The Big Otter Part 41

"I'll venture it!" said the man, sternly.

"You're a fool!" cried the other, getting angry.

It is surprising with what equanimity a man will stand insulting language from himself! With something like a contemptuous smile on his lips, Lumley took off his snow-shoes and set off to cross the bay.

As he had antic.i.p.ated, he found it as firm as a rock. The surface, indeed, had a dark wet look about it, and there were various pools here and there which he carefully avoided; but there was no other indication of danger until he had got three-quarters of the way across. Then, without an instant's warning, the ma.s.s of ice on which he stood dropped below him like a trap-door and left him struggling in a compound of ice and water!

The first shock of the cold water on his robust frame was to give it a feeling of unusual strength. With a sharp shout, caused by the cold rather than alarm, he laid both hands on the edge of the ice, and, springing like an acrobat out of the water to his waist, fell with his chest on the still sound ice; but it was not long sound. His convulsive grip and heavy weight broke it off, and down he sank again, over head and ears.

It is not easy to convince a very powerful man that he may become helpless. Lumley rose, and, with another Herculean grip, laid hold of the edge of the ice. His mind had not yet fully admitted that he was in absolute danger. He had only been recklessly vigorous at the first attempt to get out--that was all--now, he would exercise caution.

With the coolness that was natural to him--increased, perhaps, by the coolness of the water--he again laid his hands on the edge of the ice, but he did not try to scramble upon it. He had been a practised gymnast at school. Many a time had he got into a boat from deep water while bathing, and he knew that in such an effort one is hampered by the tendency one's legs have to get under the boat and prevent action--even as, at that moment, his legs were attempting to go under the ice.

Adopting, therefore, his old plan and keeping his hands on the edge of the ice, he first of all paddled backwards with his legs until he got himself into a quite perpendicular position, so that when he should make the spring there would be no fear of r.e.t.a.r.ding his action by sc.r.a.ping against the ice with his chest. While in this position he let himself sink to the very lips--nay, even lower--and then, acting with arms and legs at the same moment, he shot himself full half his length out of the water.

The whole process was well calculated, for, by sinking so deeply before the spring, he thus made use of the buoyancy of water, and rendered less pressure with his hands on the ice needful. But, although he thus avoided breaking the ice at first he could not by any device lessen the weight of his fall upon it. Again the treacherous ma.s.s gave way, and once more he sank into the cold lake.

Cold, far more than exertion, tells on a man in such circ.u.mstances. A feeling of exhaustion, such as poor Lumley had never felt before, came over him.

"G.o.d help me!" he gasped, with the fervour that comes over men when in the hour of their extremity.

Death seemed at last evidently to confront him, and with the energy of a brave man he grappled and fought him. Again and again he tried the faithless ice, each time trying to recall some device in athletics which might help him, but always with the same result. Then, still clinging to life convulsively, he prayed fervently and tried to meet his fate like a man. This effort is probably more easy on the battle-field, with the vital powers unexhausted, and the pa.s.sions strong. It was not so easy in the lone wilderness, with no comrade's voice to cheer, with the cold gradually benumbing all the vital powers, and with life slipping slowly away like an unbelievable dream!

The desire to live came over him so strongly at times, that again and yet again, he struggled back from the gates of the dark valley by the mere power of his will and renewed his fruitless efforts; and when at last despair took possession of him, from the depths of his capacious chest he gave vent to that:--

"Bubbling cry Of some strong swimmer in his agony!"

Sleeping soundly in his wigwam, Big Otter heard the cry.

Our Indian was not the man to start up and stare, and wonder, and wait for a repet.i.tion of any cry. Like the deer which he had so often roused, he leaped up, bounded through the doorway of his tent, and grasped gun and snow-shoes. One glance sufficed to show him the not far distant hole in the ice. Dropping the gun he thrust his feet into the snowshoes, and went off over the ice at racing speed. The snow-shoes did not impede him much, and they rendered the run over the ice less dangerous. Probably Lumley would not have broken through if he had used his snow-shoes, because of the larger surface of ice which they would have covered.

To come within a few yards of the hole, slide to the edge of it on his chest, with both snow-shoes spread out under that, by way of diffusing his weight over as much surface as possible, was the work of only a few minutes. But by that time the perishing man was almost incapable of helping himself. The great difficulty that the rescuer experienced was to rouse Lumley once more to action, for the torpor that precedes death had already set in, and to get on his knees on the edge of the ice, so as to have power to raise his friend, would only have resulted in the loss of his own life as well. To make sure that he should not let go his hold and slip, Big Otter tied the end of his long worsted belt round his friend's right wrist.

"Now," he said, earnestly, "try once more."

"Too late--too late! G.o.d bless you, Big--" He stopped, and his eyes closed!

