Chapter XVII Eagle Eye
When Joe had gone, riding madly away across the prairies, Joshua and Hannah Peniman stood looking after his receding figure until it faded into a mere speck and was swallowed up by the immeasurable distance of the plains.
The faces of both were grey and haggard, and in their eyes was mirrored the fear that they might never see their eldest son again.
“May the Almighty Father watch over and protect him,” prayed the father.
“And bring him back to us alive and well,” breathed the mother with quivering lips.
“I wish that I could have gone in his place!” were the words that forced themselves with a groan from the lips of Joshua Peniman. “But I dared not go—in justice to you and the children. I could not leave you here without my protection. But we could not abandon that poor child without making every effort to save her, so Joe had to go. But he is only a lad—it is a long, long trail—a wild and desperate mission——”
“But we, nor he, could not have done otherwise, dear.” Hannah Peniman’s eyes were dry, her tone steady. “It was a duty that was laid upon us. God will watch over him. He will permit no harm to come to our boy in the discharge of this sacred duty.”
Her husband clasped her hand and looked tenderly into her eyes. “Thee is ever my inspiration and comfort, Hannah,” he said with quivering voice. “Thy vision is ever more clear than mine, thy faith more fast and true.”
She turned her face to him and began to speak, then stopped abruptly and stood listening.
“Hark!” she cried in a startled whisper, “what was that?”
Both stood motionless with heads raised, the fear of an unknown danger upon them.
Then there came to them again the sound that had arrested Hannah Peniman’s attention. A low moan, scarcely more than a sigh, came from the tall grass near the side of the dugout.
Mr. Peniman caught up his musket and strode in the direction from which the sound preceded. His wife followed him.
“Be careful,” she whispered cautiously, “it might be some trap!”
As they crept forward through the long, waving grass they came upon the body of a young Indian lying on his back, stark and dead. A little farther along both stopped abruptly as the moan they had heard before reached their ears. Joshua Peniman sprang forward. Suddenly he stopped, and with a motion to his wife to keep back, stooped in the grass.
Face downward in a tangle of weeds they saw an Indian lying, one arm extended, the other doubled under his head. As the white man stooped over him a shudder ran through his body and again the low, suppressed moan came from his lips.
Mr. Peniman lifted the body in his arms and turned it over. It was that of a young Indian, tall and powerful, in full war panoply, with a handsome copper-colored face. As the white man lifted him he groaned again and the blood rushed from a wound in his side. He was quite unconscious, the eyes half-closed, the lips blue and parted, the lean, keen-featured face ashen with the pallor of approaching death.
Mrs. Peniman, who had stolen up behind her husband, uttered a pitying cry, and quickly tearing off her apron tore it into strips and kneeling by the prostrate figure began binding up the gaping wound.
“Oh,” she cried with a shudder, “oh, Joshua, perhaps it was I who did that! Oh, my God, to think of hurting a fellow-creature so desperately! But he was by the door—I was afraid he would get the children——”
“There were many shots fired, Hannah,” her husband assured her, “it was probably not thee that hit him. But it is a terrible thing that we seem obliged to kill our fellow-men to protect ourselves. We who do not believe in slaughter——” He stopped, then went on quickly, “We must get him up to the house—he is badly wounded—he may die—and it is our duty to save his life if we can, even though we know that he is an enemy.”
Between them they bore the unconscious form of the young Indian to their own home. Ruth met them at the door, and as her eyes fell upon the burden they carried she uttered a loud scream.
“It is the Indian I shot with Mother’s revolver!” she cried, backing away in terror. Then seeing the gaping wound in the side she covered her face and began to cry.
“Oh, I did that, I did it,” she moaned. “I thought he would kill Mother—I——”
“Hush, Ruth,” her father commanded. “He is harmless now. He is badly wounded—perhaps dying. We must do all that we can to save him. You know we are told by the Master to help our enemies and do good to them who despitefully use us.”
They laid the unconscious young brave on Joe’s bed, and Hannah Peniman brought a pan of hot water and began to bathe and dress the wound in his side. Her husband bending down beside her examined the wound.
“I’m afraid it is fatal,” he said sadly, “but we will do the best we can for him.” From his earliest youth it had been the desire of his heart to be a physician. Circumstances had made him a farmer, but all through his life he had retained his love for the art of surgery and medicine, and by continually practising upon the stock on his place and on members of his family he had attained a degree of skill not possessed by many regularly licensed doctors. He probed and cleaned the wound, took the pulse and heart-beat and set about reducing the temperature.
For several days following the young Indian lay on Joe’s bed burning with fever, delirious and muttering, sick unto death. Ruth, who seemed stricken with horror at the suffering her hand had visited upon a fellow-creature, devoted herself to his nursing, in which Mrs. Peniman and Sara shared, and Joshua Peniman waited upon and watched over him as if he were a friend or a relative instead of a deadly foe.
One morning as Mr. and Mrs. Peniman were bending over him irrigating his wound he suddenly opened his eyes.
For a moment he lay staring at them as if he believed that his mind was still wandering. Then he stirred, grunted, and tried to sit up.
Joshua Peniman pushed him gently back upon the pillows.
