“Did the cellar hurt you, Charlie?” But there was no answer. In a few moments after, Charlie opened his eyes, and said,–
“Bub, I’m dreadful sick; if the Indians should come,–and you must watch for them, Bub, else they might come when you wasn’t looking,–”
Then he relapsed into silence.
“Did you ’peak, Charlie?” said Bub, wondering that he did not finish the sentence. The dear little voice seemed to recall his wandering thoughts, and, taking up what he was saying where he had left off, continued,–
“If the Indians should come, Bub, remember and pull the strings; perhaps that will frighten them off, as it did before. If it doesn’t, go right into the hole in the cellar, as I told you.”
“I fraid to go into the cellar ’out you.”
“But you must,” answered Charlie, “or the Indians will kill you. But you won’t feel afraid if you pray God to take care of you.”
“Is Dod stronger than dark?” asked Bub.
“Yes,” said Charlie, “he made the dark; he 275 made you, and everything; but,” he added, “I feel better; I guess I’ll get on the bed; it’s easier there.”
Charlie was threatened with brain fever, as his bloodshot eyes, flushed face, and throbbing temples revealed. The strain had been too great for him, and he soon seemed to be unconscious of what was passing around him, and moaned and tossed incessantly. Chary of his scanty store of provisions, not knowing how long they might be shut up in the cabin, he had eaten sparingly himself, but fed Bub generously, not only from love to his little brother, but because it would keep him the more quiet. The night-watching had worn on him terribly.