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<h3>Chapter Three.</h3> <h4>The Man from the Wilderness.</h4> “Howdy, all on you? Two boys included. D’yer hear, nippers? I was a bit scared about ketching you, doctor. You’re wanted yonder.” “An accident?” cried the doctor quickly. “Accident?” said the newcomer. “Wal, yes, that’ll do. You might call him an accident, poor beggar, for he’s about played down to the lowest level. Some’d call him a loafer, but we’ll say accident—fatal accident, for I’m thinking he’s too far gone for you, friend Lee, clever doctor as you are.” “Where is he? At your place?” “Nay–y–y! He’s trudging along after me. I said I’d fetch the doctor to him, poor fellow, but he just found words enough to say he’d come after me, and he crept along. Yes,” continued the American, turning to the door. “Here he comes. Do what you can for him, and send him back to me; he can have one of the sheds and as much husk as he likes to lie on for the time he wants it, and I don’t think that’ll be long.” “I dare say we can do that for him, poor fellow,” said the doctor coldly, as he stepped towards the door, and then uttered an exclamation. “For goodness’ sake, Bourne, look here!” Both his companions and the boys hurried to the door <ANTIMG src="images/peril017.jpg" alt=""> to look out where a strange, gaunt-looking, grey-haired figure came creeping along in the hot sunshine, walking painfully by the help of a stout six-foot stick. At the first glance the red-brown skin drawn so tightly over his face made him resemble a mummy more than a living being, while his worn canvas and skin garments clung so tightly to him that his bodily aspect was horribly suggestive of a clothed skeleton. Upon seeing that he was observed he stopped short, leaning forward resting heavily upon the stick, to which he clung, peering from beneath the shadow cast by his bony brows, while his eyes, deeply sunken in their orbits, seemed to literally glow. The next moment he turned slowly towards a rough bench fixed beneath a shade-giving tree and sank slowly down with his back to the trunk, stretching out a long thin hand towards the doctor, while his dry greyish lips moved as if appealing naturally to him, the man he believed able to give that which he sought—help. “Ugh! How horrible!” whispered Chris to his companion. “If I had seen him lying down I should have thought that he was dead.” The boy’s idea was shared by all present, as the doctor stepped forward to their visitor. “That’s how he looked at me when he came up,” said their American neighbour. “He can’t say a word—only point and make signs.” “But where does he come from?” “Over yonder,” said the American, nodding south-east. “I caught sight of him when I first woke this morning, ever so far away, and then forgot all about him for hours, when I saw him again, and he had crawled nearer, about a hundred yards an hour, I should say. He looked so queer that I went over to him, and tried, as soon as I had got over the first look, to find out who and what he was.” “Well,” said Christopher eagerly; “who is he?” “You know as much as I do, squire, and that’s nothing,” was the reply; “but I guess.” “Yes: what?” cried Ned. “Strikes me, young sir, that, he’s some poor chap who has been regularly swallowed up in the great desert of salt plains over yonder. Lost his way, and his wits too, seemingly. Lots have been in my time.” “What, crossing the plains?” said Chris. “Yes. It’s like getting into quicksands. I never knew of any one before getting back again after once getting well in. It’s going straight away to death to go there. This one’s crawled out, poor chap, but it’s only to die. Look at him; he’s as good as dead now, all but his eyes.” “Yes, it is horrible,” said Ned, in a voice hardly above a whisper. “How can anybody be so foolish as to go?” “Ah, that’s it,” said the American, with a harsh chuckle. “They’ve seen yellow, or fancied they have, and been dreaming about it till it’s too much for them, and away they go—mad.” “Yellow?” said Chris wonderingly. “I don’t understand you.” “He’s making fun of us, Chris.” “Not a bit of it, my lad,” said the American. “I mean it. He’s had the yellow fever badly. I had an awful fit of it when I first came out here and took up land to grow things that won’t grow. There were plenty of old settlers and people here in those days, who had come cram full of stories about the salt desert yonder and what it hid. They said that the old mission fathers who first came here to travel about among the Indians discovered an old city there, half buried in the drifting sand, and beyond it two great hills. They said that there was a great treasure in the city, left by the old people who had lived there, and that the hills beyond were of solid gold, waiting for any one who would risk all there was to meet and go. They said he’d come back the richest man in the world—if he did come back at all.” “And did anybody go?” said Chris breathlessly. “Oh yes, my lad, as I said before; but no one had ever heard of any coming back to be rich. I didn’t go. Hadn’t pluck enough, I s’pose, or else you might have seen me come back like that poor chap there. Don’t look very rich, do he?” “No: horrible,” said Chris again. “Look, Ned; father’s doing something to him.” “Yes,” said the American grimly, “and I expect we shall all have to do something to him soon.” “What?” cried Ned excitedly. “Dig,” replied