CHAPTER XXIII.
MR. PEABODY'S TROUBLES
When the party camped for the night the custom was to arrange the baggage wagons in a semicircle, and provide a resting-place for the women and children inside. As they were passing through a country occupied by Indians it was necessary to post one or more sentinels to keep watch through the night, and give notice of any who might be seen lurking near the camp. Fortunately, however, an Indian attack was seldom made at night. The time generally selected was in the morning, when the party were preparing to start on their day's march. Tom, as a boy, would have been excused taking his turn; but this did not suit him. He requested as a favor, that he might stand watch with the rest.
"Can he be relied upon? Is he not too young?" asked Fletcher, the leader, of Mr. Ferguson.
"You can depend upon him," said the Scotchman confidently. "There's more manliness in Tom than in many men of twice his years."
"Then I will put his name on the list," said Fletcher.
"That's right. I'll answer for him."
But there was one of the travelers who was by no means eager to stand on watch. This was Lawrence Peabody, the young man from Boston. He sought an interview with Fletcher, and asked to be excused.
"On what grounds, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher, surprised.
"It doesn't agree with me to lose my night's sleep," said Peabody. "I am naturally delicate, and – "
"Your excuse is not satisfactory, Mr. Peabody. We are banded together in a little community, having mutual rights and mutual obligations. In the arrangements made for the common safety it is your duty to bear your part."
"I am willing to provide a substitute," said Peabody eagerly.
"Where will you find a substitute?"
"I have been talking with Tom Nelson. He says he is willing to serve in my turn."
"He will serve when his own turn comes; that will be all we can expect of him."
"But he is only a boy. Why should he be expected to take his turn?"
"If he is old enough to be a substitute, he is old enough to stand watch for himself."
"But, Mr. Fletcher, I am very delicate," protested Lawrence Peabody. "I must have my regular sleep, or I shall be sick."
"We must take our chances of that, Mr. Peabody."
"I shall be very likely to go to sleep on my post."
"I wouldn't advise you to," said Fletcher seriously. "It might be dangerous."
"Dangerous!" ejaculated Peabody nervously.
"Precisely. If a lurking Indian should surprise you, you might wake up to find yourself scalped."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the Bostonian, his teeth chattering, for he was not of the stuff of which heroes are made. "Do you – think there is any danger of that?"
"Considerable, if you neglect your duty."
"But perhaps I can't help falling asleep."
"Mr. Peabody," said Fletcher sternly, "you must keep awake. Not only your own safety, but that of the whole camp, may depend upon your vigilance. If you choose to risk your own life, I don't complain of that, but you shall not imperil ours. I therefore give you notice, that if you fall asleep on guard you will be drummed out of camp, and left to shift for yourself."
"But I couldn't find my way on the prairie," said Peabody, very much alarmed.
"You had better think of that when you are tempted to close your eyes, Mr. Peabody," replied Fletcher.
Lawrence Peabody walked off, feeling very much disconcerted. Fervently he wished himself back in Boston, where there are no Indians, and a man might sleep from one week's end to another without any danger of losing his scalp.
"What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom, observing his melancholy appearance.
"I don't think I shall ever live to see California," answered Mr. Peabody plaintively.
"Why, what's the matter now?" asked Tom, checking an inclination to laugh; "are you sick?"
"I don't feel very well, Tom. I'm very delicate, and this journey is almost too much for my strength."
"Oh, cheer up, Mr. Peabody! Think of the gold that awaits you at the end of the journey."
"It's all that keeps me up, I do assure you. But I am afraid I shall never live to get there," said Peabody, with a groan.
"Don't think of such things, Mr. Peabody. Of course none of us is sure of living, but the chances are, that we shall reach California in health, make our fortunes, and go home rich. At any rate, that's what I am looking forward to."
"I wouldn't mind so much but for one thing, Tom."
"What is that?"
"Fletcher insists that I shall take my turn in standing guard. If I were not so delicate I wouldn't mind; but I know I can't stand it. I'll give you two dollars to take my place, every time my turn comes."
"I am willing, if Mr. Fletcher is," said Tom, who was by no means averse to making a little extra money.
"But he isn't. I proposed it to him, for I was sure I could arrange with you; but he refused."
