“Yes, Paddy, what then?”
“Och! I only thought to cheer you up a bit by p’intin’ out that he says there’s goold hereabouts.”
“I’m glad for your sake and Fred’s,” returned Tom, with a faint smile, “but it matters little to me; I feel that my days are numbered.”
“Ah then, sor, don’t spake like that,” returned Flinders, with a woebegone expression on his countenance. “Sure, it’s in the dumps ye are, an’ no occasion for that same. Isn’t Miss—”
The Irishman paused. He had it in his heart to say, “Isn’t Miss Betty smilin’ on ye like one o’clock?” but, never yet having ventured even a hint on that subject to Tom, an innate feeling of delicacy restrained him. As the chief who led the party gave the signal to move on at that moment it was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence.
The Indian village, which was merely a cluster of tents made of deerskins stretched on poles, was now plainly visible from the commanding ridge along which the party travelled. It occupied a piece of green level land on the margin of the lake before referred to, and, with its background of crag and woodland and its distance of jagged purple hills, formed as lovely a prospect as the eye of man could dwell upon.
The distance of the party from it rendered every sound that floated towards them soft and musical. Even the barking of the dogs and the shouting of the little Redskins at play came up to them in a mellow, almost peaceful, tone. To the right of the village lay a swamp, from out of which arose the sweet and plaintive cries of innumerable gulls, plovers, and other wild-fowl, mingled with the trumpeting of geese and the quacking of ducks, many of which were flying to and fro over the glassy lake, while others were indulging in aquatic gambols among the reeds and sedges.
After they had descended the hill-side by a zigzag path, and reached the plain below, they obtained a nearer view of the eminently joyful scene, the sound of the wild-fowl became more shrill, and the laughter of the children more boisterous. A number of the latter who had observed the approaching party were seen hurrying towards them with eager haste, led by a little lad, who bounded and leaped as if wild with excitement. This was Unaco’s little son, Leaping Buck, who had recognised the well-known figure of his sire a long way off, and ran to meet him.
On reaching him the boy sprang like an antelope into his father’s arms and seized him round the neck, while others crowded round the gaunt trapper and grasped his hands and legs affectionately. A few of the older boys and girls stood still somewhat shyly, and gazed in silence at the strangers, especially at Betty, whom they evidently regarded as a superior order of being—perhaps an angel—in which opinion they were undoubtedly backed by Tom Buxton.
After embracing his father, Leaping Buck recognised Paul Bevan as the man who had been so kind to him and his brother Oswego at the time when the latter got his death-fall over the precipice. With a shout of joyful surprise he ran to him, and, we need scarcely add, was warmly received by the kindly backwoodsman.