CHAPTER XI.
CYRIL SPEAKS UP FOR THE INDIANS.
As Cyril looked round hastily he perceived Mr. Ellison's box of matches, with which he had just been lighting his pipe, and at the same moment the thought flashed across his mind that fire was a mighty power. Perhaps the bear could by its means be scared away.
Suddenly he snatched up the match-box, struck a light, and applied it to the dry leaves and withered boughs beside him.
An instant conflagration was the result. A wave of fire leaped up between them and the bear.
The beast, snarling, drew back a yard or so, then sat up watching the flames with much distrust.
"Bravo, lad!" shouted Mr. Ellison, stirring up the fire and spreading it out between them and the bear, which retreated still further, with a prolonged growl.
"The bear retreated still further with a prolonged growl."
That fire saved two lives. It did not spread very far, because the trees were felled and piled up in places, ready to be removed. But it answered its purpose. The bear was driven off, and the saw-miller and Cyril returned home in safety.
Mr. Ellison had the skin of the she-bear dressed and cured for Cyril. He lavished favours upon the boy, and thought of him almost as his own son; only in regard to the matter of sending him to England he was stern, unyielding. Why could not Cyril give up the wish and remain with him? But Cyril thought longingly of the old country. If he could only get there, and could tell Mr. Betts, the lawyer, everything that had happened, that gentleman might be able to find out what his father's ultimate fate had been.
One morning, just before the long winter commenced, half a dozen poor Indian women (squaws they were called) came to the saw-mill with three ponies laden with goods they wished to sell to the men.
It happened to be the dinner hour, and a number of young fellows were crossing the yard on their way to the house when they saw the poor Indians. They shouted merry greetings and laughed boisterously.
"Now we shall have some fun," said they.
"What sort of fun?" asked Cyril, who happened to be near.
"Oh, you will see," was the answer. "They are so simple, these queer-looking squaws."
Cyril did see, and very indignant he became.
The poor squaws had brought warm wool mittens and skin caps, for which they asked a fair price, and hoped to do a good business. But the squaws had one great weakness, and the men at the saw-mill knew it well. They could not refuse a glass of beer, and they were so unused to it and so constituted that a very small quantity of alcohol completely upset them. Even one glass of beer would make them quite foolish.
The young men therefore refused to trade with them until they had refreshed themselves, as they called it, with a little beer. After that they easily persuaded the Indians to part with their goods for the most trifling sum, in some cases for only another glass, or perhaps two, of beer.
Cyril looked on in amazement. Would no one interfere? Were these men who were trading on the folly and sin of a few poor women?
"Oh! Davidson, see," cried Cyril, "that fellow, Jem, is trying to get one of their ponies now! That poor woman will be quite ruined! Just look at her."
Davidson had no objection to looking; but "I can't interfere," said he slowly. "It's a shame, though I can't help it."
Cyril's colour rose. If no one would venture to interfere—well, he must do it himself. Davidson, glancing at him, read his thought, and laid a detaining hand upon his shoulder.
"You mustn't speak," he said. "The man wouldn't stand it—least of all from a little fellow like you."
Cyril's eyes flashed. "I may be small," said he, "but right is right, and must—must triumph," and he ran forward, crying out aloud, "Stop! Stop! Stop! You're not acting fairly!"
Half an hour later, when Cyril lay on his hard, straw mattress in his little bedroom, aching and sore all over from the rough treatment he had met with, he did not think the right had triumphed at all, and he sobbed his heart out there in his loneliness and despair.
The men would not brook interference. What their master and old Davidson dare not attempt the boy, armed only with his consciousness of right, had ventured upon doing. The consequences were grievous to himself, and might have been fatal if it had not been for the Davidsons, aided by their master, who suddenly opened his office door for them to rush into with the boy. There were no police within many miles of the lonely saw-mill. The master ruled alone over the lawless roughs who, in a great measure, composed his staff.
The occurrence of that morning made Mr. Ellison see that the saw-mill was not a safe home for such a boy as Cyril. He began to think of plans for sending him back to England. Unfortunately, however, the sky was already black with threatening snow-storms; the weather would probably be such that it would be impossible to take Cyril thirty miles to the nearest station. And then, he had been so cuffed and knocked about by the men, it was most likely that he would be ill.
The idea of that made the saw-miller go back to Cyril's bedside.
"Are you any better, my lad?" he asked anxiously.
Cyril could scarcely say he was; all his bruises smarted, and his bones ached. He looked up at Mr. Ellison without speaking.
"I'm sorry this has happened," said the latter, very feelingly.
"Oh, it doesn't matter about me," said Cyril quickly. "I don't mind being knocked about a bit. But the pity is that it has done no good—no good," and he sighed deeply, thinking of the hard, cruel hearts of the men, and the wrongs of the poor Indian women.
"You can't say that," said the master, "you can't say that. Some of the men will feel ashamed when they think over what happened. They will see you were in the right, and—well, I fancy the next time the poor squaws come they will not be treated so badly."
"If that is so," said Cyril, smiling in spite of his pain, "I shan't mind having been knocked about a little, Mr. Ellison."
The saw-miller looked at his bright, if discoloured, face, and felt it hard to say the next words. "I've made up my mind, my lad; you shall go straight away to England as soon as it can be arranged."
Cyril was very glad to hear that. It comforted him immensely in his pain to think that he might soon be on his way home.