The Last of the Foresters Part 9

"Oh, what large eyes you have!" he said, smiling; "you're a handsome pigeon. I will not kill you. I will take you home and cure your wing, and then, if ever I again see Redbud, I will give you to her, my pretty bird."

Poor Verty sighed, and his eyes drooped as he thought of the girl.

Suddenly, however, a small scroll of yellow paper encircling the pigeon's neck, and concealed before by the ruffled plumage, caught his eye.

"Paper! and writing on it!" he said; "why, this is somebody's pet-pigeon I have shot!"

And tearing off the scroll, Verty read these words, written in a delicate, running-hand:

"_I am Miss Redbud's pigeon; and f.a.n.n.y gave me to her_!" Verty remained for a moment motionless--his eyes expanded till they resembled two rising moons;--"I am Miss Redbud's pigeon!" Then Redbud was somewhere in the neighborhood of the town--she had not gone far out into the wide, unknown world--this pigeon might direct him;--Verty found a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind, like so many deer in a herd, jostling each other, and entangling their horns.

Surely, it would not be wrong for him to embrace this chance of discovering Redbud's residence--a chance which seemed to have been afforded him by some unseen power. Why should he not keep the bird until its wing was healed, and then observe the direction of its flight? Why not thus find the abode of one in whose society so much of his happiness consisted? Was there any thing wrong in it--would any one blame him?

These were the questions which Verty asked himself, standing in the October sunshine, and holding the wounded pigeon to his breast. And the conclusion was ere long reached. He decided, to his own perfect satisfaction, that he had the full right to do as he wished; and then he re-entered the office.

Mr. Roundjacket was busy at some more law papers, and did not observe the object which he carried. Verty sat down at his desk; betook himself to copying, having rejected the sketch-ornamented sheet; and by evening had done a very fair day's work.

Then he put on his hat, placed the wounded pigeon in his bosom, and, mounting his horse, set forward toward the hills.

"In three days," he said, "you will be cured, pretty pigeon, and then I will let you go; and it will be hard if I don't follow your flight, and find out where your mistress lives. Oh, me! I must see Redbud--I can't tell why, but I know I must see her!"

And Verty smiled, and went on with a lighter heart than he had possessed for many a day.

CHAPTER IX.

HAWKING WITHOUT A HAWK.

Verty nursed the wounded pigeon with the tenderness of a woman and the skill of a physician; so that on the third day, as he had promised himself, the bird was completely "restored to health." The wing had healed, the eyes grown bright again, every movement of the graceful head and burnished neck showed how impatient the air-sailer was to return to his mistress and his home.

"_Ma mere_" said Verty, standing at the door of the old Indian woman's lodge, "I think this pretty pigeon is well. Now I shall carry it back, and I know I shall find Redbud."

Verty, it will be seen, had concealed nothing from his mother; indeed, he never concealed anything from anybody. He had told her quite simply that he wanted to see Redbud again; that they wouldn't tell him where she was; and that the pigeon would enable him to find her. The old woman had smiled, and muttered something, and that was all.

Verty now stood with one hand on Cloud's mane, in the early morning, ready to set forth.

The pigeon was perched upon his left hand, secured to Verty's arm by a ribbon tied around one of its feet. This ribbon had been given him by Redbud.

In the other hand he carried his rifle, for some days disused--at his feet lay Longears and Wolf, in vain pleading with down-cast eyes for permission to accompany him.

"What a lovely morning!" said Verty, "and look at Cloud, _ma mere_!--he seems to know it's fall. Then there's Wolf, who can't understand what I told him about Mr. Rushton's not liking so many dogs--see how sorry he is."

"The gun makes him so," said the old woman; "he thinks my boy is going a hunting."

"Maybe I shall--who knows?" Verty said. "If I see a deer upon my way, good-bye to the law work!"

And bounding lightly into the saddle--a movement which caused the pigeon to open and flutter its wings--Verty smiled on the old woman, placed his hand on his breast, and touched Cloud with his heel.

Cloud shook his head, and set forward cheerfully, Longears galloping by his master's side.

Verty drank in the Autumn loveliness with that delight which he always experienced in the fresh pure hills, with the mountain winds around him. The trees seemed to be growing more and more gorgeous in their coloring, and the cries of wild birds were far more jubilant than ever. As he went on along the narrow bridle path, under the magnificent boughs, his countenance was brighter and more joyous, and he broke once or twice into a song.

Suddenly, while he was humming thus in a low tune, to himself, a still "croak!" attracted his attention, and he stopped abruptly.

"Ah!" he murmured, "that's a good big gobbler, and I'll see about him!"

And Verty cautiously dismounted, and with one foot raised, listened for a repet.i.tion of the sound.

It was not long before the turkey's call was again heard from a thick copse on his left.

The young hunter turned, and imprisoning Cloud's nostril in his nervous grasp, looked fixedly into that intelligent animal's eyes.

Cloud seemed to understand very well--nodded his head--drew a long breath--and stood like a statue. Verty then placed his foot upon Longears, made a gesture with his hand, and Longears showed himself equally docile. He laid down, and without moving, followed his master with his eyes, and listened.

Verty crept noiselessly, without treading on a leaf or a twig, to a neighboring thicket, from which the horse and dog were not visible.

He then lay down in the bushy top of a fallen pine, and without the a.s.sistance of any "call," such as hunters generally make use of, uttered the low, cautious cry of the wild turkey. This he repeated a number of times, and then remained still.

For ten or fifteen minutes no noise disturbed the stillness of the forest; all was quiet. Then a slight agitation of the leaves was visible at the distance of fifty or sixty yards, and a magnificent gobbler made his appearance, moving his bright head, and darting upon every side glances of curiosity and circ.u.mspection.

He was looking for the female who had called him.

Verty c.o.c.ked his rifle, and uttered the low croak again.

This seemed to remove any fears which the turkey had--he replied to it, and advanced toward Verty's impromptu "blind." A streak of sunlight through the boughs fell on his burnished neck and brilliant head, and he paused again.

Verty ran his eye along the barrel--covered the turkey bashaw's head, and fired. The ball pa.s.sed through the fowl's throat, and he fell back with violent flutterings--no longer anything but the memory of a living turkey.

"Very well," said Verty, smoothing the head of his pigeon, which had been greatly startled by the explosion, "I can shoot better than that--I ought to have hit your eye, Monsieur."

And going to the spot he took up the turkey, and then returned to Cloud, who, with Longears at his feet, remained perfectly quiet,

Verty tied the turkey to his saddle-bow, and went on laughing. He made his entry into Winchester in this extremely lawyer-like guise; that is to say, in moccasins and leggins, with a rifle in one hand, a pigeon on the wrist of the other, and a turkey dangling at his horse's side.

Cloud, in order to complete the picture, was s.h.a.ggier than ever, and Verty himself had never possessed so many tangled curls. His shoulders were positively covered with them.

Unfortunately Winchester had no artist at the period.

Mr. Roundjacket was standing at the door of the office, and he greeted Verty with a loud laugh.

"You young savage!" he said, "there you are looking like a barbarous backwoodsman, when we are trying our very best to make a respectable lawyer of you."

Verty smiled, and let Cloud dip his muzzle into the trough of a pump which stood by the door, venerable-looking and iron-handled, like all parish pumps.

"What excuse have you, young man?" said Mr. Roundjacket. "The individual who arrives late at the locality of his daily exercitation will eventually become a candidate for the high and responsible position of public suspension."

"_Anan_? said Verty, who was not accustomed to paraphrase. Then turning his eyes toward the pigeon, he said:

"Pretty fellow! Oh! will you show me the way? You shall--to see Redbud!"