of nuts, and some potatoes, and a crust of bread, and some trinkets that must have fallen from Charlie’s pocket; “den Long Hair see Injins come, one, two, tree, ten, twenty, many; come all round, crawling, crawling; get near cabin; Injin think nobody in cabin, ’cause get near; rifle shoot from cabin, one, two, tree, many rifle; scare Injin; Injin run like deer; Long Hair wait to see if Injin come again; no 269 come; shoot from cabin at Long Hair; come out tree; get behind tree quick; make peace sign at cabin,–no bleeve Long Hair; try shoot at him; Long Hair come way–come to fort!”

“Well, that’s strange,” said General McElroy; “from Long Hair’s account, there seems to be a number in the cabin; it must be that all the settlers were not massacred, and have returned, and taken possession of the cabin; we must send a force to their relief.”

“But where are Charlie and Bub?” asked Mrs. Jones of the Indian.

“Long Hair don’t know; think in cabin.”

“How many persons, should you judge from the firing, were in the cabin?” inquired the general.

“Long Hair don’t know; no trail.”

“What does Long Hair mean by that?” asked Mrs. McElroy of her husband.

“He means that there is no appearance of any of the settlers being about the cabin,” said the general, “which makes the matter still more incomprehensible; for if any of the settlers had come back, Long Hair would have traced them. Isn’t that it, Long Hair?” The Indian nodded assent. “And yet he says that there were many guns fired,” continued the general; “so many that quite a force of the assailing Indians were panic-struck, and fled. How was the firing 270 done, Long Hair? As if by persons that were used to handling the rifle?”

“One, two, tree, bery good; hit Injin some; shoot at Long Hair good; much hard get way; to the most, much poor–shoot here, shoot dere, shoot everywhere!”

“But what makes you think the children are in the cabin?” asked Mrs. Jones; for, mother-like, her thoughts were constantly recurring to them.

“Trail go towards cabin,” replied the sagacious red man; “couldn’t follow trail; shoot Long Hair if he follow trail.”

“I think that Long Hair is right,” said the general, striking the table with the flat of his hand: “your boys were born to be heroes, madam. If I mistake not, that Charlie and Bub of yours were the defenders of that cabin against the savages. And yet,” he added, doubtfully, “that is simply absurd; it’s beyond the power of two little boys to perform such a feat; for you recollect, ladies, that Long Hair said that not only a number of guns were fired, but at the same time; and to conclude that two little boys should fire off a score of guns, more or less, simultaneously, is to assent to a physical impossibility. The truth is, the deeper I go into this matter, the more I’m puzzled. What is your opinion of it, Long Hair?” 271

“Long Hair no sense; no tell; mind much dark;” and the Indian seemed mortified that his sagacity was for once at fault. “No white settlers in cabin; Charlie and Bub in cabin; much gun fire; hurt two, tree Injin; scare much Injin–don’t know.”

“He means that he is certain that no settlers have returned to the cabin,” explained Mrs. Jones, “but that Charlie and Bub are there; while as to who shot off so many fire-arms, he is as much in the dark as ourselves.”

“Well,” said the general, rising, “there is one way to clear up this mystery. I’ll send a trusty detachment there at once to open the secrets of the cabin.”

Long Hair rose at this, and said,–

“White chief send sojer to cabin, right way, bimeby, quick?”

“Yes,” replied the general, “and I should like to have you go with them as guide.”

“No,” answered the Indian, sententiously; “Long Hair go ’lone; Long Hair always go ’lone;” and, starting at a quick pace, he was speedily out of sight.