“That was a close call, boys. I tell you it was; but we are all right now,” says old Fields. “They are there waiting for us,” remarks Ferree. “Is Mrs. Meacham there? Can you see her?”—“Yes, yes, old man; she is there, standing in the wagon, looking at us with a glass. Lay still, old man, she is there.
You’ll be with her pretty soon.”—“Thank God!” goes up from the mattress. “How far off are we now, Fields?”—“’Bout a mile. Be patient. Yes, old man, there’s your wife, sure. She is standing on the ground now, looking through a glass. Be patient, old man; I’ll introduce you to her. She wouldn’t know who it was,—if I didn’t tell her.”
The “old man” was wondering if it is possible; shall I see her again? Am I dreaming? Is this a reality? Won’t I wake and find it all a delusion? Oh, how slow this boat! “How far now?”—“Only a little piece; keep cool, you’ll be there in a few minutes,” quietly remarks Fields. Ferree, putting his finger on his lips, nods and smiles at his sister.
That smile has lifted despair once more from this woman’s heart. But a moment since she had caught sight of the whitened face of her husband, so motionless and pale. She felt a pain in her heart, for she thought him dead. Now, her brother’s smile has reassured her; but “Why does my husband lie so still?” The keel of the boat grinds on the gravelled margin of the river. Fields jumps ashore, with rope in hand. The woman stands beside the ambulance; she does not come to meet the party. Her joy is too great; she must not, dare not, now express her feeling.
“Well, Orpha, here’s the old man; he is not very pretty, but he’s worth a dozen dead Modocs yet.” The “old man” is carried to the ambulance, and placed on a mattress, and his wife sits beside him, reunited after a separation of five months, during which time one of them had passed so close to the
portals that death had left the marks of his icy fingers upon him; and the other through a terrible storm of grief and suspense. The driver mounts his box; the veteran beside him. The escort mount their horses and range themselves on either side. The Modocs have not been heard of for several days and may be looking around their old home to waylay travellers. “Old Dad Fields” calls his crew; Dr. Cabanis cautions the driver about fast-driving, and also “the old man” about humbugging temperance people. The boat leaves the shore, the oars dip the waters. The driver cracks his whip, and one party is returning to the soldiers’ camp; the other is crowding forward to Linkville, half expecting to see a blaze of rifles from the sage bush. Twenty-five miles yet to-night. Over all the smooth road they go at a gallop. At midnight a light glimmers in the distance. It is Linkville. The moon is up, and shines now on thirteen little mounds by the roadside, beneath which sleep thirteen men who were killed by the Modocs last November. Uncle George’s nurse is waiting at the hotel door to receive the old man Meacham once more. Thank God for big, noble-hearted men like Uncle George and his partner, Alex. Miller! “The old man” is sleeping, but wakes up with a start as he has done every hour since the eleventh of April. The glaring eyes of old Schonchin, the horrid yells, the whizzing bullets, all come fresh to the brain when left without direction of his will. He wakes with a sudden start to find himself in a comfortable room, a soft hand on his brow; a familiar voice of affection reaches his ear, and he falls away to sleep again, soothed by the low murmur of a woman’s prayer.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
AMEN OUT OF TIME—FRIENDLY ADVICE FROM ENEMIES—BETRAYED.