Chapter Thirty Eight.
The Sleeping Draught.
Cris Carrol’s fortitude did not desert him, when he once more found himself alone in his prison.
He was not wholly unmoved by the reflection that on the morrow he must die; for it was a death such as even a brave man might not meet bravely, but a lingering death by torture.
The hunter knew what this meant.
“A bullet ain’t nothin’,” said he to himself, “it’s into yer body afore ye knows it, and if it’s in your vitals there’s an end on it; but to stand up to be prodded with burning sticks, requires philosophy a’most as much as this hyar chile have got. Dog-rot it, it won’t bear thinkin’ on—that it won’t. But I’ll be all-fired eternally if them fellows shall know how it hurts Cris Carrol! So let ’em do their worst, dura ’em!”
After this self-consoling soliloquy, he calmly went to work to make himself comfortable, by laying his blanket on the bare ground and improvising a pillow out of some logs that lay within reach.
As he handled the billets, a strange desire seized him. It was to knock his guard’s brains out and make a dash for liberty. But a moment’s reflection convinced him that the attempt at escape would be futile, the men outside being doubtless prepared to oppose his exit.
A disinclination to shed blood uselessly decided him, and he lay down composedly after lighting his pipe.
For some time he ruminated on his condition, puffing curls of smoke into the air, and watching them as they disappeared.
Once or twice he heard a scratching noise near the corner of the room, but it ceased almost as soon as he had noticed it.
At length, giving way to weariness, he composed himself to sleep, and before long, his loud snoring suggested to his guards that they might relax their vigilance.
They accordingly retired outside the door, after having assured themselves that his slumber was genuine.
There were still four of them, and they began chattering to each other, for a time forgetting their prisoner.
He was at length awakened by a gentle tug at his arm, which had to be repeated several times before it had the effect of arousing him.
In an instant he sat up.
“Eh? what? By the etarnal—”
An admonition of silence checked him, and he surveyed, with an astonished countenance, the cause of his disturbance.
In the darkest corner of the hut he perceived an opening, through which the face of a young girl was visible. He started on recognising her.
“Hush!” she said in a whisper. “Remember you are watched. Lie down again—listen; but say nothing. Ha! they are coming back!”
At these words the speaker withdrew, just in time, as two of the guards next moment re-entered the room.
They did not stay long. The heavy snoring which Cris improvised for them disarmed them of suspicion.
The moment they were again gone, he turned his eyes towards the opening, and listened.
“Do you know me?—answer by a sign.”
Cris nodded in the affirmative.
“You believe I am desirous to serve you?”
To this question he almost nodded his head off.
“Listen, then; and be careful to obey my instructions. This opening leads into the next house. The exit from it is through another—unfortunately it is a public room; therefore you cannot escape that way without as much risk as you would by going directly out by the door. Don’t go that way, but by the window. You see that window?”
Cris looked up. He had seen the window, certainly, and had already looked at it in every possible light, while considering a means of escape, but had come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t suit.
In reply, he shook his head despairingly.
His visitor seemed to understand him.
“It is too high, perhaps?”
Cris intimated by a sign that the difficulty was not in its height.
“The bars would prevent you getting out?”
The hunter’s head nodded like a mandarin’s.
“Is that all? Then I may as well tell you. Hush! some one is coming.”
One of the sentinels had thrust his head inside the door; he luckily withdrew it, convinced that all was right.
On its disappearance Carrol’s mysterious visitor returned, and resumed the conversation.
“You think those bars would hinder your escape?”
Another nod was the answer.
“You are mistaken.”
The backwoodsman, now perfectly au fait with his pantomimic part of the dialogue, gave a modest but expressive look of dissent.
“I tell you you are mistaken,” continued the young girl, “they are all sawn through. I see you are curious to know who did that?”
Cris said “yes,” without speaking a word.
“It was I!”
“You?” he telegraphed.
“Yes; I was once a close prisoner in this very room—not watched as you are, but still a prisoner. I broke a watch to pieces, took out the mainspring, filed a saw with the nail-cleaning blade of a pen-knife, and with that I sawed away the bars, leaving barely enough to hold them together.”
Carrol’s look expressed astonishment.
“Yes; it was hard work, and it took weeks to accomplish it. I dare say you wonder why I didn’t make my escape. That’s too long a story to tell you now.”
