"That was a close shave," he muttered.
"Begorra! It was thot," nodded Barney. "Av it hadn't been fer th' litthle girrul, we'd lost our scoolps Oi belave."
"The little girl!" exclaimed Frank. "She appeared like a good fairy, and——"
"Dat's my name. Mamma talls me Fairy Fay."
She was still standing on the bluff, and she had heard Frank's words. Now she held out her arms to him, crying:
"Tome tate me down. I wants to tome down."
"Get back from the edge, dear," Frank quickly called. "You may fall. We will come up to you as soon as possible."
"Tome wight away."
"Yes, we will come right away."
"I's tired playing all alone—an' I's hundry," said the sweet little voice. "I's awsul hundry. You dot somet'ing dood to eat?"
"You shall have something to eat very soon, if you will keep back from the edge, so you'll not fall down," assured Frank.
He then directed Barney to remain there and watch her, cautioning her to keep back, while he found a way to reach the top of the bluff.
Frank hastened away, looking for some mode of getting there. In a short time, he found a place to ascend, and lost no time in doing so.
When he came panting to the top of the bluff, the little girl was waiting, having seated herself contentedly on a stone, where she could call down to Barney.
Seeing Frank, she held out her arms, crying:
"I's awsul glad you tome! I'll be your Fairy now."
"You have been my good fairy to-day, little one," he earnestly said, as he lifted her in his arms and kissed her cheek. "Without doubt you saved my life."
"Mamma says I's pritty dood Fairy all the time."
"I haven't a doubt of it."
"But I's awsul hundry now. I touldn't find mamma, and I walked and walked, and I falled down and tored my dress, and I dot tired and awsul hundry, and I cwyed some, and nen I 'membered mamma told me it wasn't nice to cwy, and I walked again, and I heard somebody talkin', and I looked down and it was you."
She ended with a happy laugh, clasping her arms about his neck.
"Where is your mamma?"
"Oh, I don't know now," she answered, a little cloud coming to her face. "I touldn't find her. You tate me to her."
"You do not live near here?"
"We live in New Yort."
"New York?"
"Yeth, thir. Dat's a dreat bid place wif lots and lots of houses."
"Then you must be traveling with your mamma?"
"I's trafeling wizout her now. We has had jes' the longest wides on the cars. And we stopped in lots of places, but we didn't find papa."
"Then your papa is not with you?"
"Papa goed away long time ago, and that made mamma cwy. I seed her weadin' a letter and cwyin' awsul hard, and papa didn't tome bat some more. You know where to find my papa?"
"No, little one, I do not; but I will help you find your mother. What did you say your name is?"
"Fay. Tometimes mamma talls me Fairy."
"What is all your name—the rest of it besides Fay?"
"Why, jes' Fairy. I's awsul hundry. Dot a tookie?"
Finding himself unable to learn her full name from her lips, Frank started for the foot of the bluff, bearing her in his arms.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVI.
OLD ROCKS.
Barney was waiting, and he drew a breath of relief when Frank appeared with the child.
"Oi wur afraid th' litthle darlint would tumble off bafore ye could rache her," he said.
"But I tept wight away from the edge, same as you toldt me to," chirped Fay, cheerfully. "If I did tumbled, you tould catch me."
"Begorra! Oi wur ready to thry it, me swate."
"You never wanted to see me fall and hurt myself bad, did you?"
"Nivver a bit."
Frank told Barney how much he had been able to learn from her lips, and they were not long in deciding it would be folly for them to attempt to find Fay's mother.
"The guide is the one to do that," said Frank.
"Roight, me b'y. Ould Rocks knows ivery inch av th' parruk."
"Then we had better return to camp at once."
"Sure."
"But the buffalo—I had forgotten them. We have not obtained that picture."
"An' nivver a bit we will this doay, Frankie."
"Why not?"
"Th' boofalo have shkipped."
"Gone?"
"Thot's roight."
"Too bad!"
Frank felt that he must satisfy himself with his own eyes, and so he hastened to a spot that commanded a view of the place where the creatures had been feeding.