"I suppose," said Tom slyly, "he thought I couldn't fill your place. You are a brave, resolute man, and I am only a boy."
"Tom – I – I don't mind telling you; but I am afraid I am not brave."
"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Peabody! that is only your modesty."
"But I assure you," said the young Bostonian earnestly, "I am speaking the truth. If I should see an Indian crawling near the camp I'm really afraid I should faint."
"You won't know how brave you are till you are put to the test."
"But do you think there is any chance of my being put to the test? Do you think there are any Indians near?" asked Lawrence Peabody, wiping the damp perspiration from his brow.
"Of course there must be," said Tom. "We are passing through their hunting-grounds, you know."
"Why did I ever leave Boston?" said Mr. Peabody sadly.
"You came, as I did, to make your fortune, Mr. Peabody."
"I'm afraid I can't keep awake, Tom; Mr. Fletcher tells me, if I don't, that he will turn me adrift on the prairie. Isn't that hard?"
"I am afraid it is a necessary regulation. But you won't fall asleep. Your turn will only come about once in two weeks, and that isn't much."
"The nights will seem very long."
"I don't think so. I think it'll be fun, for my part."
"But suppose – when you are watching – you should all at once see an Indian, Tom?" said Peabody, with a shiver.
"I think it would be rather unlucky for the Indian," said Tom coolly.
"You are a strange boy, Tom," said Mr. Peabody.
"What makes you think so?"
"You don't seem to care anything about the danger of being scalped."
"I don't believe I should like being scalped any more than you do."
"You might have got off from standing watch; but you asked to be allowed to."
"That is quite true, Mr. Peabody. I want to meet my fair share of danger and fatigue."
"You can stand it, for you are strong and tough. You have not my delicacy of constitution."
"Perhaps that's it," said Tom, laughing.
"Would you mind speaking to Fletcher, and telling him you are willing to take my place?"
"I will do it, if you wish me to, Mr. Peabody."
"Thank you, Tom; you are a true friend;" and Mr. Peabody wrung the hand of his young companion.
Tom was as good as his word. He spoke to Fletcher on the subject; but the leader of the expedition was obdurate.
"Can't consent, my boy," he said. "It is enough for you to take your turn. That young dandy from Boston needs some discipline to make a man of him. He will never do anything in a country like California unless he has more grit than he shows at present. I shall do him a favor by not excusing him."
Tom reported the answer to Peabody, who groaned in spirit, and nervously waited for the night when he was to stand watch.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A SAD SIGHT
A day later, while the wagon-train was slowly winding through a mountain defile, they encountered a sight which made even the stout-hearted leader look grave. Stretched out stiff and stark were two figures, cold in death. They were men of middle age, apparently. From each the scalp had been removed, thus betraying that the murderers were Indians.
"I should like to come across the red devils who did this," said Fletcher.
"What would you do with them?" asked Ferguson.
"Shoot them down like dogs, or if I could take them captive they should dangle upon the boughs of yonder tree."
"I hope I shall be ready to die when my time comes," said Ferguson; "but I want it to be in a Christian bed, and not at the hands of a dirty savage."
Just then Lawrence Peabody came up. He had been lagging in the rear, as usual.
"What have you found?" he inquired, not seeing the bodies at first, on account of the party surrounding them.
"Come here, and see for yourself, Peabody," said one of the company.
Lawrence Peabody peered at the dead men – he was rather near-sighted – and turned very pale.
"Is it the Indians?" he faltered.
"Yes, it's those devils. You can tell their work when you see it. Don't you see that they are scalped?"
"I believe I shall faint," said Peabody, his face becoming of a greenish hue. "Tom, let me lean on your shoulder. Do – do you think it has been done lately?"
"Yesterday, probably," said Ferguson. "The bodies look fresh."
"Then the Indians that did it must be near here?"
"Probably."
"These men were either traveling by themselves, or had strayed away from their party," said Fletcher. "It shows how necessary it is for us to keep together. In union there is strength."
The bodies were examined. In the pocket of one was found a letter addressed to James Collins, dated at some town in Maine. The writer appeared to be his wife. She spoke of longing for the time when he should return with money enough to redeem their farm from a heavy mortgage.
"Poor woman!" said Ferguson. "She will wait for her husband in vain. The mortgage will never be paid through his exertions."
