CHAPTER VIII.

A CHAPTER OF SURPRIZES.

SEVERAL days had passed, and Old Firehand had recovered sufficiently to ride with us to his "village." The night before we were to start I sat with him by the camp fire, and he opened the case hanging around his neck, took out the pipe he carried in it, filled it, and passed the tobacco pouch to me. As I filled my pipe, and returned the pouch to him the firelight fell on my little finger, and Harry's little ring showed bright in the flame. Old Firehand's sharp eyes caught the gleam of the gold, and with a surprised face he asked: "What is that ring you wear?"

"It is the memorial of a horrible hour in my life," I replied.

"Will you let me look at it?"

I did so. Scarcely had he taken it in his hand than he uttered an exclamation, and demanded: "Where did you get this ring?" His voice was agitated, and on my replying: "It belonged to a boy in New Venango," he started to his feet, crying: "In New Venango! Were you at Foster's? Did you see Harry? You spoke of a horrible hour; was there some misfortune?"

"It was an accident in which my brave Swallow and I were nearly burned alive," I said, extending my hand for the ring.

"Wait; I want to know how you came by this," he

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said. "I have a sacred right to it; greater than any one's else."

So he knew Harry and Foster, and must stand in some peculiar relation to them. I had a hundred questions on my tongue, but silenced them, and told him from the beginning the story of the night in which New Venango was destroyed. As it proceeded Old Firehand's excitement grew past control. He came closer and closer to me; his mouth hanging open as though he would drink in my words; his eyes fastened on mine, and his body bent as though he were on a horse's back, urging him forward. He struggled with me in the water, and as I described leaping the cliffs, seized my arm in such a vise-like grip I could hardly restrain an expression of pain, while the breath came loud and panting from his heaving breast.

"Heavens!" he gasped, falling back white and trembling as he heard how I had cleared the precipice, and brought the boy through in safety. "That was horrible, frightful! I have suffered as though my own body was scorching. Yet I knew you had saved him, or he could not have given you his ring."

"He did not give it to me; it fell from his finger without his knowledge."

"And you didn't give it back?"

"I couldn't; he ran away from me. I followed him the next morning, but he was with some people who had escaped, and who would not let me come near them; they accused me of causing the whole tragedy, and shot at me, so naturally I left them to themselves."

"I see. What became of Foster?"

"I heard that none but those people with whom I saw Harry had escaped."

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"That was a horrible punishment for keeping back the oil to force the price up."

"Then you knew Foster?" I said.

"I have been in New Venango sometimes. And you are sure Harry was not hurt at all?"

"Quite sure. He is an unusual youngster."

"Yes. His father is an old trapper whose bullets know the way between the ribs of a foe."

"Where is his father?"

"Sometimes here; sometimes there. I dare say you'll meet him."

"I should be glad to."

"You will, I'm sure. You've earned his thanks."

"Oh, I didn't mean that." "I know, I know. I understand you pretty well. Here's your ring. I'll send Winnetou in; his watch is up. Lie down and rest; we've a long ride before us. Good night."

"Good night. Don't fail to wake me if you need me."

"Sleep, young man; I can at least keep my eyes open for you. You've done enough for me."

He left me to speculate on the meaning of these last words. Long after Winnetou had come in, and wrapped himself in his blanket to sleep. I lay wakeful; it had driven all sleep from my eyes to re-live that awful evening, and it seemed to me that I still felt the hot breath of the flames around my head. Toward morning I slept, and when I awoke I was alone, though the others could not be far away, for the little kettle of boiling water hung over the fire, and the preparations for breakfast were making. I looked out, and saw my comrades standing talking earnestly together, and their

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glances toward our camp showed me that I was the subject of their conversation.

We resumed our journey that morning, and it seemed to me as we rode that there was something like tenderness in Old Firehand's eyes as he looked at me. During our noon halt, while Old Firehand had gone ahead to reconnoiter the surroundings, Winnetou laid his hand on my shoulder, and said: "My brother is as bold as the great cat of the forest, and as silent as the mouth of the rocks. He has ridden through the flaming oil, and has not spoken of it to Winnetou, his friend."

"The tongue of man," I answered, "is like the knife in the shield; it is sharp and keen, and not fit for playing."

"My brother is wise and right, but why has he not spoken of the boy that Swallow bore through the flames?" "

It would have sounded like self-praise. Do you know this boy?"

"I have borne him in my arms; I have shown him the flowers of the field, the trees of the forest, and the stars of heaven. I have taught him to shoot the arrow from the bow, and mount the wild steed. I have taught him the speech of the red men, and at last gave him the pistol whose bullet pierced Ribanna, the daughter of the Mascaleros."

I looked at him in wonder, and a suspicion dawned upon me which I could not verify, for Old Firehand returned at that moment. But I pondered on Winnetou's words, and putting them together with what Harry had said, and Old Firehand's manner and words, I thought I had the clue to the mystery.

