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<h3>Chapter Forty Five.</h3> <h4>A Welcome Stronger.</h4> “Chris!” “Don’t!” “Chris!” in a louder tone. “Get out!” very irritably, and the speaker turned sharply over with his face to the stones and his back to the bright sunshine that came through the old window-opening. “Are you going to sleep here for ever?” A grunt, accompanied by the kicking out of one leg, which would have taken effect if Ned had not hopped over it. “I say, are you going to sleep for a week?” “No! And I’m not asleep now,” said Chris, with his eyelids squeezed very close together; “but I tell you what, if you don’t be off and leave me alone I’ll get up and punch your stupid old head.” “You daren’t.—I should like to see you!” “You soon will, and so I tell you. Be off, or I’ll empty the wash-hand jug over you.” “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Ned. “Where is it?” “Oh, bother! Be off!” “Shan’t! Do you know it’s to-morrow morning?” “No, I don’t, Paddy Bull. How can it be to-morrow when it’s to-day?” There was a grunt very much like a snore. “Well, of all the old dormice!” muttered Ned. “Chris, you must get up.” “Shan’t!” “But you’ve been asleep twenty-four hours.” “Look here, stupid,” grumbled Chris, without stirring, “if you want to tell a big fib you should always make it as big as you can, or else people won’t believe you. Say twenty-four days.” “Why, you unbelieving old humbug! It’s the truth. You ate till I was ashamed of you, and then you lay down to sleep about this time yesterday, and here you are now as sleepy as ever. If you don’t get up I’ll go and tell the doctor you must be ill.” Chris started up into a sitting posture and uttered a cry. “Oh! I say!—Ugh! I am stiff. I can’t hardly move.—What’s the matter with me?” “Slept till you’ve turned stiff as a log,” cried Ned. “Twenty-four hours right off.” “I say, that isn’t true, is it?” “Why, of course it is. Don’t you remember lying down?” “Of course I do. But what time is it?” “Oh, I don’t know about the time, but it’s getting on for mid-day.” “Ned! I say, why didn’t you wake me up before?” “To be kicked at and threatened and called names?” “Oh dear, how stiff I am! But really, Ned—no gammon—have I slept like that?” “Of course you have. Don’t you remember?” “Yes, I think so. Yes, of course. But what about the Indians?” “Oh, they’re hanging about. Some are at the mouth of the gulch, and some are on the cliffs at the top of the valley, but they don’t come near.” “Haven’t got the horses and mules, have they?” “No. We’ve kept too sharp a lookout for them.” “Oh!” cried Chris wildly, and his face contracted with pain. “Well, I suppose it hurts,” said Ned, with a trace of sympathy in his voice, “but I wouldn’t holloa like that. Get up and move about, the stiffness will soon go off.” “I wasn’t shouting because of my hurts,” said Chris bitterly. “I was thinking of my poor mustang.” “Yes,” said Ned, after a pause; “that was a horribly bad job; but I’ve been thinking about it all, old chap, and I’ve settled what we’ll do. I’m going to play fair—same as you would if it had been my nag. We’ll share one between us. I’ll have him one day, and you shall have him the next.” “That wouldn’t be fair,” said Chris, who was rubbing himself and kneading his joints where they ached. “Yes, it would. You wait and hear. Then we’ll have that mule that we took to fetch the water—old Brown Ginger. He’s a regular brick, and likes us. Don’t kick so much as the others—and take it in turns to ride him. What do you say now?” “Well—yes! I like that idea; but you wouldn’t care for that.” “Look here, you’re growing a sore-boned, old disagreeable. Say I’m a selfish beast at once.” “Shan’t!” “Then it’s all right,” cried Ned. “It’s very good of you, old fellow.” “Bah! Rubbish! Stuff! I say, are you so very sore?” “I can’t hardly move some ways.” “Like me to give you a rub?” “Oh no,” said Chris, increasing the friction he was applying across the small of his back. “I shall be better soon. Only it’s just as if I’d been hammered all over. But how queer that I should sleep like that!” “Not a bit of it. The doctor said it was all right and it would do you good.” “Where is he?” cried Chris. “Along with Wilton, watching the Indians down at the gulch. Father’s up yonder along with old Griggs, keeping an eye on the top of the cliff, and shooting the birds that rise out of the hollows and rifts there. They come down our part to get at the water.” “Then you’ve been all alone?” “Yes, playing pony and mule-herd. Nobody at home but me in this big three-storey house.” “But what about breakfast?” said Chris anxiously. “Over hours and hours ago. Hungry?” “I think so: I feel very hungry.” “That’s a good sign,” cried Ned, grinning. “Now I’ll confess. That’s why I roused you up. There’s coffee hot, and damper, and a split-up and frizzled bird. I don’t know what it is. Sort of vulture crow, perhaps.” “What! A carrion bird?” cried Chris. “Disgusting! They’re not good to eat.” “Oh, these are—delicious. I ate half of one this morning. Perhaps they’re not carrion birds, though.” “It’s all your gammon,” cried Chris. “Who shot them?” “Old Griggs, when they came after the water.” “That proves it. Old Griggs knows what’s good to eat well enough.