Tom looked sober, as he glanced compassionately at the poor emigrant.
"He came on the same errand that I did," he said. "I hope my journey will have a happier ending."
"Always hope for the best, Tom," said his Scotch friend. "You will live happier while you do live, and, if the worst comes, it will be time enough to submit to it when you must."
"That is good philosophy, Mr. Ferguson."
"Indeed it is, my lad. Don't borrow trouble."
"We must bury these poor men," said Fletcher. "We can't leave them out here, possibly to be devoured by wild beasts. Who will volunteer for the service?"
"Come, Peabody," said John Miles, a broad-shouldered giant, who had a good-natured contempt for the young man from Boston. "Suppose you and I volunteer."
Lawrence Peabody shrank back in dismay at the unwelcome proposition.
"I couldn't do it," he said, shivering. "I never touched a dead body in my life. I am so delicate that I couldn't do it, I assure you."
"It's lucky we are not all delicate," said Miles, "or the poor fellows would be left unburied. I suppose if anything happens to you, Peabody, you will expect us to bury you?"
"Oh, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Miles," entreated Peabody, showing symptoms of becoming hysterical. "I really can't bear it."
"It's my belief that nature has made a mistake, and Peabody was meant for a woman," said Miles, shrugging his shoulders.
"I will assist you, my friend," said the Scotchman. "It's all that remains for us to do for the poor fellows."
"Not quite all," said Tom. "Somebody ought to write to the poor wife. We have her address in the letter you took from the pocket."
"Well thought of, my lad," said Fletcher. "Will you undertake it?"
"If you think I can do it properly," said Tom modestly.
"It'll be grievous news, whoever writes it. You can do it as well as another."
In due time Mrs. Collins received a letter revealing the sad fate of her husband, accompanied with a few simple words of sympathy.
Over the grave a rude cross was planted, fashioned of two boards, with the name of James Collins, cut out with a jack-knife, upon them. This inscription was the work of Miles.
"Somebody may see it who knows Collins," he said.
It happened that, on the second night after the discovery of Collins and his unfortunate companion, Lawrence Peabody's turn came to stand watch. He was very uneasy and nervous through the day. In the hope of escaping the ordeal he so much dreaded he bound a handkerchief round his head.
"What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?" asked Fletcher.
"I've got a fearful headache," groaned Peabody. "It seems to me as if it would split open."
"Let me feel of it," said Fletcher.
"It doesn't feel hot; it doesn't throb," he said.
"It aches terribly," said Peabody. "I'm very subject to headache. It is the effect of a delicate constitution."
"The fellow is shamming," said Fletcher to himself; and he felt disgust rather than sympathy.
"It's a little curious, Mr. Peabody, that this headache should not come upon you till the day you are to stand on watch," remarked the leader, with a sarcasm which even the young man from Boston detected.
"Yes, it's strange," he admitted, "and very unlucky, for of course you won't expect a sick man to watch."
"You don't look at it in the right light, Mr. Peabody. I regard it as rather lucky than otherwise."
Lawrence Peabody stared.
"I don't understand you, Mr. Fletcher," he said.
"If you have the headache, it will prevent you from going to sleep, and you remember you expressed yourself as afraid that you might. If you were quite well, I might feel rather afraid of leaving the camp in your charge. Now, I am sure you won't fall asleep."
Mr. Peabody listened in dismay. The very plan to which he had resorted in the hope of evading duty was likely to fasten that duty upon him.
"He'll be well before night," thought Fletcher shrewdly; and he privately imparted the joke to the rest of the party. The result was that Mr. Peabody became an object of general attention.
In half an hour the young man from Boston removed his handkerchief from his head.
"Are you feeling better, Mr. Peabody?" asked Tom.
"Very much better," said Peabody.
"Your headache seems to pass off suddenly."
"Yes, it always does," said the young Bostonian. "I am like mother in that. She had a delicate constitution, just like mine. One minute she would have a headache as if her head would split open, and half an hour afterward she would feel as well as usual."
"You are very fortunate. I was afraid your headache would make it uncomfortable for you to watch to-night."
"Yes, it would; but, as the captain said, it would have kept me awake. Now I don't believe I can keep from sleeping on my post."
"Why don't you tell Fletcher so?"
"Won't you tell him, Tom? He might pay more attention to it if you told him."
