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Frank Merriwell's Bravery, a novel by Burt L. Standish |
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Chapter 26. Old Rocks |
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_ CHAPTER XXVI. OLD ROCKS Barney was waiting, and he drew a breath of relief when Frank appeared with the child. "Oi wur afraid th' litthle darlint would tumble off bafore ye could rache her," he said. "But I tept wight away from the edge, same as you toldt me to," chirped Fay, cheerfully. "If I did tumbled, you tould catch me." "Begorra! Oi wur ready to thry it, me swate." "You never wanted to see me fall and hurt myself bad, did you?" "Nivver a bit." Frank told Barney how much he had been able to learn from her lips, and they were not long in deciding it would be folly for them to attempt to find Fay's mother. "The guide is the one to do that," said Frank. "Roight, me b'y. Ould Rocks knows ivery inch av th' parruk." "Then we had better return to camp at once." "Sure." "But the buffalo--I had forgotten them. We have not obtained that picture." "An' nivver a bit we will this doay, Frankie." "Why not?" "Th' boofalo have shkipped." "Gone?" "Thot's roight." "Too bad!" Frank felt that he must satisfy himself with his own eyes, and so he hastened to a spot that commanded a view of the place where the creatures had been feeding. Sure enough, they were gone. "That's hard luck!" he muttered. "Here we have been hanging a whole week in the park just to enable me to get a snap at some of the creatures, and we lost our only opportunity. Well, I suppose we should be satisfied to get off with our lives." He knew this was true, and so there was reason to be thankful, instead of grumbling. He returned to where Barney was talking to Fay. The child was anxiously watching Frank's movements. "You ain't doin' away and leave me, is you?" she asked. "No, dear." "I was 'fraid so, and I's awsul hundry." "An' wouldn't ye go wid me av Oi'd take ye where ye'd get plinty to ate?" asked the Irish lad. "Him tome, too?" She held out her hands to Frank. "An' wouldn't ye go av he didn't come?" "I dess not," she said. "I like you pitty well; but I kinder like him better. Him goin' to find my mamma. I dess him dit me somefin to eat." Frank caught her up in his arms. "Yes, dear," he laughed, his heart swelling with a feeling that convinced him he would lay down his life in defense of her, if needs be. "I will find you something to eat as soon as possible, and I will take you to your mother." "Dat's all wight. I ain't doin' to cwy. You don't like little dirls we'en they cwy, does you?" "In your case, I do not think crying would change my feelings. Little girls have to cry sometimes." "I dess dat's wight," said Fay, very soberly. Frank surrendered his rifle to Barney, who insisted on taking the camera also, and then, with the child in his arms, followed the Irish lad on the return tramp to camp. It proved to be a long, tiresome trudge, and the sun was setting when the boys came in sight of a white tent that was pitched near a spring of cool water and a growth of pines down in a pretty valley. Once or twice Fay had murmured that she was "so hundry," but when the camp was sighted, she was asleep in Frank's arms, her head of tangled golden curls lying on his shoulder. A fire was blazing in front of the tent, sending a thin column of smoke straight up into the still air. Near the fire, with a pipe in his mouth, was sitting a grizzled old man, whose appearance indicated that he was a veteran of the mountains and plains. This was Roxy Jules, generally known as "Old Rocks." He was one of the professional guides who make a business of taking parties of tourists through the park and showing them its wonders. Between two trees a hammock was strung, and another man, a little fellow with fiery-red hair and whiskers, was reclining. Gold-bowed spectacles were perched on his nose, and he was studying a book. All at once Old Rocks gave a queer kind of a grunt. As it did not arouse the man in the hammock, he grunted again. That not proving effectual, he growled: "Wa-al, I wonders whut kind o' game them yar kids hev struck now?" "Eh?" exclaimed the little man. "Did you speak to me? My name is Scotch, as you very well know--Professor Horace Scotch." "Wa-al," drawled Old Rocks, with a sly grin, "I reckons I has heard them