The backwoodsman’s look was very eloquent, and his visitor equally quick of comprehension. By that look he asked a question.
“No; I’m not a prisoner now,” she answered, “only in name. You shall have the benefit of my labours. But you must do everything cautiously. And first, to get rid of your guards.”
“How was that to be done?”
It was the captive who asked himself this question.
“Here is a bottle,” continued she; “it contains a sleeping draught. When they return, ask them for a drink; they will give it to you in a gourd; manage to pour the contents of this bottle into the gourd, and invite them to drink along with you. They will do so, as they never refuse a condemned captive. In a few minutes the draught will take effect. Then climb to the window, remove the bars without noise, let yourself down softly, and make your way straight into the forest. No thanks, till I see you again!”
With these words his visitor vanished, the opening in the wall closed noiselessly, and Cris lay wondering whether he had been sleeping or waking, listening to a soft, delicate voice, or only dreaming that he heard it.
The phial in his hand, however, gave token that he had not been dreaming. His visitor was no creature of another world, but one of this mundane sphere.
The hunter scratched his head with bewilderment, and mentally reviewed the situation.
“Wal, of all the surprisingest things as ever I met, this air the most tremenjous. Bite me to death with gallinippers if ever I thought to have seed sich a thing and not yell right out! And me a lyin’ here when that splendiferous critter war a botherin’ her brain to sarve this old sinner! It’s the most etarnal ’stonishing thing ever heerd on—that’s what it is. Yah! so you’re come agin, air ye?” he continued, as two of his guards re-entered. “Wal, I reckon I’ve got somethin’ as ’ill suit your complaint. Come in, ye devils, you!”
The unconscious objects of his apostrophe having entered the room, seated themselves not far from him, chattering with each other. The subject of the conversation was uninteresting to their prisoner, who lay revolving in his mind what was best to be done.
The time for putting his plan into execution had at length arrived.
His sentinels had ceased conversing, and were with difficulty keeping themselves awake.
“Look hyar, red-skins,” he said, addressing them, “have ye sich a thing as a drop of water? I’m most chokin’ wi’ thirst, and I see its no use waiting till you axes me, so I’ll take the trouble off your hands, and axe you.”
One of the Indians good-naturedly went outside, returning with a gourd, which he handed to the prisoner.
Cris raised it to his lips, and drank; then paused, as if for breath.
“By the etarnal!” said he, “if I didn’t think I seed one of your comrades put his head in that thar door. What kin he want?”
The men looked in the direction of the door.
The contents of the phial were poured into the gourd.
When the Indians looked again at their captive, he was apparently enjoying another long draught of water.
Not a drop, however, passed his lips.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, after his seemingly exhausting imbibation, and with the greatest difficulty suppressing a grimace, “there’s nothing like water to refresh one. It a’most gives a dyin’ man new lease o’ his life. I wonder I never tried it afore. There’s a smack o’ freedom about it that’s worth its weight in gold. Try it yourselves, and don’t stand staring, as if you was agoin’ to swallow me.”
The comical expression of their captive’s face, more than the long speech he made to the two men, induced them to oblige him.
Putting their lips to the gourd, each took a draught of the water.
They did not seem to coincide with him in his opinion of its virtues.
The old hunter laughed in his sleeve on perceiving their wry faces.
“Don’t like it, eh? Wal, you don’t know what’s good for ye. Poor benighted critters! how should ye?”
As he made the remark he fell back upon his log bolster, and again seemed to compose himself to sleep.
If the Indians had been somnolent before drinking the water, they were not rendered more wakeful by the indulgence, and it was almost ludicrous to see what useless efforts they made to battle against the potent narcotic.
In vain they talked to each other, got up, and paced the room, and endeavoured to stand up without leaning up against the wall.
This struggle between sleep and watchfulness at length came to a close.
In less than ten minutes after taking the draught, both lay stretched along the floor in a deep death-like slumber.
The backwoodsman lost no more time.
With an agile motion, he planted his feet in the interstices of the logs, and reached the window.
A slight wrenching of the bars showed the skill with which they had been sawn asunder.
One after another gave way, and the whole framework was in his hands.
He was on the point of dropping it gently, when outside, under the window, a human form appeared.
It was that of an Indian!