Chapter 20: The Departure

They made their camp in a grove of pines, by the side of the little river which had now grown wider but much more shallow.

“I think it is like our life,” said the Professor, as they sat by the supper fire. “It comes down a turbulent stream from the mountains in which it had its birth, to grow broader and more placid as it emerges into the low and level lands, at last to sink out of sight far beyond the desert sands, but after its long subterranean journey to reappear somewhere else, a bright, brilliant and laughing stream. Who knows?”

“Yes, who knows?” said Herbert, upon whose mind this imagery struck with great force.

But their spirits were too high to permit more than a moment’s reflection upon such serious questions. Even Professor Longworth, a man well into middle age, was gay and jovial. Jed had taken the fishing tackle and caught some trout in the stream. These he was now frying on the coals and the appetizing aroma arose. Charles gave Herbert a shove and sent him down among the pine needles. Herbert jumped up, caught his assailant, and in a moment the two were rolling over and over in a wrestle.

“Look at them kids!” said Jed admiringly. “This wild life certainly does give a boy muscle an’ spirit. Jest pumps him full o’ rich blood. Now, stop that, you two young grizzly bears. The trout’ll burn in the next minute an’ ef you ain’t here in time me an’ the Purfessor will eat ‘em all.”

“I believe that’s what you want to happen, Jed,” said Herbert. “You are full of tricks, and I tell you right now that if you don’t give us the right kind of hotel service I’m going to kick. I want a cup of coffee for my supper, and I don’t pay the bill if I don’t get it.”

“Now, don’t you be too fasteejous,” replied Jedediah Simpson o’ Lexin’ton, K—y, in high good humor. “You must be like them old Roman fellers the Purfessor told me about, always huntin’ fur hummin’-birds’ tongues to eat. Thar ain’t no pleasin’ you. You might bring me a thousand dollars in gold out o’ one o’ them bags that are all ours an’ say to me: ‘Mr. Jed, good Jed, nice Jed, intellectooal Jed, Jed, the lover o’ music, here are one thousand dollars in gold, all o’ which I offer to you fur one little cup o’ brown coffee.’ I’d say to you: ‘Mr. Herbert Carleton, you do be most temptin’ with your offers, but they ain’t good enough. You ain’t got gold enough to buy a cup o’ coffee from me. River water will do you.’”

“That’s so, Jed,” said Herbert. “I suppose there isn’t a cup of coffee within a hundred miles of us, but I do wish I had one. Money will buy nothing here.”

“No, but it will when you get back to the big towns,” replied Jed, “and when I reach Chicago or New York I’m goin’ to the finest restaurant in the place. Ever hear that story of the feller who made a whole pile o’ money in the mines in the West, got elected senator, an’ went with his daughters to Washington? They goes right into the big swell restaurant, where the band is playin’ an’ flowers are standin’ in all the windows. People all about, waiters with black clothes an’ shinin’ shirt fronts flyin’ here an’ thar, mostly thar. Senator an’ fambly lookin’ hard at one o’ them meynoos on which everthing is writ in French. Can’t make out a thing. Important waiter standin’ by, an’ grinnin’ a little. At last the Senator gits mad an’ he says sharp to that grinnin’ waiter, ‘Never min’ about all them French things, jest bring us forty dollars’ worth o’ ham an’ eggs.’ Mebbe that’ll be the way with Jedediah Simpson, Esquire, but I ain’t goin’ to take no chance. I’m goin’ to practice in them silver-plated restaurants in them big cities before I settle down in little old Lexin’ton, K—y, among the real people.”

The Professor smiled.

“I see, Jed,” he said, “that the responsibilities of wealth are going to make you a very stern and solemn character. I’ve no doubt that when I come to visit you in Lexington you will have your D. M. to play the saddest sort of music, and all your talk will be about the degeneracy of the age and the folly of the common people.”

Jed shook his head energetically.

“Not me, Purfessor! Not me!” he said. “I ain’t goin’ to have all the juices o’ life dried up in me, jest because I’m a millionaire. That D. M. is goin’ to play some purty gay tunes I can tell you, an’ at fittin’ times there are goin’ to be lively times around Arizony Place. Young people will be thar, laughin’ an’ makin’ merry, an’ me lookin’ on an’ smilin,’ an’ thinkin’ myself most as young as any o’ ‘em.”

“That’s the proper spirit, Jed,” said the Professor approvingly. “Keep up your interests in things and you won’t grow old.”

“That’s right, Purfessor,” said Jed admiringly. “I’m always tellin’ Charlie an’ Herb here that you’re one o’ the great men o’ the world with the right to put thirteen letters o’ the alphabet in capitals before your name, an’ the other thirteen after’ it, also in capitals. An’ about them young people when they are havin’ a good time at Arizony Place I’ll gradually draw ‘em all together in the biggest an’ finest parlor, right under them glitterin’ chandeliers, made a-purpose fur me in Paris, an’ then when I gits the eyes an’ attention o’ all fixed on me, an’ they hardly dare to draw a breath they’re so interested I’ll tell ‘em the tale o’ how I found my wealth in the wild mountains o’ Arizony with the best three pards any man ever had in a big adventure. Thar was one Purfessor Longworth, who knowed pretty nigh everything, an’ what he didn’t know nobody had no business knowin’ anyway, an’ then thar wuz two boys, one wuz Charlie who come out o’ the west an’ t’other was Herb who come out o’ the east, jest about the finest pair o’ lads in the world, all wool an’ a yard wide, lined with copper, riveted with steel, double-distilled, true blue, half hoss, half alligator, white all over, an’ fit to fight their weight in wildcats, an’ I’ll say to all them nice young people, ‘Boys an’ gals, you’re fine, you’re the real stuff, the state o’ Kentucky is proud o’ you, the Union is proud o’ you, the world is proud o’ you, an’ so am I, but you ain’t the Purfessor an’ Charlie an’ Herb, an’ I wish them three wuz here right now, the Purfessor sittin’ in front o’ me an’ higher up, an’ Charlie an’ Herb, one on my right hand an’ t’other on my left hand.’”

