CHAPTER I.
ATTACKED BY ROBBERS.
"Your money or your life! Quick! Your money or your life!"
Cyril Morton gave a cry of horror and alarm. A masked brigand was pointing a revolver at his father, whose pale face confronted it with unnatural calmness.
Cyril had never passed through such a terrible minute in his whole life as that one during which his father remained silent, instead of replying to his fierce assailant's demand. A short while before the train-boy, passing down the outside passage of the comfortable American train, bearing his tray of chocolate, biscuits, fruit, etc., had waited on them and promised to return in a few minutes with illustrated papers wherewith to beguile the tedium of the journey. The train, which was a very slow one, was going from Menominee northwards. Cyril and his father had come to North America in search of the latter's brother, now long absent from his home. When last heard of Gerald Morton was in Michigan, so to that State they came on the death of Cyril's mother, whose last request was that her husband should go and look up his only brother. Cyril was twelve years old; he was an only child, and his father, in his sorrow, could not bear the thought of leaving him behind in England, so the two travelled together and were "chums," as the boy called it. After a delightful sail from Chicago over the calm grey waters of Lake Michigan they were enjoying their slow journey through immense pine forests, when suddenly a band of robbers galloped up to the train, flung themselves from their horses, and clambered on to it. First they struck down the engine-driver, reversed the engine, and stopped the train. Then they began to search the passengers, demanding of all their money or their life.
On receiving no answer the ruffian who was threatening Mr. Morton repeated his words in a voice of thunder.
"Oh, father," cried Cyril, "give him the money, or he will kill you! Father, please." He screamed the last words in his agony of apprehension.
His attention being diverted by the boy the man glanced aside at him, and in that moment Mr. Morton, with a sudden movement, wrested the pistol from his grasp.
The other instantly snatched at it, and a struggle commenced between the two men for its possession. Backwards and forwards they swayed, now locked in each other's arms, now flung apart. Once the revolver fell upon the soft-cushioned seat, when Cyril instantly caught hold of it, and, watching his opportunity, slipped it back into his father's hand.
Maddened with rage the brigand struck the boy down with his huge fist. Then Cyril lay like a log upon the floor of the carriage, and knew no more.
A few moments and the struggle between the men was ended by the brigand's firing point-blank at Mr. Morton, who fell back on the seat apparently lifeless.
The robber proceeded to rapidly search his victim. Quickly he pocketed a gold watch and chain, a well-filled purse, and also a pocket-book containing notes. Then he stooped over the boy, looking in his pockets. As he did so something in the white upturned face touched even his hard heart.
"He's not unlike my Harry," he muttered, thrusting back the little purse his fingers had just closed on. "No, I'll not take his money. He'll come to, and maybe want it."
Turning away he went on to rob someone else; and presently, with his pockets full of notes and gold, returned to his first victims, still lying where he had left them.
The other outlaws were leaving the train and mounting their horses; they were all in a hurry to get away.
The man who had struck down poor Cyril stood over him now, with a softened look in his hard face as he felt anxiously for the boy's pulse.
"Living!" he exclaimed, when his rough fingers had found it. "Well, he's a plucky little lad. I'll take him with me. His father's dead," he added, glancing at him. "I'll adopt the lad. He shall be my son, instead of poor Harry." So saying he lifted Cyril in his arms, carried him to where he had left his horse, and when he rode off with the others the boy, still unconscious, was on the saddle before him, his curly head drooping against his shoulder.
"The boy was on the saddle before him."
Now it happened that under the double burden the brigand's horse lagged behind the others, and although its master whipped and spurred it cruelly it could not keep up with them.
"Whiterock," cried the captain of the band more than once, "come on. Why do you linger?"
"Coming, sir," answered Whiterock, redoubling his efforts, but in vain.
At last the captain, turning in anger to see why he was disobeyed, perceived the boy, and cried impatiently—
"What have you got there? A lad? Ridiculous! Absurd! Fling him down. Leave him. We want no babies."
Outlaw though he was—strong, desperate too—the brigand dared not disobey his chief. Reluctantly, therefore, he stopped short, sprang off his horse, and lifted the boy down in his arms. Muttering that he had once a son like him he laid Cyril down under a forest tree, and then, turning quickly, remounted his horse and rode rapidly after his captain.
All the horsemen rode away. The sound of their horses' hoofs died out in the distance.
Presently, as evening drew on, a huge grey bear, stealing through the bushes, stood looking down on the unconscious boy. After a few minutes the bear stooped, and almost poked him with his nose.
If Cyril had awoke then, if he had moved one hand, or in any way "shown fight," it would have been all over with him. Unless very hungry, however, these North American bears do not attack human beings if they make no aggressive movement; so Cyril remaining perfectly still the bear, having satisfied his curiosity, moved slowly away.
The shades of night stole over the forest. It became quite dark. The wild beasts sought their prey. All sorts of dangers were on every side; but, quite unconscious still, the boy lay there, a faint stirring of his pulse alone showing that life was still within his slight young frame.
He had no mother at home praying for him, but it might be in the Paradise above she was pleading for her boy, over whom a merciful Providence was watching.