CHAPTER XVI.
The Manitou Race.
Sprigg awoke. Bolt upright, all unharmed he found himself standing in front of the old hunting shanty; in the self-same sun-spot where he had stood when his father and Pow-wow, all unconscious of his presence, had passed him by. Yes, and the self-same hour, too, of the day, as he could judge by the length of his shadow in the sunshine, which he remembered as having been traced on the landscape at that conjuncture. Was that yesterday, or the moment gone but now? He could not tell, so like a dream appeared it all. He ran his eyes along the buffalo-trace, that led in the direction of home, half expecting to catch another glimpse of his father's retreating figure. Thus he stood, for many moments, in a state of dreamy bewilderment, gazing about him far and wide, until his wondering thoughts and wandering eyes reverted directly to his personal self. He looked down; his feet were bare. Where were the red moccasins? Red moccasins! They were but a part of the dream; or, rather, the very master-fancy of it—the incubus! Never had he seen such things in bodily form. Assuredly, he must be at home, aflat of his back on the floor, asleep and dreaming.
He was still looking about him, trying to make something of his strange experiences, when his eye was caught by a glitter and a gleam in the grass, which caused him to spring affrightedly backward, as from the glittering eye and gleaming crest of a rattlesnake. But no serpent was there. The more the pity! Only the red moccasins, adjusted side by side, with their old air of easy self-assurance, and now in open view before him. Yet, but the moment previous his look had chanced to be resting on that very spot, and naught but the tufted grass had he seen there! With their familiar sheen in his eyes, all came flashing back to his memory—the terrors of Manitou hill, the wonders of Manitou cave. Yet what assurance had he that these things also were not dreams? Let all the rest be as unreal as it might, the red moccasins were there in bodily form, and his own identical pair, too, as he could easily distinguish by a certain peculiar token, which was wanting in those he had seen on the feet of the elves. Upon all of theirs, between toe and instep, was the figure of an arrow traced in blood-red beads. Upon his own was the same figure, thrust through that of a human heart, but the whole device wrought in colorless beads. As he stood there gazing upon them, a twinkling light came glancing out of their beads, which met his look amazingly like a smile of familiar recognition. Then came it again, stealing upon his ear, that sound, or fancy, so like a voice; but whence, whether from the moccasins, or from some airy tongue, or from his own heart, perplexed him as much as ever to decide.
"Our brave Sprigg, in a pet of wrath, flung us from him up there on Manitou hill. He thought that we had deceived him. He had only deceived himself. So bemisted were his eyes from gazing, and gazing, and gazing at us, that he could see nothing as it really was. Therefore, without being aware of it, he passed on directly by his grandpap's house; directly by young Ben Logan's house; directly by pretty little Bertha Bryant's house—the very places whither he was so bent upon going when he set out from home. Now, at any of these houses we should have been perfectly willing to stop, at pretty little Bertha's in particular, only he did not seem inclined to turn our toes that way, but went on, and went on, and never stopped going, until the first thing he knew he found himself lost. Whose fault? Sprigg's; nobody's but Sprigg's. Yet he blamed us for it; blamed us for keeping along with his feet! What else could we do? We can't walk backward; we can't walk sideways—never could. We can only follow our toes, and their course is determined by the feet that are in us. Right their course, right ours. Then to fling us from him, like a pair of slip-shod shoes, when we had done our very best to speed him on his way! Thus spiting his toes by biting his nose, as the bull and the cat and the wolf soon showed him. Had he kept us under him, we could have kept him at easy distance from the monsters and made ourselves merry at their expense. But, as it was, we could only stand by and kick them out of the way, whenever they came uncomfortably near; and precious little thanks we got for it, too! But here we are, ready and willing as ever to serve our young master, his whole-souled friends to the last!
"Sprigg, this old hunting shanty, as you know, stands exactly midway between your pap's house and your grandpap's house. There's the road home; you know every crook and turn of it as well as we. You are free, perfectly free, to go that way if you prefer it; we shall say nothing, do nothing to hinder you; only, if you choose that road, you shall have to travel it without our good help, without our pleasant company, barefooted—ugly hills, cutting stones, scratching briars, piercing thorns! There's the road to grandpap's house—level and smooth, shady and pleasant! You may not know every crook and turn of it as well as you do of the other, that is true; but we do, so what's the difference? We can take you thither, be assured; and that, too, by set of sun, just at the time when Ben Logan, the bold young hunter, shall be coming home from the forest with the spoils of the chase; just as Bertha Bryant, the pretty little milkmaid, shall be coming home from the bluegrass glades with the cows. Then shall they see us and admire us—you and your beautiful shoes—admire us, fit to die—the boy of envy, the girl of love! Only, you must have a care, Sprigg, to keep your eyes clear of the red mist, else you will go agawking by them, as you did yesterday evening, when, off we are kicked again, like a pair of slip-shod shoes.
"Yes, Sprigg prefers that road, and so do we; suits him better, suits us better, for we never turn back, nor does a brave boy! And Sprigg is a brave boy! Who said our Sprigg was not a brave boy? On with us, then, and away!"