Sure enough, they were gone.
"That's hard luck!" he muttered. "Here we have been hanging a whole week in the park just to enable me to get a snap at some of the creatures, and we lost our only opportunity. Well, I suppose we should be satisfied to get off with our lives."
He knew this was true, and so there was reason to be thankful, instead of grumbling.
He returned to where Barney was talking to Fay. The child was anxiously watching Frank's movements.
"You ain't doin' away and leave me, is you?" she asked.
"No, dear."
"I was 'fraid so, and I's awsul hundry."
"An' wouldn't ye go wid me av Oi'd take ye where ye'd get plinty to ate?" asked the Irish lad.
"Him tome, too?" She held out her hands to Frank.
"An' wouldn't ye go av he didn't come?"
"I dess not," she said. "I like you pitty well; but I kinder like him better. Him goin' to find my mamma. I dess him dit me somefin to eat."
Frank caught her up in his arms.
"Yes, dear," he laughed, his heart swelling with a feeling that convinced him he would lay down his life in defense of her, if needs be. "I will find you something to eat as soon as possible, and I will take you to your mother."
"Dat's all wight. I ain't doin' to cwy. You don't like little dirls we'en they cwy, does you?"
"In your case, I do not think crying would change my feelings. Little girls have to cry sometimes."
"I dess dat's wight," said Fay, very soberly.
Frank surrendered his rifle to Barney, who insisted on taking the camera also, and then, with the child in his arms, followed the Irish lad on the return tramp to camp.
It proved to be a long, tiresome trudge, and the sun was setting when the boys came in sight of a white tent that was pitched near a spring of cool water and a growth of pines down in a pretty valley.
Once or twice Fay had murmured that she was "so hundry," but when the camp was sighted, she was asleep in Frank's arms, her head of tangled golden curls lying on his shoulder.
A fire was blazing in front of the tent, sending a thin column of smoke straight up into the still air.
Near the fire, with a pipe in his mouth, was sitting a grizzled old man, whose appearance indicated that he was a veteran of the mountains and plains.
This was Roxy Jules, generally known as "Old Rocks." He was one of the professional guides who make a business of taking parties of tourists through the park and showing them its wonders.
Between two trees a hammock was strung, and another man, a little fellow with fiery-red hair and whiskers, was reclining. Gold-bowed spectacles were perched on his nose, and he was studying a book.
All at once Old Rocks gave a queer kind of a grunt. As it did not arouse the man in the hammock, he grunted again. That not proving effectual, he growled:
"Wa-al, I wonders whut kind o' game them yar kids hev struck now?"
"Eh?" exclaimed the little man. "Did you speak to me? My name is Scotch, as you very well know—Professor Horace Scotch."
"Wa-al," drawled Old Rocks, with a sly grin, "I reckons I has heard them yar boys call yer Hot Scotch enough to know whut yer handle is."
"Those boys are very disrespectful—very! They should be called to account. I object to such familiarity from others, sir—I distinctly object."
; Old Rocks grunted derisively, having come to regard the timid little man with contempt, which was natural with him, as he looked with disfavor on all "tenderfeet."
That grunt stirred the blood of the quick-tempered little man, who sat up, snapping:
"I should think there was a pig somewhere round, by the sounds I hear!"
The guide grunted again.
"I detest pigs!" fumed Scotch. "They're always grunting."
"Thar's only one thing I dislike wuss'n pigs," observed Old Rocks, lazily.
"What is that, sir; what is that?"
"Hawgs," answered the guide, with his small, keen eyes fixed on the professor. "Of course, I don't mean to be personal, nor nawthing, an' I don't call no names; but ef you want ter know who I mean, you kin see whar I'm lookin'."
"This in an insult!" squealed the little man, snapping himself out of the hammock. "I'll discharge you at once, sir—at once!"
"All right. Just you pay me whut you owe me, an' I'll leave ye ter git out o' ther park ther best way ye derned kin. You'll hev a heap o' fun doin' it."
The professor blustered about, while Old Rocks sat and smoked, a patronizing smile on his leathery face.