—Hah, that’s better. I’m not quite so stiff now. But is there plenty of water?” “Lots. Why?” “I want to have a wash.” “Bucket and pan waiting for your lordship in the bathroom. There, go and have it; and look sharp. You’ll find me in the kitchen. We’re using that till the workmen have been to put the breakfast-room in a state of repair.” “You seem pretty lively this morning,” said Chris, rather sourly, for he was in a good deal of pain. “Of course I am. We’re enjoying ourselves so.” “You did nothing but grumble yesterday, and said I was having all the fun.” “Ah, but I didn’t know how sore you were going to be then,” cried Ned merrily. “There, look sharp. Breakfast’s waiting.—I say.” “What?” “I wouldn’t stop to shave this morning as it’s so late.” Chris passed his hand over his chin. “I expect it wants a scrape,” he said, “to take all the dust off.” A few minutes later, feeling much refreshed, Chris was feasting away at a most enjoyable breakfast, the lads chatting away merrily the while. “I say,” said Ned, “this wouldn’t be a bad place if it wasn’t for the Indians. Quite a palace when it’s put in repair. Land one’s own; the soil beautifully rich. I believe anything would grow here. I vote we settle down.” “And what about the gold?” “Ah, the gold! I’m beginning to think with my father that we shall never find the old temple, and that if we did we should be none the better for it. I don’t think we want all that gold.” “Grapes sour?” said Chris dryly. “N–no,” replied Ned. “But there, what’s the good of talking? We’ve come to find the gold, and we shall go on till we feel it’s no good. I like what we’re doing, though. We must stop here, of course, till the Indians are tired and have gone. I wish they would go.” “Yes, it makes it so horrible.” “Ah! Doesn’t it? I don’t mind shooting something that we want to eat. But firing at them—Ugh!” “Yes, it is horrid,” said Chris; “but they’re hardly men. Savage wretches! They seem to love killing.” “Have some more vulture,” said Ned quietly. “There’s all that piece of breast yet.” “Vulture!” said Chris, laughing. “Well, didn’t it taste bitter?” “Yes, a little. It’s one of those prairie hen things, of course.” “No, it was a fine fat cock.” “Well, they call them prairie hens. It was, as you say, delicious.” “Well, finish it.” Chris shook his head, rose stiffly, and helped his companion to clear away. “Now then,” he said, “I’m not much disposed to walk to-day. It’s just as if I’d strained one of the muscles or something up in my hip. I should like to go and sit out on the terrace. Haven’t got the glass, have you?” “Yes, it’s there, in the lookout. You can’t do better than take my place. There’s a rifle too, and cartridges, in case the Indians show, and the stones are built-up with loop-holes so that you’ll be safe from arrows if the brutes do come crawling up and chasing the scouting-party.” “What are you going to do?” “Help you do nothing,” said Ned, laughing. He led the way, and Chris limped after him, to find one part of the terrace turned into a rough observatory with a stone seat, and the binocular and rifle lying ready as Ned had said. “I can’t see anything of our people, nor yet of the Indians,” said Chris, after a good look round in different directions. “Oh, no; they keep well hidden.” “No fear of their hiding in any of those cells or on the terraces across the valley, is there?” “I dunno; they might,” replied Ned; “but they couldn’t send an arrow in here from that distance.” “But we could send bullets. That side’s within range,” said Chris thoughtfully. “Oh yes, and it wouldn’t be lucky for one of the scalpers to show himself, I can tell him; but I say, look at the animals. I went down to them this morning, and their coats are getting smooth already. The coarse rich grass here suits them splendidly. If we stop here long they’ll be growing fat.” Chris turned the glass upon the little drove of mules, which were grazing contentedly enough, and then changed his position to look at the ponies, which were keeping themselves aloof from their distant relatives, and cropping away with the thick grass right up to their knees. “One—two—three—four—five—six,” said Chris, by habit, counting the mustangs slowly. “Hallo!” cried Ned. “Hurt one of your eyes?” “Yes. It was when I came down with that ledge; I got both eyes full of dust and grit. Why?” “Because you must be squinting,” said Ned. “Is this another joke?” said Chris, with the glass to his eyes. “It’s no joke,” replied Ned, “not to be able to count properly. Try again.” “One—two—three—four—five—six,” said Chris, counting slowly. “Nonsense! Only five. One of your eyes don’t go at all, seemingly.” “I can see them distinctly through the glass,” cried Chris, with a touch of irritability in his tones.