Water rose in the eyes of the impressionable Herbert.

“You mean that, Jed,” he said, “and we feel the same way about you.”

The Professor and Charles were silent, but they were deeply moved.

“Here, take your fish, Charlie,” said Jed, after his burst of emotion. “An’ you too, Herb, here’s your’n.”

Besides the fish they had venison and bear meat, and they fell to with great zest. They had heaped up the gold by the camp fire and the horses and mules were grazing near. The fallen wood of last year burned brightly, and they felt easy and cheerful. To the north of them showed the loom of the great mountains from which they had come, but the white heads of the peaks were lost now in the coining dusk. In the west tints of purple and orange and gold lingered for a few moments to mark whence the sun had gone and then, with the suddenness of the southwest, the great cloud of the dark came down enfolding all the earth. But the fire was a tiny core of light in all that vast silence, and the four cheerful figures sat beside it talking.

“We must keep a watch,” said the Professor. “In a wild country and with such a great treasure as ours, some alert eye must be open all the time.”

He took the first watch himself, and the other three, wrapping themselves in their blankets, were sound asleep in five minutes, their feet to the fire, their heads pillowed on their arms. The Professor sat a long time in silence. He heard nothing but a stray wind among the pines, and now and then the stamp of a horse’s restless foot. He took off his pith helmet and rubbed his forehead. Then he looked up at the vast, beautiful sky, sown with brilliant stars, and the wise old eyes expressed admiration and devotion. Prodigious learning had not made him a cynic, it merely made him more humble, more appreciative of the tremendous power that had called the universe into being, and silently the Professor adored the Master of that universe. Then he glanced with sympathy at the recumbent figures. Trusty comrades they were, and if he had had sons he would have liked them to be like Charles and Herbert. They were almost sons to him, as it was, and he was happy in their presence.

A horse stamped louder than usual. Something stirred in the bushes. Was it a wild animal drawn by the fire? The Professor half rose, and he held his rifle in his hand. The keen eyes were gleaming through the huge glasses. Was danger at hand? He merely wished to know. No throb of fear stirred the little man of the lion heart.

He listened again. A horse snorted, not loudly, but as if disturbed, and the Professor rose to his full height, the rifle held well forward and ready for instant use. He slipped softly through some thorny undergrowth, until he entered the grassy circle in which the horses slept or grazed. They were at rest now. The Professor remained hidden in the shadow, but no horse stamped or snorted again. He was a man who knew not only books but the wilderness and he stayed long in the deepest shadow, watching. Then he advanced into the circle and looked about with minute care. Presently his eye was caught by a trace in a soft place of the earth, and drawing from his pocket a hand glass of power he knelt beside it, examined it with care. It was not the footstep of a horse or a mule, nor yet that of any of his comrades, but it was undeniably the footstep of a man. All the four wore moccasins that they had made for themselves, but this was the imprint of a boot, where the stiff heel and the stiff leather sole had crushed down. A white man! Obviously so! He found two or three more of the imprints in the bright moonlight, and they led toward the far edge of the thorn thicket, but there he lost them, and could discover nothing more.

The Professor walked slowly back to the fire. His comrades were still sleeping soundly, but he was no longer at ease. A footstep, the footstep of a white man, and that man had come like a thief in the night! And he had slipped away like the same thief! The Professor cast a glance at the mound of gold. Some old words of his about the difficulty of finding it and the equal difficulty of retaining it recurred to him and he was sorely troubled in mind.

Time passed on. Moonlight flooded the camp with silver, and the Professor, rifle across his knee, still watched. He was to have called Charles at one o’clock for the second watch, but he let the hour go by. It was past two when he awoke the lad and told him what he had seen.

“I don’t think that any attack is likely to be made upon us, at least not to-night,” he said, “but be vigilant, Charles, be vigilant!”

“I certainly will be, Professor,” replied the boy confidently, as he took his seat on a fallen log, rifle in hand and ready.

Charles felt no fear. Naturally strong and brave, a native of the border west, where he had always been thrown upon his own physical resources, he was accustomed now to wild life and danger. It had been nearly a year since he left the little telegraph station at Jefferson, but in that time he had grown wonderfully in all respects. Now he sat upon the log, eyes wary and every nerve attuned. There was still a flood of silver moonlight in the glen, and a myriad of beautiful stars wheeled and danced in the shining blue. Charles listened but heard nothing and then glanced at the recumbent forms of his comrades. The Professor had stretched himself near by, feet to the fire and now he looked the smallest of the three, his head on his arm and his face in the dark.

But Professor Erasmus Darwin Longworth, who could rightfully put all the letters of the alphabet in capitals after his name, was not asleep, although he pretended to be. The situation, the presence of the gold and the unknown footsteps in the earth preyed upon him. He had a heavy sense of responsibility, but it was not for the gold; it was for these two boys, brave true lads to whom the tendrils of a heart hitherto lonely were strongly attached. It was his duty to get them back to civilization, to see that they had the chance in life due to everyone, and the Professor felt in his inmost heart that the barriers were not yet passed. Prescience, or the sixth sense, warned him that dangers were about them as thick as fallen leaves in an autumn forest.

But in spite of the omens and his desire to continue a sentinel, the Professor, who had watched long and hard, was very tired and very sleepy. His lids shut down, he opened them angrily, but they shut down again and stayed shut. Despite his great will, Professor Erasmus Darwin Longworth, with the right to use twenty-six letters after his name, all in capitals, was sound asleep.