CHAPTER VIII.
GREEN MEETS HIS FATHER.
It was scarcely light when Cyril was awakened by Green shaking him vigorously.
"Wake up, lad. Wake up!" he cried. "There's something queer near us! Listen."
Cyril sat up, rubbing his eyes, and heard the sound of horses galloping along, and then crashing through the brushwood. He saw strange lights gleaming through the trees, and now shots were fired, and loud and excited voices bewailed the escape of some prey.
"Green," said the boy in a low tone, "are those men after us again?"
"No, no. It's some huntsmen. I see now; they're hunting deer with head-lights."
Even as he spoke one of the lights dashed through the bushes up to them, and Cyril saw, to his amazement, that it was a lighted lantern strapped on to the head of a stout pony. A man with a skin cap on his head rode the pony.
"Hullo!" shouted he, "what's this? What are you fellows doing? Camping out, eh?"
"Of course we are," said Green cautiously. "And who may you be?"
"Oh, we're just a party of men from Ellison's saw-mill——"
"Ellison's saw-mill! That's good hearing!" cried Green. "We're on our way there, but have got lost. How far off are we now?"
"About six miles or so. Where are your horses?"
Green looked embarrassed. Then he said, "We fell in with a rough lot—they shot our horse——"
"Shot your horse? Had you only one?"
Before Green could reply, much to his relief two or three other men came up, who, after asking a few questions, swung themselves from their saddles, and, opening their saddle-bags, began to take out sundry packages.
"We might as well have our breakfast here," said one. "Any objection to our using your fire to boil our kettle, master?"
"None whatever. Make yourselves at home," answered Green heartily.
"Any water hereabouts?" asked the man.
"There's a spring just round those trees, about ten yards off."
"Hurrah! Fetch some, Jem. We'll make coffee. You and the lad will join us, stranger?"
"That's so," replied Green, "and thank you."
In a quarter of an hour the five huntsmen, Cyril, and Green were partaking of a good breakfast, consisting of coffee, tinned meat, and bread.
Cyril learnt from the men's talk that they had been hunting all night and had shot two reindeer, which some of their party had taken home, whilst the others pressed on in search of more. The light of the lanterns fastened to their horses' heads attracted the deer, who, on coming forward to look at it, were shot point-blank by the men.
The boy thought it a very cruel way of entrapping the beautiful creatures, but all the others said it was "fine sport."
Presently the men, who had lingered too long over their breakfast, jumped up, and mounting their horses rode as fast as they could back towards the mill. Very little was said upon the way. One of the men took Cyril up behind him, and he found it difficult enough to hold on to the saddle he bestrode. He had no strength left for talking.
By-and-by they arrived at their destination—a group of houses and outbuildings, and a huge saw-mill, with heaps of timber and roughly-hewn planks.
The master of the mill, who was a tall man, with hair thickly sprinkled with grey, came to the door of his office—a small building at one side of the yard—as they rode up.
"Well, men?" he said laconically.
"We've killed two head of deer, that's all," replied the spokesman of the party, "and we've picked up a man and a boy who were on their way here."
"Dismount," said the master briefly, addressing the strangers.
Green jumped down and took off his skin cap.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Ellison, sir," said he, "but can you tell me, is Josh Davidson, my father, still living here?"
"Yes," replied the master. "You are his son Ben?" he added.
"That's so," said Green, whose real name was Ben Davidson. "Can I see him?"
The master sent for the prodigal's father. Then looking at Ben, he said inquiringly—
"Turned over a new leaf?"
"Yes," Ben nodded. His face was very red, and great tears were in his eyes. The man before whom he stood knew all about him. He knew of the shameful years of robbery and violence; he knew of the father's broken heart.
Suddenly the saw-miller laid his hand on Ben's shoulder.
"Go meet him, lad," he said. "See, he's crossing the yard."
Ben hurried out. The two in the office heard a great glad cry—
"My son! My son! 'He was dead, and is alive again. He was lost, and is found!' Thank God. Oh, thank God!"
"Now," said Mr. Ellison to Cyril, "tell me who you are. Do you belong to that man?"
"No, sir; oh, no!"
"Then how came you to be here with him?"
Cyril looked up into the man's grave, kind face. He wanted to tell him all that had befallen him since the time that he sat by his father's side in the train going northwards from Menominee, but remembered that he must not betray the ex-robber. And although it was evident Mr. Ellison knew something of the latter's wrong-doing, Cyril was not aware how far that knowledge extended.
A shade of sternness crept over Mr. Ellison's face as he noticed the boy's hesitancy.
"Well?" he said impatiently.
Cyril was greatly perplexed. How much could he tell the saw-miller without compromising the man who had saved his life?