—“Why, Ned!” “What’s the matter?” “There are six.” “Stuff!” “There are, I tell you. Why, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! My pony’s there.” “What! You mean his ghost.” “Ghosts can’t eat grass,” shouted Chris wildly. “Why not? Horses’ ghosts would when they couldn’t get corn.” “It is! It is!” cried Chris, with a sound like a sob in his throat, and certainly there were tears in his eyes as he handed the glass to his comrade. “Look! Look for yourself; it’s my dear old mustang. Ah! there! he’s walking lame. And I thought he was dead—I thought he was dead!” “It is, old chap,” cried Ned, after a hurried glance. “He must have got here somehow and joined his mates in the night. I never noticed it, and no one else did, of course.” “Oh, Ned, this is good luck!” “Good? It’s glorious! Luck squared or cubed, or somethinged, up to the tenth power. Here, let’s go down and see. Can you walk?” “Walk?” cried Chris excitedly. “I feel as if I could run!” “Get your rifle then; we mustn’t stir without our popguns now. Why, I say, I never thought your mount was pure bred. His great-grandfather must have been a wildcat, a big one of the nine-lives breed, or he never could have come over that cliff, as you say, and lived. Perhaps it is his ghost, after all.” “Come on, and don’t talk,” cried Chris, who had buckled on his belt and slung his rifle. “It’s enough to make any one talk,” cried Ned. “But, I say, you said that the Indians shot at him till he was as full of arrows as a pincushion is full of pins.” “I didn’t. I said he was wounded two or three times.” “All the same. He must be a wonderful beast. Just wait till I’ve had a look at him, and then I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll change.” “Will we?” cried Chris, through his set teeth. “Poor old fellow, I wouldn’t part with him for the world. Hff!” “What’s the matter?” “Oh, nothing much. I’m only stiff and bruised all over. Come on.” Chris limped a great deal, and suffered plenty of pain, but he got down the slope bravely, managing to step from stone to stone until the way down to the water was passed and the two lads were hurrying across the verdant portion of the valley towards where the animals were browsing and grazing. The mules just turned their heads to look at them in a surly, uncompromising fashion, and went on feeding again, but as soon as they were passed and the lads approached the ponies, Chris raised his voice, uttering a kind of bird-call, when the effect upon the little herd was immediate: all turned their heads, and Chris’s mount uttered a shrill whinnying sound, before advancing to meet him, going, however, very stiffly on three legs, and as they approached looking as if it had suffered badly enough for anything that claimed to be alive. “My word, he has had it warmly,” cried Ned. “Poor old chap, he’s been in the wars, and no mistake!” The animal limped badly, and so did Chris, as they came within touch, when the pony thrust forward its muzzle in response to its master’s extended hand, and then dropped its head and looked dejected in the extreme, but blinked and whinnied again as it felt itself caressed. “My old beauty! My brave old chap!” cried Chris huskily. “Oh, look here, Ned! A broken arrow sticking in him still.” “Why, there’s another on this side,” cried Ned, “and a cut or a scratch—no, it’s too bad for a scratch—there in his flank.” “He’s cut here too, in the forehead. Oh, Ned, however did he manage to struggle back?” “Oh, never mind about that. Let’s have the heads of these arrows out first thing.” “Yes; they must be ready to fester in the wounds. No, we mustn’t do it; they want cutting out with a proper knife. Look here, Ned; jump on your pony and go and find father. He’d like to dress the wounds himself.” “No need,” said Ned sharply, as a distant whistle rang out; “here they come.” The whistle was answered, and a few minutes later the doctor and Wilton came into sight, saw the lads, and joined them. “What’s the matter?” cried the doctor hurriedly. “Another pony hurt?—What!—Impossible!—Oh, the poor beast! The brave fellow! I can hardly believe it. Here, let’s lead him gently across, and I’ll see what I can do. Has he just crawled back?” “No, father; he must have come in the night,” cried Chris. “We only just found that he was here.” “We didn’t look at them before we went off this morning,” said Wilton. “No, and I remember I reproached myself once for not doing so. But there, we’re giving all our sympathy to the pony. How are you, Chris, my boy?” “All right now, father,” was the reply. “Seeing this poor fellow has made me forget my bruises.” “But you are the better for your long sleep?” “Yes, father; only a bit ashamed.” “Never mind that.—Tut, tut, tut!” continued the doctor. “Lame in the off fore-foot. Some horrible wrench; cut in the flank. Why, he has three arrows in him,” continued the doctor, as he examined the poor beast while it limped along patiently by their side. “But he’ll get better, father?” cried Chris excitedly. “I hope so, my boy; but I am not a veterinary surgeon. Depend upon it, though, that I shall do my best.” The pony followed them like a dog, holding out its muzzle to Chris from time to time, and uttering as soon as he was caressed a piteous sigh. But he did not wince till they were close up to the slope, where the doctor asked for bucket, water, and sponge, and began his attentions, with Chris’s help, to the suffering, badly-injured beast. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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