Camas Prairie chronicle. [volume] (Cottonwood, Idaho) 1901-1917, 1906-06-22
one wants him to die. But what can


''I'n nurse himp' cried Sylvia.
Frere broke into one of his coarse
laughs, the first one that he had indulg-
ed in since the mutiny. ''You nurse
him! That's a good onew The Door
little child, weak and excitable, felt the
contempt in the tone, and burst into
passion of sobs. why do you insult
me, you wicked man? The poor fellows
i'll, and he'll-he'l die, like Mr.. Bates.
Oh, mamma, mamma, let's go away by
ourselves"
Frere walked away. He went into the
little wood under the cliff and sat down.
He was full of strange thoughts, which
he could not express, and which he had
never owned before. The dislike the
child bore to him made him miserable,
and yet he took delight in tormenting
her. He was conscious that he had act
ed the part of a coward the night be-
fore in endeavoring to frighten her, and
that the detestation she bore him was
well earned; but he had fully determined
to stake his life in her defense should
the savage who had thus come upon
| them out of the desert attempt violence,
and he was unreasOnably angry at the
pity she had shown. When he got back
he found Dawes stretched upon the
brush wood, with Sylvia sitting near
| him.
He is BETTER" said Mrs. Vickers, dis
daining to refer to the scene of the
morning. "Sit down and have something
to eat Mr.. Frere."
Are you better?" asked Frere, abb
ruptly.
To his surprise, the convict answered
| quite ciVilly, II shall be strong again in
day or two, and then l can help you,
SIR"
Within a week from the night on
which he had seen the smoke of Freres
fire, the convict had recovered his
strength, and had become an important
| parsonage. He was skilled in all the
mysteries of the prison sheds. He knew
how to sustain life on as little food as
possible. He could fell trees without an
ak, bake bread without an oven, build
weather-proof hut without bricks or
mortar. From the patient he became
the adviser; and from the adviser, the
commander
AS the time wore on, and the scanty
stock of provisions decreased, he found
that his authority grew more and more
. |
qualities of a strange plant, it was Rufus
Dawes who could pronounce upon 1t.
Were fish to be caught, it was Rufus
Dawes who caught them. Did Mrs.
Vickers complain of the instability of her
brush wood hut, it was Rufus Dawes
who worked a wicker shield, and, plas-
tering it with clay, produced a wall that
defed the keenest wind. He made cups
| nut OFV min
strips. He worked harder than any
three men. Nothing daunted him, moth
ing discouraged him. When Mrs. Wick
ers fell sick, from anxiety. and inspfi-
cient food, it was Rufus Dawes who
gathered fresh leaves for her couch, who
cheered her by hopeful words, who vol
UNFAIRLY gave up half his own allowance
of meat that she might grow the strong
er on it. The poor woman and her child
called him Mr." Dawes.
But the days stole on and no vessel
appeared. Each day they eagerly scan
ned the watery horizon; each day they
longed to behold the bowsprit of the re-
turning Ladybird glide past the jutting
rock that shut out the view of the har-
Dor, but in vain. Mrs Vickers' illness
increased, and the stock of provisions
began to run short. Dawes talked OF
putting himself and Frere on half allow.
ance. 1t was evident that, unless sue.
cor came In a few days, they must
starve.
One day Sylvia was sitting in the sun
reading the English History" which
by the accident of fright, she had
brought with her on the night of the
mutiny. ''Mr. Frere," said she, sud
denly, what is an alchemistT"
"A man who makes gold" was Frere',
not very accurate definition.
did the ancient Britons know it?"
'No; not so old as that"
Sylvia suddenly gave a little scream
The remembrance of the evening wheI
she read about the ancient Britons t.
poor Bates came wildly into her mind
and though she had since re-read the
passage that had then attracted her at
tention a hundred times, it had neveI
before presented itself to her in Its full
: significance. Hurriedly turning the
, well-thumbed leaves, she read aloud thu
} passage which had provoked remark:
'"rhe ancient Britons were little bet
ter than barbarians. They painted theii
: bodies with woad, and, seated in thei
light coracles of skin stretched upoI
: slender wooden frames, must have pre-
scented a wild and savage appearance.
, IA cOracle! That's a boat! Can't WI
. make a coracle, Mr.. Dawesr
The convict knitted his brows gloom
} ily.
: "Cems, Dawes!" cried Frere, forget
ting his enmity for an instant, in tn
fash of new hope, cant you Sugges
! something's
Rufus Dawes; thus appealed to as tn
3 acknowledged head Of the little society
? felt a pleasant thrill of self-satisfaction
3 81 don't know" he said; 81 must thinl
Il u