the American, almost in a whisper, and the boys looked about at the beautiful scene spreading around, and shuddered as they felt the full meaning of their neighbour’s words. “Ah, ’tain’t nice to think about, is it, lads?” continued the American; “much better to stop here and grow yellow oranges—not that I’ve found it so,” he continued, with a sigh. “It’s all been one horrible disappointment. Still one is alive and well, while that poor fellow—” “But he’s very, very old,” said Chris. “Old? Awful. Looks old too, from what he’s gone through. I should say he has starved, and been dried-up with thirst, and been hunted by those brutes of plain Indians, and had all his seven senses driven out of him. But maybe I’m all wrong, after all.” “Oh no: I think you’re right,” said Chris eagerly. “You must be.” “Must, eh? P’raps it’s all my fancy.” “How could a man come like that, then?” cried Ned. “That’s what we’ve got to learn, my lad; but most likely we shall never know, for, take my word, that poor chap has found his way to this place at last as a quiet spot where he may lie down and die.” “And my father won’t let him,” cried Chris excitedly. “Look, he’s going to do something for the poor fellow now.” The little group moved towards where the doctor was bending over his new patient; but he motioned to them to keep back, and all waited, watching him for the next ten minutes, when he beckoned to Mr Bourne, who stepped forward, to find the stranger lying motionless and with his eyes closed. “Dead?” he whispered in awe-stricken tones, as he gazed down pityingly at the wasted object before him. “As near to it as he can be to remain alive,” replied the doctor. “I can’t let him lie here. Ask Wilton to help you bring the loose door from the long shed, and we’ll get him upon it and carry him there.” “Yes,” said Mr Bourne quickly, and he hurried back to the others. “Come for the physic?” said the American, smiling; but on hearing what was required he eagerly joined in to help, and in a few minutes the roughly-made door was placed beside the unfortunate man, who was drawn upon it and carried into the long open shed and placed upon a heap of sweet new Indian corn-husks over which a blanket had been laid, a home-made pillow being fetched by Chris from the shanty the party shared, and as soon as the stranger felt the restfulness of his shaded easy couch he uttered a low sigh, opened his eyes, and looked up in the doctor’s, but only to gaze in a strange, far-off, stony way. “Going to give him something now, doctor?” said the American. “Not yet,” was the reply. “He is quite exhausted, and disposed to sleep. Did you give him anything?” “Mug o’ water with a drop of cold tea in. He seemed choked with thirst.” “Then I will wait and see if he sleeps before I do more.” “But say, mister,” said the American; “I didn’t show him the way here so as to plant him on to you. I thought you’d give him some pills now and a draught to take in the morning. I could have done this for the poor chap. Hadn’t you better do something of that sort and let me take him back? What do you say to bleeding him?” “When he has scarcely a drop of blood left in his body?” “Oh, all right; I don’t understand that sort of thing, doctor. But I don’t want you to think I meant to shuffle from helping a man out of a hole.” “Oh, I don’t think that, Griggs,” said the doctor warmly; “but the poor fellow must not be moved. He’s in the last stage of exhaustion, and must have suffered terribly.” “Precious old un, ain’t he?” said the American, gazing down at the head no longer covered by the rough cap of puma-skin that the patient had worn, and all noting the yellow, half-bald head and the long, thin, perfectly white hair and beard. “A man of seventy, or more, I should say,” replied the doctor gravely. “Hundred and seventy, you mean,” said the American sharply. “No: about the age I said,” replied the doctor. “Well,” cried the American, in a tone full of the surprise he felt, “yew do surprise me, doctor!” “Let’s leave him for a bit,” said the doctor, as he saw that their visitor’s eyes remained closed. “Perhaps he will sleep for a while.” The party backed out of the airy shed used for storing corn in the season, and often utilised in the hottest weather for a sleeping-place by the occupants of the shanty, and the strange visitor was left alone. “I feel mean over this job, neighbours,” said the American, as they moved towards the shanty; “and now I’m going to be meaner and meaner, as I am here and had no time to see to my vittling department. Got anything to eat?” “A very poor spread, Griggs,” said Wilton, smiling, “but of course we shall be glad if you’ll share it.” “I call that rale kind of you, and I will stop, for I’m downright hungry, and precious little to home. I say, if the President ever sends round for us to vote a new name for this part of the State I shall propose that we call it Starvationton. Why, look here, you’re a deal better off for corn and hay than I am to home,” he continued, as he sat back after munching potatoes and damper, and washing all down with fresh cool water from a little spring which never failed. “White wine too as never gets into a fellow’s head. But the place don’t answer my expectations; does it yours?” “Ours? No, Griggs,” said Mr Bourne sadly. “We’ve made up our minds to give it up.” “Not pull up stakes and go?” cried the American, bringing the haft of his knife