The high state of excitement into which Charlie had been kept by the startling events connected with the massacre, and his ingenious defence of the cabin, brought about a reaction; great lassitude alternated with feverish symptoms. He felt obliged to watch during the long hours of night, and caught such snatches of sleep as Bub’s performances allowed by day.

One day, after Bub had had his breakfast, Charlie said,–

“I feel as if I was going to be sick, Bub; my mouth tastes dreadfully, and my head aches so I can scarcely see. If I shouldn’t get well, and the Indians should come, you must remember and go into the hole in the cellar, and pull the stone up in its place after you, just as I showed you how, and keep still same as we did in the tree.”

“And shall I have to take the toffee-pot and go to the spring, same’s you did?”

“No,” said Charlie; “the Indians would see you and kill you if you did, and we have a well 273 in the yard. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll bring a pail of cold water now, and fill the coffee-pot, and put it into the hole, and a good lot of food there for you to eat, so that you wouldn’t have to come out for anything; and, Bub, if I should die, and father and mother should come and take you away, I want you to tell them that I put the water and the food there; won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Bub; “and I’ll let them hide in our tree; mayn’t I, Charlie?”

“Yes,” answered Charlie; “you must tell them all you can remember; tell them that I tried to be a good boy; tell mother,”–speaking very softly,–“that every night we said ‘Now I lay me;’ and don’t you never forget to say, ‘Now I lay me;’ will you, Bub?”

“No, I won’t,” said Bub; “tos, if I’m dood, like you and mother, and say, ‘Now I lay me’ every night, when I die Dod will send a big angel down to take me up to heaven; won’t he, Charlie?”

“Yes,” said Charlie. “Now I’ll go get the water;” and, walking with unsteady step to the well, he returned with a pail of water, and, filling the coffee-pot, descended, feebly, to the cellar, and placed it in the hole which he had dug; then, carrying most of the provisions that they had, deposited them there also, and going 274 up stairs again, he started for the bed, but suddenly stopped, and putting his hand over his eyes, said,–

“O, where is it? I can’t see, I’m so dizzy,” and fell by the side of it, on the hard floor. Bub looked on in wonder, scarcely comprehending the meaning of it, saying,–

“Did the cellar hurt you, Charlie?” But there was no answer. In a few moments after, Charlie opened his eyes, and said,–

“Bub, I’m dreadful sick; if the Indians should come,–and you must watch for them, Bub, else they might come when you wasn’t looking,–”

Then he relapsed into silence.

“Did you ’peak, Charlie?” said Bub, wondering that he did not finish the sentence. The dear little voice seemed to recall his wandering thoughts, and, taking up what he was saying where he had left off, continued,–

“If the Indians should come, Bub, remember and pull the strings; perhaps that will frighten them off, as it did before. If it doesn’t, go right into the hole in the cellar, as I told you.”

“I fraid to go into the cellar ’out you.”

“But you must,” answered Charlie, “or the Indians will kill you. But you won’t feel afraid if you pray God to take care of you.”

“Is Dod stronger than dark?” asked Bub.

“Yes,” said Charlie, “he made the dark; he 275 made you, and everything; but,” he added, “I feel better; I guess I’ll get on the bed; it’s easier there.”

Charlie was threatened with brain fever, as his bloodshot eyes, flushed face, and throbbing temples revealed. The strain had been too great for him, and he soon seemed to be unconscious of what was passing around him, and moaned and tossed incessantly. Chary of his scanty store of provisions, not knowing how long they might be shut up in the cabin, he had eaten sparingly himself, but fed Bub generously, not only from love to his little brother, but because it would keep him the more quiet. The night-watching had worn on him terribly.

Bub had small comprehension of Charlie’s condition; and finding, after a while, that Charlie did not talk with him, he took the post of sentinel, and did himself great credit. This seemed a long period to the little fellow, and after going the rounds of the port-hole, and seeing nothing to alarm him, he set about amusing himself. The skin bag, containing the ammunition, caught his eye; so, getting the fire-shovel, he managed to dislodge it from the peg on which it hung, and down it plumped upon the floor. Bub looked towards Charlie at this, to see what he would say, but, as he did not seem to notice, lugged the bag to the hearth, and commenced strewing the 276 powder upon the fire. This was highly satisfactory, and one little puff would go up, sending out the white ashes, to be succeeded by another, as fast as the fat fist of the little mischief-maker could work. Then he began to strew the powder out from the hearth upon the floor; and he clapped his hands in glee, as he saw the fire run along the trains that he had laid. Very careless was he in his pyrotechnic contrivances, and might have found himself involved in a grand explosion, had he not bethought himself that, if powder was good to burn, it was also good to eat. Now, it chanced that Charlie, in his investigations in the cupboard, had come across a neglected jug, that contained molasses; and as molasses was much prized by Bub, he had kept it for that little boy’s sole use, dealing it out to him, a little at a time, at each meal. So, bringing out the jug and a saucer, Bub filled the latter with molasses, into which he stirred the powder, and commenced eating the sweet mixture. He knew he had been into mischief that would displease his brother; so, denying himself the first taste, taking the saucer and spoon in his hand, he trudged to the bedside, and said,–