“Heap sick,” he said, accompanying the words with gestures that left no doubt of his meaning.
The Indian stared at him, then turned his head and looked intently into Hannah Peniman’s face. She bent over him with soothing words, took his hand, and stroked her cool, soft hand across his forehead.
“Heap sick,” she said, smiling at him and speaking slowly, as one might to an ailing child. Then taking his hand she laid it over the wound, pointed to the bandages, then to her husband, then to herself.
At this moment Ruth came into the room carrying a glass of milk. Seeing the black eyes open and staring into her mother’s face she started back, half-frightened. But she was too good and efficient a little nurse to let fear interfere with her duties, and going straight up to the bed put the glass to his lips.
He threw back his head, refusing it, then turned the glare of his fierce black eyes from her mother’s face to hers. But Ruth was not to be daunted.
“You’ve got to drink your milk,” she said firmly, “else you’ll never get well. Take it now, this minute!” For a moment the young Indian continued to stare at her, then a grin came creeping over his brown face, and when she again put the milk to his lips he drank it obediently.
Mrs. Peniman smiled her approval. “Now go to sleep,” she told him, and illustrated her meaning by placing her cheek on her hand and closing her eyes. The young Indian smiled again, and nodded. He was pitifully weak, and soon surrendered to the drowsiness that overcame him. When he woke again it was evening and the sunset was casting long wavering shadows into the windows.
All the next day he scarcely stirred in the bed, but the keen black eyes opened frequently and followed their movements. When Ruth came to his bed bringing a glass of milk and a plate of toast he looked up into her face and smiled. Later, as she was passing he put out a feeble hand and caught her dress. Drawing her nearer he took her hand and patted it gently.
He pointed to his own breast and in a feeble voice said: “Me Eagle Eye,” then pointing his finger toward her he gazed at her inquiringly.
Ruth’s brown eyes widened and smiled.
“You name Eagle Eye?” she asked, and when he nodded gravely she added delightedly, “My name Ruth.”
“Woof!” he said, then smiled at her and closed his eyes.
Ruth ran to her mother in great delight.
“Our Indian isn’t fierce or bad a bit, Mother,” she cried, “he patted my hand and smiled at me. He likes me. His name is ‘Eagle Eye,’ and he wanted to know my name. I don’t believe he’s a bad Indian, I believe he was trying to tell me he was grateful to us for taking care of him.”
For many days after that he appeared too weak and ill to pay much attention to them, but gradually the wound began to heal, and Joshua Peniman saw with much gratification that his patient was in a fair way to recover.
One day he indicated to Mrs. Peniman that he would like to get up. Pointing to the wound in his side he then pointed to the outdoors and the sun that was shining warmly, and by laying his head on his hand and pointing to the ground outside the window he made her understand that he wanted to go outside and lie in the sun.
“Why, to be sure,” she cried, smiling at him, “you know what would be good for you, don’t you? Wait, I’ll call your doctor.”
When Mr. Peniman came he repeated the pantomime. Joshua Peniman nodded.
“Yes, why not? Probably your instinct is a true one. I’ll help you up.”
While the Indian did not understand the words he understood the nod and smile that accompanied them, and with every sign of joy allowed himself to be helped out of bed and into the warm sun before the door, where he stretched himself at full length on the warm earth with a great sigh of contentment.
After that he spent most of every day lying in the sun, and his progress toward recovery was rapid. He could soon sit up, walk about, and at last wander from place to place by himself.
He had gradually been picking up a few English words, and during his convalescence Ruth and Sara became his teachers. It was no uncommon sight of an afternoon to see the tall young Indian stretched out on the grass in front of the sod house, with a little white girl on either side of him industriously teaching him English.
It was evident that he already understood much that was said to him, and remembered words and sentences that had been repeated in his presence while he was ill. One day he surprised them greatly by saying in fairly good English: “Heap good white folks.”
Ruth laughed delightedly oven this, and Joshua Peniman found in the remark sober cause for congratulation. In the perilous position in which he and his family were placed he felt that every Indian who cherished a friendly feeling toward them was an immense protection.
No sign or word had come from Joe since they had seen him ride away over the plains, and his heart was sore and aching for the boy who had always been such a help and comfort to him. As the days went by and he did not return they almost despaired of ever seeing him again.
One day in the sorrow of his heart he spoke of him to Eagle Eye. He did not know how much of what he said was understood by the red man, but he looked at him intently while he spoke, and when Mr. Peniman finished the sad tale nodded gravely.
The next morning Eagle Eye came to them with his clothing and moccasins on and his bow and arrow in his hand. He solemnly held out his hand, and when Mr. Peniman accepted it shook it gravely. Then walking to Mrs. Peniman he shook her hand also, and without a word of farewell stalked away across the prairies.
“He’s gone!” cried Ruth tragically, gazing after the receding figure with amazement.
“And without a word of thanks for all we have done for him!” cried Lige indignantly.
“You know he cannot express himself very well in our language,” said Mrs. Peniman. “Perhaps he felt more deeply than he could tell.”
“We’ll never see him again!” cried Sara on the point of tears.
“Who can tell!” said Joshua Peniman, gazing after the tall blanketed figure with a strange light in his eyes, “who can tell!”