"No, Mr. Peabody. You are certainly the most suitable person to speak to him. What makes you think he would pay more attention to me, who am only a boy?"
"He seems to like you, Tom."
"I hope he does, but really, Mr. Peabody, you must attend to your own business."
Fletcher was at the head of the train, walking beside the first wagon. Hearing hurried steps, he turned, and saw Mr. Lawrence Peabody, panting for breath.
"Have you got over your headache, Mr. Peabody?" he asked, with a quiet smile.
"Yes, Mr. Fletcher, it's all gone."
"I am glad to hear it."
"It would have kept me awake to-night, as you remarked," said Peabody. "Now, I am really afraid that I shall fall asleep."
"That would be bad for you."
"Why so?"
"You remember those two poor fellows whom we found scalped the other day?"
"I shall never forget them," said Lawrence Peabody, with a shudder.
"Better think of them to-night. If you go to sleep on watch, those very Indians may serve you in the same way."
"Oh, good gracious!" ejaculated Peabody, turning pale.
"They or some of their tribe are, no doubt, near at hand."
"Don't you think you could excuse me, Mr. Fletcher?" stammered Peabody, panic-stricken.
"No!" thundered Fletcher, so sternly that the unhappy Bostonian shrank back in dismay.
For the credit of Boston, it may be said that John Miles – a broad-shouldered young giant, who did not know what fear was – more honorably represented the same city.
CHAPTER XXV.
A NIGHT PANIC
Lawrence Peabody's feelings when night approached were not unlike those of a prisoner under sentence of death. He was timid, nervous, and gifted with a lively imagination. His fears were heightened by the sad spectacle that he had recently witnessed. His depression was apparent to all; but I regret to say that it inspired more amusement than sympathy. Men winked at each other as they saw him pass; and, with the exception of Tom and his Scotch friend, probably nobody pitied the poor fellow.
"He's a poor creature, Tom," said Donald Ferguson; "but I pity him. We wouldn't mind watching to-night; but I doubt it's a terrible thing to him."
"I would volunteer in his place, but Mr. Fletcher won't agree to it," said Tom.
"He is right. The young man must take his turn. He won't dread it so much a second time."
"What would the poor fellow do if he should see an Indian?"
"Faint, likely; but that is not probable."
"Mr. Fletcher thinks there are some not far off."
"They don't attack in the night, so I hear."
"That seems strange to me. I should think the night would be most favorable for them."
"It's their way. Perhaps they have some superstition that hinders."
"I am glad of it, at any rate. I can sleep with greater comfort."
The rest were not as considerate as Tom and Ferguson. They tried, indeed, to excite still further the fears of the young Bostonian.
"Peabody," said Miles, "have you made your will?"
"No," answered Peabody nervously. "Why should I?"
"Oh, I was thinking that if anything happened to you to-night you might like to say how your things are to be disposed of. You've got a gold watch, haven't you?"
"Yes," said Peabody nervously.
"And a little money, I suppose."
"Not very much, Mr. Miles."
"No matter about that. Of course if you are killed you won't have occasion for it," said Miles, in a matter-of-fact tone.
"I wish you wouldn't talk that way," said Peabody irritably. "It makes me nervous."
"What's the use of being nervous? It won't do any good."
"Do you really think, Mr. Miles, there is much danger?" faltered Peabody.
"Of course there is danger. But the post of danger is the post of honor. Now, Peabody, I want to give you a piece of advice. If you spy one of those red devils crouching in the grass, don't stop to parley, but up with your revolver, and let him have it in the head. If you can't hit him in the head, hit him where you can."
"Wouldn't it be better," suggested Peabody, in a tremulous voice, "to wake you up, or Mr. Fletcher?"
"While you were doing it the savage would make mince-meat of you. No, Peabody, fire at once. This would wake us all up, and if you didn't kill the reptile we would do it for you."
"Perhaps he would see me first," suggested Peabody, in a troubled tone.
"You mustn't let him. You must have your eyes all about you. You are not near-sighted, are you?"
"I believe I am – a little," said Peabody eagerly, thinking that this might be esteemed a disqualification for the position he dreaded.
"Oh, well, I guess it won't make any difference, only you will need to be more vigilant."