“Bub made Charlie some tandy. Bub good boy.”

But, as Charlie gave no heed to the peace-offering, Bub put the saucer upon the table, and, 277 seating himself in his usual place at meal time, commenced eating. The compound was not so pleasant as its inventor had expected, and, after the first few spoonfuls, was abandoned in disgust. It now occurred to him that it was time to resume his post as sentry. Mounting to his first outlook, his little blue eyes dilated, for he saw an Indian creeping along.

“Charlie,” said he, jumping down in terror. “Injun come to kill Bub!”

But, as Charlie did not reply, he clambered on the bed, crying,–

“Charlie, ’peak to Bub; Injun come!” Then, supposing that the reason he made no answer was because he had burnt the powder, he said, with quivering lip,–

“Bub’s sorry he’s been naughty; Bub won’t be naughty no more. Bub love Charlie;” and he put his little face lovingly against Charlie’s. But he started back as Charlie’s hot cheeks touched his tender flesh. Remembering how hot his own flesh was when tortured with thirst in the tree, and how grateful the draught of water was Charlie fetched from the spring at the risk of his life, Bub exclaimed,–

“Charlie dry; Bub give Charlie some drink!” and hastening to the table, he took from it the large bowl, and filled it from the bucket that Charlie had left on the floor, and, climbing with it on the 278 bed again, essaying to put it to his lips, upset the whole over his face and neck. The sudden application of the cold water proved a balm to the sick boy, and, recognizing Bub, he inquired, confusedly,–

“Where–where am I?–what’s the matter?”

“Injun’s come!” cried Bub, with renewed earnestness.

Charlie attempted to rise, but fell back, exhausted, saying, while a growing faintness crept over him,–

“I can’t get up, Bub, I’m so sick; pull the string.”

Bub did as he was directed, and again the cabin fort broke the stillness of prairie and forest with its unmanned broadside.

“Now,” said Charlie, his voice sinking to a whisper, “go and hide yourself in the cellar, Bub, and keep very still.”

“I ’fraid ’out you!” said Bub.

“I am so sick,” answered Charlie, “I can’t go with you.”

“I so ’fraid!” quivered Bub, as he saw the deathly pallor creeping over Charlie’s face, and the fixed look of his eyes.

“Pray, and then go and keep still,” said Charlie.

And little Bub knelt by the bedside, and, folding his hands, repeated,– 279

and then adding, of his own accord, “Please, Dod, take care of Charlie, and don’t let the dark hurt Bub;” rising, he said, “Bub isn’t ’fraid now;” and, descending into the cellar, he crept into his hiding-place in the wall, and carefully readjusted the stone.

The Indian that Bub had seen was Long Hair. While he was cautiously reconnoitring, the command under Captain Manly had reached the ground. The soldiers found the outer door securely fastened, and, though they thundered for admittance, there was no response from within. In their impatience, some broke down the door, while others scaled the walls. Captain Manly was the first to enter, and the soldiers pushed in eagerly after him, anxious to rescue the settlers, if any were there still. Instantly his eye caught the figure stretched on the bed.

“Hush, boys,” said he, reverently; “the little fellow is dead.”

Tears filled the eyes of the men as they gathered about their officer, and gazed silently upon the features of the boy. A placid look was upon the brave lad’s countenance; his curly-brown hair lay in dank masses, in fine contrast to his 280 white forehead; while the lessons of self-control, which he had been taught, made his expression mature and noble. Captain Manly stooped and kissed the cold forehead, and the soldiers instinctively lifted their caps.

Meanwhile, the cabin had been carefully searched.

“There’s not a soul in it,” said Sergeant Eaton, touching his cap. “The little lad yonder seems to have been all alone.”

“Impossible. What did that firing mean from the cabin, just as we rode up? And here, you see, are no less than a dozen rifles, all nicely mounted. Where are the fingers that pulled the triggers? Sergeant, there is some mystery here that needs to be unravelled. Have you searched the cellar?”