After an hour's rest we again set forth, and our horses

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trotted on as though they knew that rest and oats awaited them, and as twilight began to fall the height behind which lay the valley wherein was Old Firehand's stronghold was already rising beneath our feet. We entered a ravine that apparently would land us in a river flowing by, for it seemed to have no other outlet.

"Halt!" cried a voice in the darkness. "Give the word."

"Brave and silent," said Old Firehand, responding with the countersign. On receiving it the sentinel came forth, and the sight of him filled me with amazement. Under the melancholy droop of a felt hat whose color, age, or shape no mortal man could determine, rose a nose of truly gigantic proportions, from a forest of beard. On each side of this great organ twinkled two little eyes of unusual brightness and restlessness. The head rested on a body invisible to us below the knees, the upper part of which was clad in an old leather hunting-jacket, apparently made for a much larger person, and which gave the little man the appearance of a child who had dressed up in his grandfather's dressing-gown. He carried an old gun which I would have handled only with the greatest caution, and as he stood before us in conscious dignity one could not imagine a droller caricature of a trapper than he. Funny though he might be I was delighted to see him, for he was Sam Hawkins.

"Sam, what's the matter with your eyes that you challenge me for the countersign?" asked Old Firehand.

"Well, a body's got to challenge somebody if he's a sentinel. Welcome home. I'm out of my wits with delight at seeing my tenderfoot again, and Winnetou, the great Apache chief."

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He seized both my hands, and pressed me against his hunting jacket, quite trembling with joy.

"It does my heart good to see you again, dear Sam," I said. "Didn't you tell Old Firehand that you knew me, and had been my teacher in the chase?"

"Of course I did."

"And yet he never told me that I'd meet my old friend here."

Old Firehand laughed. "I wanted to surprise you," he said. "You see I have known you for a long time. You will find two other friends with me."

"Dick Stone and Will Parker then, for they and Sam are inseparable."

"The very ones, and they'll be glad enough to see you," said my host. "What's the news, Sam? How are the traps?"

"All right; come, see for yourself."

We turned to the left, where there was a narrow cleft, its opening overgrown with ivy and wild blackberry vines. Old Firehand bent low in his saddle, and we followed, riding slowly through the bed of a brook which flowed through this second, smaller ravine. For a long time, and with many turns, we followed our guide in the darkness, till at last we came to a similar cleft to that through which we had entered, and at its opening I paused in surprise. We found ourselves at the beginning of a valley surrounded by hills, whose sides were impassable cliffs. The valley was verdant, and many horses and mules grazed there, guarded by numerous dogs of that wolf-like variety which is used by the Indians as watch-dogs and beasts of burden.

"This is my 'village,' " said Old Firehand turning to us. "Here I dwell as in a castle. Not many of the

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redskins who crawl over those rocky hills suspect that these sharp rocks are not a solid mass, but enclose such a lovely valley."

"How did you discover such a valuable place?"

"I followed a raccoon to the cleft which was not then covered with ivy, and of course I immediately took possession of the place."

We pushed on further, and were immediately surrounded by Old Firehand's people, who gave full expression to their pleasure at his return. Among them I found Dick Stone and Will Parker, who were nearly beside themselves with delight at seeing me again, and whom Winnetou greeted cordially. Winnetou took off his horse's saddle and bridle, and gave him a light stroke as a suggestion to him to get his own supper. I followed his example, gave my fine Swallow full liberty, and then went off to see the place.

I had made the tour of the valley, and came back to the camping place, eaten my supper, and listened to self-laudatory stories of adventure till I tired, and rose up to make a little visit to Swallow.

I walked through the tender grass over which the clear and brilliant heavens spread so kindly, while its million lights looked down sadly on a world whose sons stood armed against one another. A soft, joyous whinny came from a bush which grew beside the brook, calling me to Swallow, who had recognized me, and rubbed his head lovingly on my shoulder. He grew dearer to me every day, and I laid my head lovingly on his soft, glossy neck. A quick sniffing of his nostrils, which I had learned was a warning, made me look around. Was I dreaming or awake? There stood Harry.

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"Harry, is it possible?" I cried joyfully.

The boy acted embarrassed, remembering how we had parted. "I wanted to see your Swallow, who saved my life," he said.

"Here he is. Then you would rather not see Swallow's master?" I turned as if to go, but he laid his hand on my sleeve. "Forgive me," he said. "I did not understand. And now you have twice put your life in the greatest danger to save my father. I must thank you, and beg your pardon."

"It's all right, Harry; you did not see straight, that's all. And as to the other cause for gratitude, any frontiersman would have done what I did; it's not worth talking about. Have you been doing any more wonderful shooting with your old pistol?"