"I wish I was blind; just for to-night," thought Peabody to himself, with an inward sigh. "Then they would have to excuse me."
John Miles overtook Fletcher, who was with the head wagon.
"Captain Fletcher," he said, "I am afraid Peabody will make a mighty poor watch."
"Just my opinion."
"He is more timid than the average woman. I've got a sister at home that has ten times his courage. If she hadn't I wouldn't own the relationship."
"I am not willing to excuse him."
"Of course not; but I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll keep an eye open myself, so that we sha'n't wholly depend on him."
"If you are willing to do it, Miles, we shall all be indebted to you. Don't let him know it, though."
"I don't mean to. He shall suppose he is the only man awake in camp."
At a comparatively early hour the party stretched themselves out upon the ground, inviting sleep. Generally they did not have to wait long. The day's march brought with it considerable physical fatigue. Even those who were light sleepers at home slept well on the trip across the plains. Few or none remained awake half an hour after lying down. So Peabody knew that he would soon be practically alone.
With a heavy heart he began to pace slowly forward and back. He came to where Tom lay.
"Tom – Tom Nelson," he called, in a low voice.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom, in a sleepy tone.
"Are you asleep?"
"No; but I soon shall be."
"Won't you try to keep awake a little while? It won't seem so lonesome."
"Sorry I can't accommodate you, Mr. Peabody; but I'm awfully tired and sleepy."
"Who's that talking there?" drowsily demanded the nearest emigrant. "Can't you keep quiet, and let a fellow sleep?"
"Good night, Mr. Peabody," said Tom, by way of putting an end to the conversation.
"Good night," returned the sentinel disconsolately.
The hours passed on, and Lawrence Peabody maintained his watch. He was in no danger of going to sleep, feeling too timid and nervous. He began to feel a little more comfortable. He could see nothing suspicious, and hear nothing except the deep breathing of his sleeping comrades.
"It is not so bad as I expected," he muttered to himself.
He began to feel a little self-complacent, and to reflect that he had underrated his own courage. He privately reflected that he was doing as well as any of his predecessors in duty. He began to think that after he had got back to Boston with a fortune, gained in California, he could impress his friends with a narrative of his night-watch on the distant prairies. But his courage had not yet been tested.
He took out his watch to see how time was passing.
It pointed to twelve o'clock.
Why there should be anything more alarming in twelve o'clock than in any other hour I can't pretend to say, but the fact none will question. Mr. Peabody felt a nervous thrill when his eyes rested on the dial. He looked about him, and the darkness seemed blacker and more awe-inspiring than ever, now that he knew it to be midnight.
"Will it ever be morning?" he groaned. "Four long hours at least before there will be light. I don't know how I am going to stand it."
Now, there was attached to the wagon-train one of those universally despised but useful animals, a donkey, the private property of a man from Iowa, who expected to make it of service in California. The animal was tethered near the camp, and was generally quiet. But to-night he was wakeful, and managed about midnight to slip his tether, and wandered off. Peabody did not observe his escape. His vigilance was somewhat relaxed, and with his head down he gave way to mournful reflection. Suddenly the donkey, who was now but a few rods distant, uplifted his voice in a roar which the night stillness made louder than usual. It was too much for the overwrought nerves of the sentinel. He gave a shriek of terror, fired wildly in the air, and sank fainting to the ground. Of course the camp was roused. Men jumped to their feet, and, rubbing their eyes, gazed around them in bewilderment.
It was not long before the truth dawned upon them. There lay the sentinel, insensible from fright, his discharged weapon at his feet, and the almost equally terrified donkey was in active flight, making the air vocal with his peculiar cries.
There was a great shout of laughter, in the midst of which Peabody recovered consciousness.
"Where am I?" he asked, looking about him wildly, and he instinctively felt for his scalp, which he was relieved to find still in its place.
"What's the matter?" asked the leader. "What made you fire?"
"I – I thought it was the Indians," faltered Peabody. "I thought I heard their horrid war-whoop."
"Not very complimentary to the Indians to compare them with donkeys," said Miles.
Lawrence Peabody was excused from duty for the remainder of the night, his place being taken by Miles and Tom in turn.
It was a long time before he heard the last of his ridiculous panic, but he was not sensitive as to his reputation for courage, and he bore it, on the whole, pretty well.