“We have, sir,” was the reply.

The officers stood looking at each other perplexed, and were continuing their conversation in a low tone, when Long Hair entered, and without noticing any one, stood, with folded arms, gazing at Charlie.

“Long Hair,” said the captain, turning abruptly towards him, “how long did you get here before we did?”

“Little time–not much.”

“Were you on the ground when we heard the discharge?” 281

“In tree; just here; over dere.”

“Did any one leave the cabin after the guns were fired?”

“No leave cabin,” he answered.

“Who do you think fired the guns, Long Hair?”

“Charlie fire gun.”

“But Charlie is dead; and the discharge was only a few moments ago.”

“No; Indian no sense; Charlie no fire gun. Bub fire gun.”

“Impossible,” returned the captain, impatiently. “How could such a child do it?”

“What string for, cap’n?” asked Long Hair, pointing to the twine that hung from the gun triggers, which, being so near the color of the walls, had been detected only by the Indian’s keen glance. This ingenious arrangement was examined with interest; and the conviction was fast gaining ground, that Long Hair was not far from right in his conclusions.

“But where is the child?” asked the captain; and again they searched the cabin. The closet was peered into to its topmost shelf; a few boxes that had been left, emptied of their contents; even the bed on which Charlie lay was minutely examined, and the improbable supposition that the walls of the cellar might conceal him was 282 renounced, as the soldiers struck the butts of their guns against the stones.

“Is it possible,” asked the captain of Long Hair,–for he had learned to rely much on his sagacity,–“that Bub could escape from the house?”

Long Hair shook his head, saying,–

“No trail; Bub no go.”

“May it plase your honor,” said the Irish private, O’Connor, touching his cap to the captain, “I belave, on me sowl, that it’s the ghost of the brave lad that shot the guns. The likes of him, sir, would be afther defendin’ the cabin if ’twas only out of respect to the onburied bodies of the women and the childers that has been murthured by the hathen savages–bad luck to ’em!”

“Long Hair,” said the captain, smiling at the superstition of the warm-hearted Hibernian, “I’ve a mind, while the men are taking their rations on the grass, to leave you to clear up this mystery; I believe, if any one can find it out, you can.”

The men, having fallen into line, stacked their guns, and Long Hair was left alone with Charlie. He stood for a moment looking at the quiet form of the boy; and the workings of his usually stolid face showed the affection which he felt for him. He then carefully looked about the room, then went quietly out, and passed around the cabin, critically examining the ground as he 283 walked. He soon returned, and made directly for the cellar, gliding noiselessly in his moccasins down the stairs. In the dim light he carefully went over the cellar bottom. Taking up some of the litter with which it was covered, he gently scraped the fresh sand away until he came to litter again. Patiently and carefully then he removed the top litter from a wide space, noticing from which direction the sand had been thrown, and in a moment he was standing where the heap had been, which Charlie and Bub had shovelled away. Stooping down now, he saw where the earth had been fretted by the stone as it had been pulled out and in; then he placed his ear to the ground, and listened intently; instantly he glided from the cellar, and stood with folded arms before Captain Manly.

“Well, what luck?” asked the captain.

“Long Hair find pappoose.”

There was a general excitement at this, and a number arose, as if eager to follow the captain and the Indian; but Long Hair stirred not, saying, angrily,–

“Too much sojer; scare pappoose.”

“That is sensible,” said the captain; “you and I will go alone, Long Hair.”

The Indian led him at once to the place in the wall where Bub was concealed. 284

“Pappoose in dere,” said the Indian, pointing to the stone. “Take stone out.”

The captain drew it forth, got down on his hands and knees, and peeped in, and saw Bub’s bright eyes looking into his; and, taking hold of Bub’s chubby hand, he said, soothingly,–for Bub now began to cry,–

“Don’t be afraid, my little fellow; we are all your friends, and have come to take you to your mother.”

“Won’t Injun kill me?” asked Bub, glancing apprehensively at Long Hair.

“No,” said the officer; “it’s Long Hair; he came to keep the bad Indians from killing you.”

When Captain Manly appeared with Bub in his arms, the air was rent with the joyful shouts of the soldiers; and Bub suddenly found himself a hero, as he was borne about and caressed by them–a joy that was suddenly intensified to a wild pitch of excitement, as word was brought that dear, brave, romantic Charlie had revived. He was not dead. Aroused by the shouts of the soldiers over Bub’s appearance, he had opened his eyes, and, imagining that the Indians were assailing the cabin, murmured, in a clear, distinct voice,–

“Pull the string, Bub!”