"No!" cried the Indian, vehemently, giving the perishing man's head a violent shake--then, putting his mouth close to his ear, added in a deep tone--"Not too late for the Master of Life to save. Think! The dark-haired pale-face waits for you."

This was a judicious touch. The energy which could not be aroused by any consideration of self was electrified by the thought of the waiting wife. Lumley made one more desperate effort and once again cried to G.o.d for help. Both acts contributed to the desired end, and were themselves an answer to the prayer of faith. Mysterious connection! Hope revived, and the vital fluid received a fresh impulse. In the strength of it Lumley raised himself so far out of the water that the Indian was able to drag half his body on the ice, but the legs still hung down.

Creeping back a few feet, the Indian, still lying flat on his face, cut a hole in the ice with his hatchet into which he stuck his toe, and seized hold of the end of his worsted belt.

"That's right," said his friend, faintly--"wait."

Big Otter knew that full consciousness had returned. He waited while Lumley, gently paddling with his legs, got them into a horizontal position.

"Now!" cried Lumley.

The Indian pulled--softly at first, then vigorously, and Lumley slid fairly on the ice. The rest, though still dangerous, was easy. In a few minutes more the red-man had the pale-face stripped beside a rousing fire in the wigwam--and thus he brought him back to life from the very gates of death.

"You have saved me, my good friend," said Lumley, when he began to recover.

"The Great Master of Life saved you," returned the Indian. "He made use of me--for which I thank him."

It was not until late on the following day that Lumley felt strong enough to return to the fort, and relate what had occurred. Then the plans for the future were laid before Big Otter, and, to the satisfaction of all parties, he agreed at once to fall in with them.

"But," said he, "Big Otter will not stay. He loves the great wilderness too well to be content to live among the wooden wigwams of the pale-faces."

"Well, we won't bother ourselves on that point just now," said Macnab, "and so, as that's comfortably settled, I'll pack up and away back to my mountain fort to get ready for a trip, with you and Lumley and Jessie, to Colorado."

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

THE LAST.

Once more I change the scene, from the wild regions of the north to the little less wild lands of Colorado.

On a certain bright forenoon in Autumn I stood in the doorway of Sunny Creek Cottage watching a clumsy vehicle as it laboured slowly up the hill. I was alone that day, old Mrs Liston, Eve, and "Aunt Temple"

having gone off in the waggon for a long drive to visit a relative with hunting proclivities, who had built himself a log-hut in a ravine of the neighbouring mountains, that he might be in closer proximity to the bears and deer.

With some curiosity I approached the lumbering machine to a.s.sist the occupant, who seemed unable, or too impatient, to open the door. It was a stiff door, and swung open with a jerk which caused the occupant's hat to fall off, and reveal a bald head.

"Father!" I gasped.

"Punch, my boy!"

The dear old man tripped in his haste to get down, plunged into my bosom, threw his arms round my neck to save himself, and almost bore me to the ground. Neither of us being demonstrative in our affections, this unpremeditated, not to say unintentional, embrace I felt to be quite touching. My father obviously resolved to make the most of his opportunities, for he gave me a thoroughly exhaustive hug before releasing me.

"I--I--didn't m-mean," said my father, blazing with excitement, and gasping with a mingled tendency to laugh and weep, "didn't mean to come it quite so strong, P-Punch, my boy, b-but you'll make allowance for a momentary weakness. I'm getting an old man, Punch. What makes you grin so, you backwoods koonisquat?"

The last sentence, with its opprobrious epithet (coined on the spot), was addressed with sudden asperity to the driver of the clumsy vehicle, who was seated on his box, with mouth expanded from ear to ear.

"Wall, stranger, if you will insist on knowin'," said he, "It's sympathy that makes me grin. I _do_ like to see human natur' out of its go-to-meetin' togs, with its saddle off, an' no bridal on, spurtin'

around in gushin' simplicity. But you're wrong, stranger," continued the driver, with a grave look, "quite wrong in callin' me a koonisquat.

I _have_ dropt in the social scale, but I ain't got quite so low as that, I guess, by a long chalk."

"Well, you compound of Welshman and Yankee, be off and refresh yourself," returned my father, putting an extra dollar, over and above his fare, into the man's hand, "but don't consume it on your filthy fire-water c.o.c.k-tails, or gin-slings, or any other kind of sling-tails.

If you must drink, take it out in strong hot coffee."

The man drove off, still grinning, and I hurried my father into the cottage where, while I set before him a good luncheon, he gave me a wildly rambling and interjectional account of his proceedings since the date of his last letter to me.

"But why did you take me by surprise in this way, dear daddy; why didn't you let me know you were coming?"

"Because I like to take people by surprise, especially ill-doing scapegraces like--by the way," said my father, suddenly laying down his knife and fork, "where is she?"

"Where is who?"

"She--her, of course; the--the girl, the Hottentot, the savage. Oh!

George, what an a.s.s you are!"