He drew the weapon, and held it up. "You're a famous shot," he said; "but you couldn't do much with this old fellow. Queer you spoke of it, because my father and Winnetou said I should tell you its story."

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "Then Old Firehand is your father?"

"Didn't you know that? Of course he is. But about this pistol. It was given me by Winnetou, and one of its shots entered my mother's heart."

I uttered an exclamation of horror.

"Yes," Harry said, "and it shall avenge her in my hands. Come over here and sit down. You must know about it, but it's a story to make short."

He sat down by me, and looking over the peaceful valley before us, began: "My father was born in Pennsylvania. He came West when he was quite young, and hardships and adventures of all sorts made him into a man respected by all the white settlers, and feared by

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the Indians. His wanderings brought him to Rio Pecos when Winnetou was a child, and he was the guest of Tah-tsche-tunge, the brother of the chief Intschu-Tschuna, and he learned to know Ribanna, his daughter. She was as beautiful as the dawn, and lovable as the mountain rose. None of the other daughters of the tribe knew so well how to tan the skins, and make the hunting clothes, and when she went to bring wood for the fire of her kettle, she stepped across the plain like a queen, and her hair fell to her feet in long strands. She was beloved by Manitou, the Great Spirit, and was the pride of the tribe, and all the braves longed to take her in their wigwam as their wife. But none found grace in her eyes, for she loved the white hunter, who was her father's guest, and he loved her, and spoke to her as to the daughters of the pale-faces. So they were married, and I was born in a happy home. As I grew older Winnetou, the son of my mother's uncle, and then about as old as I am now, taught me all that I longed to know of hunting, and games of courage and daring. I grew to be a boy of seven, and there came a day when my father went away, taking me with him, and when he came back his home was burned, his wife and little baby gone. Tim Finnerty, a white man, who had often been in the Apache pueblo, had wanted the rose of Rio Pecos for his wife, but the Indians were not friendly to him, for he was a thief, and so he vowed vengeance. He learned from my father, whom he had met in the Black Hills, that Ribanna was his wife, and he stirred up the Black Feet to go on the war-path against my father's camp. They did as he wished. While he was away they plundered and burned the camp, and carried off his wife and child. When he returned Winnetou was

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with him. They looked on the ruin before them, and followed up the trail of the robbers, and as the crime had been committed only the day before their return, they knew they would overtake them. Winnetou kept at my father's right hand, and I shall never forget the look on their faces, as they hastened on their way with agony in their hearts. We overtook them at Bee Fork, and waited until night to fall upon them. I was to stay behind with an Apache left to watch the horses, but he paid no attention to me, and when the moment of attack came I crept forward between the trees, and reached the edge of the wood as the first shot was fired. It was a horrible sight, the savages rushing at their enemies, while the groans of the wounded and dying filled the air. I laid in the wet grass praying, and after a while I crept back in terror to the watch. He had disappeared, and as I heard the triumphant howls of our foes I knew we were conquered. I hid until the following evening, and then ventured out. It was profoundly still, and the moon shone down on the lifeless forms lying there. I wandered between them, fascinated by my fright, and came upon my mother, shot in the breast, her arms clasping my baby sister, whose little head was cleft by a knife. The sight robbed me of my senses; I fell fainting upon them. How long I had lain there I do not know when I heard stealthy steps near me, and rose up to see my father and Winnetou, their clothing torn, and their bodies bleeding from their wounds. They had been taken prisoners, but had escaped."

Harry drew a long breath at the end of this tragic story, which explained to me all that I had been wondering over. He was Old Firehand's son, Winnetou's

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cousin, and the reason for their hatred for Paranoh, or Tim Finnerty, was only too plain. Harry had spoken like a man, and it was hard to realize he had been a little child when this tragedy was enacted. He turned to me and said: "Is your mother still living?"

"Yes."

"What would you do if she were murdered?"

"I would let the arm of the law seize the murderer."

"Good! But when it is too weak, or too short, as it is in the West, we have to make our own arm the law."

"Never forget the difference between punishment and revenge, Harry. The former is the consequence of sin, and is included in the idea of divine and human justice, but the latter is hideous, and lowers the human being to the level of the brute."

"You speak thus because you have no Indian blood flowing in your cold veins. The only feeling in the heart of my father and Winnetou as they laid the two innocent dead in their grave, was fierce hatred for Tim Finnerty, and that feeling I shared. You have slain the murderer of Ribanna, and you have saved her husband and son; forgive my being so unjust to you."

"There is nothing to forgive, my dear Harry. But you have not yet told me how you came by this pistol."

"When Finnerty shot my mother with it Winnetou threw himself upon him, and wrenched it away. He concealed it in the grass, and when I was old enough he gave it to me, to avenge her death with it. You have done it for me." He put his long brown fingers in my hand as I held it out to him, and we rose, and went back to the camp.

Chapter IX