down upon the rough table with a loud rap. “Yes,” said the doctor; “fruit-growing here is fruitless.” “Yes, because we don’t get any fruit. But look here, you neighbour Wilton, you don’t say anything: you don’t mean to go too?” “Indeed, but I do,” replied the gentleman addressed. “Hear him!” cried the American. “But you lads—you are going?” “Why, of course we should,” cried the boys, in a breath. “What, and leave me nearly all alone by myself? Well, as sure as my name’s ’Thaniel Griggs, I call it mean.” He looked round from one to the other, as if asking for an explanation, and rested his eyes last upon Mr Bourne, as he added— “On-neighbourly, that it is.” “We shall be sorry to lose so good a neighbour,” said Bourne; “but what is to be gained by trying any longer?” “Hum! That’s a riddle,” said the American. “Give it up. Ask me another.” “What can we do to improve our position anywhere near?” “Hah! That’s another riddle, and not so easy as t’other. Got any more, for I give that one up too.” “I think those two are enough,” said Wilton merrily. “The fact is, Griggs, we have all come to the conclusion that we are wasting our lives here.” “Where are you going, then?” “Home,” was the reply. “Ah!” cried Griggs. “There’s a nice sound about that—Home. Well, I shall go with you.” “What!” cried the doctor. “To England?” “No, I didn’t say that. I’m not going to cross the herring-pond. Your people yonder wouldn’t take to me. But let’s try some other place. Pull up tent-pegs and take up a location farther north, and I’ll go with you. What do you say, doctor?” “That you are wasting your life here, Mr Griggs, and that I should strongly advise you to make a fresh start.” “Along with you and the other neighbours?” “I do not say that.” “Eh? Not too proud to have me, are you?” “Certainly not,” said the doctor warmly. “You have often proved yourself too good a friend.” “Ah, that sounds better, doctor. Just you think over what I said, and don’t be in too great a hurry to go back to the old-country. There, thankye for the dinner.” “Dinner!” said Wilton contemptuously. “I wish it was.” “Might have been worse,” said the American good-humouredly. “You old-country folk have a saying about, ‘You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’ Well, that’ll do in this case—noo version. When you go out to dinner you shouldn’t look at what people give you to put in your mouth. There, I’m off. But lookye here, squires, all of you. I’m off now to go on killing blight and things, but as soon as you’re tired of our wild man, just send me word, and I’ll fetch him over to my place.” He gave a comprehensive nod all round and was passing through the door, but turned sharply round. “Here, I’ll just take a peep at the poor fellow as I go, doctor, by your leave—Go on tip-toe, you know. P’r’aps you’d like to go with me.” “Yes, I want to see him again,” replied the doctor, and they went to the temporary hospital together, and found the stranger sleeping heavily. “Man must have gone through a deal to get to look like that, doctor,” whispered the American, as they stole away. “A great deal more than we know, or ever shall know, friend Griggs,” replied Chris’s father. “Oh, I dunno so much about that, mister. You once get him well, and he’ll spin us a yarn, I expect, such as’ll make our hair stand on end.” “But how to get him well?” said the doctor, smiling sadly. “Oh, you go on; you’ll do it. See how you mended that black fellow the horse kicked to pieces. It was wonderful; made me wish I’d been a doctor myself. But there, I must be off back.” He turned away, and after another glance at his sleeping patient, who quite fascinated him by his strangely weird aspect, the doctor returned to the shanty, where he and his companions began at once to discuss the bearings of the strange incident, talking over the possibility of the man having been lost, perhaps for years, in one of the great deserts towards the south, and having at last found his way back to civilisation, while the two boys sat silently drinking in every word, associating their weird visitor with wild and stirring adventures in the unknown land. “I say, Ned,” said Chris that night when they went to their rough beds, “shouldn’t you like to go right off and see what the wild part of the country’s like?” “I just should,” replied Chris’s companion. “We’d take rifles and plenty of ammunition, and go exploring. It would be fine!” “But they wouldn’t let us go,” said Chris slowly. “Think not?” “Sure of it. Why, if I was to ask father to give me leave he’d take me out to the long shed and say, Do you want to come back like that poor fellow there? So would your father.” “Yes. Just as if it was likely! I dare say he lost himself, poor chap. We shouldn’t,” continued Ned. “The way would be always to take bearings, and never lose sight of them.” “Or take a big ball of white cotton and unwind it as you go,” said Chris, grinning. “You’re bound to find your way back then.” “Get out! You’re poking fun at me,” said Ned quietly. “I know a better way than that of yours, which is of course nonsense. How could a fellow take miles of cotton in his pocket to unwind! No: I tell you what! The best way would be—Chris!—Chris!—Why don’t you answer? Oh, what a Dummkopf it is! Fast as a top in a moment! I never saw such a fellow to sleep!” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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