Suddenly Scotch observed the approaching boys, and saw the child Frank carried in his arms.
"Goodness!" gurgled the little man, staring. "What does that mean?"
"Oh, you have jest woke up!" said the guide, continuing to pull at his black pipe. "I wuz tryin' to call your 'tention to thet thar. Whut has ther boy found? An' whar did he find it?"
"You know quite as well as I. It is surprising—very much so!"
Frank and Barney came up, and explanations followed. Old Rocks pricked up his ears when Frank told of the Blackfeet, and how near they came to having a fight with the Indians.
"Is thet onery skunk in hyar again?" exclaimed the guide. "Why, he's wuss'n sin, is ole Half Hand. He'd ruther cut a throat than do anything else, an' ye're derned lucky ter git away. It wuzn't by yer own nerve ye done it, howsomever. Ef ther gal hedn't 'peared jest as she did, you'd both be food fer coyotes now."
"Two or three Indians, at least, would have kept us company," declared Frank.
Old Rocks grunted.
"Yah! I'll bet a hawse you wuz so derned scat ye shivered clean down ter yer toes. Ef ther red skunks hed made a run fer ye, ye'd drapped right down on yer marrerbones an' squealed."
A bit of warm color came to Frank's face, and he said:
"It is plain you have a very poor opinion of my courage."
Barney was angry, and he roared:
"Oi'd loike ter punch yer head fer yez, ye ould haythen! It's mesilf thot's got nerve enough fer thot!"
This awakened Fay, who looked about in a wondering manner with her big, blue eyes, and then half sobbed:
"Where is my mamma? I was jes' finkin' I was wiz her, and she was divin' me somefin' dood to eat. I's awful hundry!"
In the twinkling of an eye, Old Rocks changed his manner. His pipe disappeared, and he was on his feet, saying, softly:
"Don't you go to cryin', leetle gal. You shell have something to eat in abaout two shakes, an' I'll see thet you finds yer mother all right. Ye're a little angel, an' thet yar's jest what ye are!"
Straightway there was a bustle in the camp. Frank sat on the ground and entertained Fay, while Old Rocks prepared supper. The child was given some bread, and she proved that she was "awsul hundry" by the way she ate it.
There was not a person in the camp who was not hungry, and that supper was well relished.
Fay was questioned closely, but no one succeeded in obtaining much more information than Frank had already received.
When she had eaten till she was satisfied, Old Rocks tried to coax her to him, but she crept into Frank's arms and cuddled close to him, whispering:
"I likes you the bestest."
So Frank held her, and sang lullaby songs in a beautiful baritone voice, while the blue shadows settled over the valley and night came on. Long after she was sound asleep he held her and sang on, while the others listened.
Beyond the limits of the camp was a man who seemed enraptured by the songs, whose eyes were wet with tears, and whose heart was torn by the emotions which surged upward from his lonely soul.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE HERMIT.
At last little Fay was placed within the tent on the softest bed that could be prepared for her.
"In ther mornin'," said Old Rocks, "I'll hunt up her mamma."
The fire glowed pleasantly, being replenished now and then by Barney.
Professor Scotch occupied the hammock, Frank stretched himself at full length on the ground, and the guide sat with his back against a tree, still pulling away at the black pipe, his constant companion. He had smoked so much that his flesh seemed cured, like that of a ham.
At heart Old Rocks was tender as a child, but he had a way of spluttering and growling that made him seem grouty and cross-grained. He seemed to take real satisfaction in picking a quarrel with any one.
Professor Scotch was alarmed by the story Frank had told of the encounter with the Blackfeet, and he was for leaving that vicinity as soon as possible.
"Not till I get a photograph of real wild buffalo," said the boy, stiffly.
Old Rocks grunted derisively.
"I reckon you came as nigh it ter-day as ye will at all," he said. "You've clicked yer old machine at everything from one end o' ther park to t'other, an' I ain't seen nary picter yit."
"They have not been developed."
"Woosh! Whatever is thet?"
Frank explained, and the guide listened, with an expression of derision on his face.