yar boys call yer Hot Scotch enough to know whut yer handle is." "Those boys are very disrespectful--very! They should be called to account. I object to such familiarity from others, sir--I distinctly object." Old Rocks grunted derisively, having come to regard the timid little man with contempt, which was natural with him, as he looked with disfavor on all "tenderfeet." That grunt stirred the blood of the quick-tempered little man, who sat up, snapping: "I should think there was a pig somewhere round, by the sounds I hear!" The guide grunted again. "I detest pigs!" fumed Scotch. "They're always grunting." "Thar's only one thing I dislike wuss'n pigs," observed Old Rocks, lazily. "What is that, sir; what is that?" "Hawgs," answered the guide, with his small, keen eyes fixed on the professor. "Of course, I don't mean to be personal, nor nawthing, an' I don't call no names; but ef you want ter know who I mean, you kin see whar I'm lookin'." "This in an insult!" squealed the little man, snapping himself out of the hammock. "I'll discharge you at once, sir--at once!" "All right. Just you pay me whut you owe me, an' I'll leave ye ter git out o' ther park ther best way ye derned kin. You'll hev a heap o' fun doin' it." The professor blustered about, while Old Rocks sat and smoked, a patronizing smile on his leathery face. Suddenly Scotch observed the approaching boys, and saw the child Frank carried in his arms. "Goodness!" gurgled the little man, staring. "What does that mean?" "Oh, you have jest woke up!" said the guide, continuing to pull at his black pipe. "I wuz tryin' to call your 'tention to thet thar. Whut has ther boy found? An' whar did he find it?" "You know quite as well as I. It is surprising--very much so!" Frank and Barney came up, and explanations followed. Old Rocks pricked up his ears when Frank told of the Blackfeet, and how near they came to having a fight with the Indians. "Is thet onery skunk in hyar again?" exclaimed the guide. "Why, he's wuss'n sin, is ole Half Hand. He'd ruther cut a throat than do anything else, an' ye're derned lucky ter git away. It wuzn't by yer own nerve ye done it, howsomever. Ef ther gal hedn't 'peared jest as she did, you'd both be food fer coyotes now." "Two or three Indians, at least, would have kept us company," declared Frank. Old Rocks grunted. "Yah! I'll bet a hawse you wuz so derned scat ye shivered clean down ter yer toes. Ef ther red skunks hed made a run fer ye, ye'd drapped right down on yer marrerbones an' squealed." A bit of warm color came to Frank's face, and he said: "It is plain you have a very poor opinion of my courage." Barney was angry, and he roared: "Oi'd loike ter punch yer head fer yez, ye ould haythen! It's mesilf thot's got nerve enough fer thot!" This awakened Fay, who looked about in a wondering manner with her big, blue eyes, and then half sobbed: "Where is my mamma? I was jes' finkin' I was wiz her, and she was divin' me somefin' dood to eat. I's awful hundry!" In the twinkling of an eye, Old Rocks changed his manner. His pipe disappeared, and he was on his feet, saying, softly: "Don't you go to cryin', leetle gal. You shell have something to eat in abaout two shakes, an' I'll see thet you finds yer mother all right. Ye're a little angel, an' thet yar's jest what ye are!" Straightway there was a bustle in the camp. Frank sat on the ground and entertained Fay, while Old Rocks prepared supper. The child was given some bread, and she proved that she was "awsul hundry" by the way she ate it. There was not a person in the camp who was not hungry, and that supper was well relished. Fay was questioned closely, but no one succeeded in obtaining much more information than Frank had already received. When she had eaten till she was satisfied, Old Rocks tried to coax her to him, but she crept into Frank's arms and cuddled close to him, whispering: "I likes you the bestest." So Frank held her, and sang lullaby songs in a beautiful baritone voice, while the blue shadows settled over the valley and night came on. Long after she was sound asleep he held her and sang on, while the others listened. Beyond the limits of the camp was a man who seemed enraptured by the songs, whose eyes were wet with tears, and whose heart was torn by the emotions which surged upward from his lonely soul. _ |
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