CHAPTER XII.
A JOYFUL MEETING.
Cyril was ill for several weeks after the assault upon him by the angry men at Mr. Ellison's saw-mill. When at last he crept out of his bedroom, looking pale and thin, winter had begun in good earnest, and the rough roads through the forest were quite impassable. The snow was coming down as if it never meant to stop, and the keen, cold wind blew it in great drifts on every side.
Whilst Cyril lay ill on his hard mattress two travellers going south to Chicago had called at the saw-mill; with either of them he might have travelled had he been well enough to do so. It was all very trying, and sometimes the boy was inclined to murmur at the cruel results which had followed his well-meant attempt to defend the cause of the poor Indians. But then again he was reassured, as his constant attendant, old Davidson, told him of first one and then another of the men having expressed contrition about their treatment, not only of the boy, but also of the poor Indian women. It had never struck them before, they said, that it was wrong to cheat a redskin. Until the English boy stood up and called their conduct monstrous it had seemed quite the proper thing. They had bitterly resented being corrected, and had beaten their monitor for doing it, but afterwards, as Mr. Ellison had foretold, they saw that he was in the right. Under the influence of these better feelings they were easily led by the Davidsons to unite in sending Cyril a message that they apologised for thrashing him, and promised that in future they would respect the rights even of poor Indians.
The thought of all this greatly consoled Cyril, and helped him to bear patiently his pain and weakness, and the disappointment about his delayed return home.
When at last he was strong enough to travel, and the roads were not so bad, no one happened to be going south, and Mr. Ellison really could not send him just then. As the time went on, therefore, he felt very sad and lonely.
One evening, however, as he sat musing sorrowfully in the men's sitting-room—his heart too sore to allow him to join in the usual fun—he heard the sound of approaching horses clattering over the frozen yard. Then there was a loud rap at the door, followed by many others, louder and louder still, as the person outside endeavoured to make himself heard within the house.
Mr. Ellison strode to the door and threw it open.
"Who is there?" he demanded.
"I have come in search of—" began a rich, courteous voice.
"Father!" The cry, so joyous, so eloquent with tenderness, rang through the room. Then Cyril flew across the boarded floor and flung himself into the open arms of the new-comer.
"Oh, father! father! father!"
"My dear boy! My Cyril! Thank God! Oh, thank God!" and the tall, fur-clad man in the doorway clasped his child to his heart.
* * * * * *
"But, father," asked Cyril an hour later, as they sat together talking in his little bedroom, which Mr. Morton had obtained Mr. Ellison's permission to share with his son that night—"but, father, I can understand your coming round after everyone had thought you dead, and also your having quite a long illness after that, but I don't know yet how it was you found me. Why have you not told me that, father dear?"
"We have been so very happy, Cyril, for this last hour, and that is a sad story. Must you hear it to-night, my boy? Can you not wait till to-morrow?"
"Oh! tell me now, please," said Cyril wistfully.
"Very well, my boy." But the father sighed. "You know the police were busy a long time, trying to find the scoundrels who attacked the train. They did so at last, and after a desperate fight some of them were secured. They were tried in the police-court in Menominee, where I and some others had to bear witness against them. It was proved that two of them had been guilty of murder. The captain was one and Whiterock, the man who attacked me, was another."
"But, father, Whiterock didn't kill you after all!" said Cyril quickly.
"No, not me. But unfortunately he killed someone else, and he was condemned to die. Shortly before the hour of his death the prison chaplain sent me a note to tell me that the criminal, Whiterock, greatly desired to see me. Of course I visited his cell as soon as I could. Then Whiterock told me that he wished to do one just deed before he died. He had carried you away from the train and caused you to fall into the brigands' power; he would try to atone for that by telling me all about you and where you were."
"But how did he know——" began Cyril.
"Oh, he said he and his party generally got to hear all that they wanted to know about people. You and the man who left them had not been here very long before they were aware of it. However, it did not suit their purpose to molest either of you, although they meant to punish their renegade comrade at some future date. I was deeply thankful to know that you were here in safety, and I came for you as soon as I could. Whiterock left this message for you, Cyril—'Tell your son,' he said, 'that I've found at last that honesty is the best policy. And tell him, too, that he did right to speak those brave, true words to us, and right, too, not to pretend, even for an hour, that he could be one of us—villains.'"
"Poor Whiterock," said Cyril softly. "He saved my life once, father! He was good to me then."
"We will only think of that," said Mr. Morton, "and of his kindness in telling me where I might find you. And now, my boy, we must go to bed. To-morrow, as I have had to give up my fruitless search for your uncle, we will start for home."
"Home," murmured Cyril, as his head touched the pillow, "with father," and he fell asleep. A smile rested on his face. He was a happy boy.