"I'll allow you don't know northin' abaout takin' picters," drawled the man. "I hed my picter took up at Billings last winter, an' ther man as took it didn't hev ter go through no such fussin' as thet."
"How do you know?"
"Wa-al, I know."
"But how do you know?"
"I jest know, thet's how!"
Frank laughed.
"You are like some other people who know everything about anything they don't know anything about."
That was quite enough to start the old fellow, and he seemed ready to fight at the drop of the hat; but, at this moment, something happened to divert his attention.
Out of the darkness stalked a man, who calmly and deliberately advanced toward the party.
"Halt thar!" cried Old Rocks, catching up a rifle and covering the stranger.
The man did not pay the least attention to the command, but continued to advance.
"Halt, or I'll shoot!" shouted the guide.
Still the unknown refused to obey, and, to the bewilderment of Old Rocks, he walked straight up to the muzzle of the weapon, where he stopped, saying:
"I knew you wouldn't shoot. If you had, you could not have killed me. Nothing can kill me, because I have sought death everywhere, and I have not been able to find it. It is he who flees from death who finds it first."
Then he sat down.
"Wa-al, dern me!" gasped Old Rocks. "I dunno why I didn't soak yer; but thar wuz somethin' held me back."
"It was the hand of fate."
The man was dressed roughly, but he carried a handsome rifle. His wide-brimmed hat was slouched over his eyes, so the expression of his face could not have been seen very well, even if it had not been covered by a full brown beard. His hair was long and unkempt.
Having seated himself on the ground, he sat and stared into the fire for some moments before speaking again. Finally he turned a bit, saying:
"Who was singing here a short time ago?"
Frank explained that he had been singing, and the stranger said:
"I don't know why I should wish to take a look at you, for you caused me more misery than I have known for a year."
"Thot's a compliment fer ye're singing, Frankie!" chuckled Barney.
"I tried not to listen," said the stranger; "but I could not tear myself away. What right has a
man without a home to listen to songs that fill his soul with memories of home and little ones!"
He bowed his face on his hands, and his body shook a bit, betraying that he was struggling to suppress his emotions.
After a moment, Old Rocks said:
"I reckons I knows yer now. You're the hermit."
The man did not stir or speak.
"Ain't yer the hermit?" asked the guide.
"Yes," was the bitter reply, "I am a man without a home or a name. Some have said that there is trouble with my brain, but they are wrong. I am not deranged. This is the first time in a year that I have sought the society of human beings, unless it was to trade for such things as I need to sustain life. It was those songs that brought me here. They seemed to act like a magnet, and I could not keep away."
Then he turned to Frank, and asked him to sing one of the lullabys over again.
For all of his peculiar manner, the man seemed sane enough, and the boy decided to humor him.
Frank sang, and the man sat and listened, his face still bowed on his hands. When the song was ended, and the last echo had died out along a distant line of bluffs, the man still sat thus.
Those who saw him were impressed. Beyond a doubt, this man had suffered some great affliction that had caused him to shun his fellows and become one "without a home or a name."
All at once, with a deep sigh, he rose. He was finely built, and, properly dressed and shaved, he must have been handsome.
"Thank you," he said, addressing Frank. "I will not trouble you longer. I am going now."
"Look yar," broke in Old Rocks, in his harsh way; "I wants ter warn you ag'in comin' round yere ther way you done a short time ago. It ain't healthy none whatever."
"What do you mean?"
"Jest this: I might take a fancy ter shoot fust an' talk it over arterward. I don't want ter shoot yer."
A strange, sad smile came to the man's face.
"You need not fear," he said. "If you were to shoot at me, you would not hit me."
The guide gave a snort.
"Whut's thet?" he cried. "I allow you hain't seen me shoot any to speak of, pard. I ain't in ther habit of missin'."
"That makes no difference. A man who seeks death cannot die. Fate would turn your bullet aside."
"Wa-al, I don't allow thet I wants ter try it, fer Fate might not be quick enough. Jest you keep away, 'less you hollers out ter let us know when ye're comin'."
Frank Merriwell's Bravery Page 14
