9. CHAPTER IX.
HAWKING WITHOUT A HAWK.
Verty nursed the wounded pigeon with the tenderness of a
woman and the skill of a physician; so that on the third day, as
he had promised himself, the bird was completely “restored to
health.” The wing had healed, the eyes grown bright again,
every movement of the graceful head and burnished neck showed
how impatient the air-sailer was to return to his mistress and his
home.
“Ma mere,” said Verty, standing at the door of the old Indian
woman's lodge, “I think this pretty pigeon is well. Now I shall
carry it back, and I know I shall find Redbud.”
Verty, it will be seen, had concealed nothing from his mother;
indeed, he never concealed anything from anybody. He had told
her quite simply that he wanted to see Redbud again; that they
wouldn't tell him where she was; and that the pigeon would
enable him to find her. The old woman had smiled, and muttered
something, and that was all.
Verty now stood with one hand on Cloud's mane, in the early
morning, ready to set forth.
The pigeon was perched upon his left hand, secured to Verty's
arm by a ribbon tied around one of its feet. This ribbon had
been given him by Redbud.
In the other hand he carried his rifle, for some days disused—
at his feet lay Longears and Wolf, in vain pleading with down-cast
eyes for permission to accompany him.
“What a lovely morning!” said Verty, “and look at Cloud,
ma mere!—he seems to know it's fall. Then there's Wolf, who
can't understand what I told him about Mr. Rushton's not liking
so many dogs—see how sorry he is.”
“The gun makes him so,” said the old woman; “he thinks my
boy is going a hunting.”
“Maybe I shall—who knows?” Verty said. “If I see a deer
upon my way, good-bye to the law work!”
And bounding lightly into the saddle—a movement which
caused the pigeon to open and flutter its wings—Verty smiled on
the old woman, placed his hand on his breast, and touched Cloud
with his heel.
Cloud shook his head, and set forward cheerfully, Longears
galloping by his master's side.
Verty drank in the Autumn loveliness with that delight which
he always experienced in the fresh pure hills, with the mountain
winds around him. The trees seemed to be growing more and
more gorgeous in their coloring, and the cries of wild birds were
far more jubilant than ever. As he went on along the narrow
bridle path, under the magnificent boughts, his countenance was
beighter and more joyous, and he broke once or twice into a
song.
Suddenly, while he was humming thus in a low tune, to himself,
a still “croak!” attracted his attention, and he stopped
abruptly.
“Ah!” he murmured, “that's a good big gobbler, and I'll see
about him!”
And Verty cautiously dismounted, and with one foot raised,
listened for a repetition of the sound.
It was not long before the turkey's call was again heard from
a thick copse on his left.
The young hunter turned, and imprisoning Cloud's nostril in
his nervous grasp, looked fixedly into that intelligent animal's
eyes. Cloud seemed to understand very well—nodded his head—
drew a long breath—and stood like a statue. Verty then placed
his foot upon Longears, made a gesture with his hand, and Longears
showed himself equally docile. He laid down, and without
moving, followed his master with his eyes, and listened.
Verty erept noiselessly, without treading on a leaf or a twig,
to a neighboring thicket, from which the horse and dog were not
visible. He then lay down in the bushy top of a fallen pine,
and without the assistance of any “call,” such as hunters
generally make use of, uttered the low, cautious cry of the wild
turkey. This he repeated a number of times, and then remained
still.
For ten or fifteen minutes no noise disturbed the stillness of
the forest; all was quiet. Then a slight agitation of the leaves
was visible at the distance of fifty or sixty yards, and a magnificent
gobbler made his appearance, moving his bright head, and
darting upon every side glances of curiosity and circumspection.
He was looking for the female who had called him.
Verty cocked his rifle, and uttered the low croak again.
This seemed to remove any fears which the turkey had—he
replied to it, and advanced toward Verty's impromptu “blind.”
A streak of sunlight through the boughs fell on his burnished
neck and brilliant head, and he paused again.
Verty ran his eye along the barrel—covered the turkey bashaw's
head, and fired. The ball passed through the fowl's
throat, and he fell back with violent flutterings—no longer anything
but the memory of a living turkey.
“Very well,” said Verty, smoothing the head of his pigeon,
which had been greatly startled by the explosion, “I can shoot
better than that—I ought to have hit your eye, Monsieur.”
And going to the spot he took up the turkey, and then
returned to Cloud, who, with Longears at his feet, remained
perfectly quiet.
Verty tied the turkey to his saddle-bow, and went on laughing.
He made his entry into Winchester in this extremely lawyer-like
guise; that is to say, in moccasins and leggins, with a rifle in
one hand, a pigeon on the wrist of the other, and a turkey
dangling at his horse's side. Cloud, in order to complete the
picture, was shaggier than ever, and Verty himself had never
possessed so many tangled curls. His shoulders were positively
covered with them.
Unfortunately Winchester had no artist at the period.
Mr. Roundjacket was standing at the door of the office, and
he greeted Verty with a loud laugh.
“You young savage!” he said, “there you are looking like a
barbarous backwoodsman, when we are trying our very best to
make a respectable lawyer of you.”
Verty smiled, and let Cloud dip his muzzle into the trough of
a pump which stood by the door, venerable-looking and iron-handled,
like all parish pumps.
“What excuse have you, young man?” said Mr. Roundjacket.
“The individual who arrives late at the locality of his daily
exercitation will eventually become a candidate for the high and
responsible position of public suspension.”
“Anan?” said Verty, who was not accustomed to paraphrase.
Then turning his eyes toward the pigeon, he said:
“Pretty fellow! Oh! will you show me the way? You
shall—to see Redbud!”
And Verty, for the first time, seemed to realize the fact, that
he could see her again. His countenance became brilliant—his
eyes were filled with light—his lips wreathed with smiles.
Mr. Roundjacket was astounded.
“Young man,” he said, sticking his pen behind his ear, “I
should be pleased to know what you are thinking about! You
are really extravagant, sir—you need the purifying and solidifying
influence of the law; believe me—hey! what are you doing
there?”
Verty was gnawing off the ribbon from the pigeon's foot, tied
too tightly; he could not undo it, and having no knife, used his
sharp white teeth for the purpose.
“What! a pigeon tied to your arm! I did not perceive that,
sir! What are you doing? This will not do, sir—Chancery,
sir—the law, sir—neglected, sir—hallo!”
And Mr. Roundjacket staggered back, and almost fell; the
explanation of which circumstance was, that Verty had untied
the pigeon, thrown it off from his wrist like a hawk, and darted
down the street like lightning, first, however, abruptly entrusting
his rifle to Mr. Roundjacket, with the request that that gentleman
would “please hold it!” The rifle had fallen upon Mr. Roundjacket's
foot, then against Mr. Roundjacket's person, and the
poet disappeared within the office, clutching his enemy, that is to
say, the gun, and half determined to send a ball after the flying
Verty.
We need not say that this was impossible, as the rifle had not
been reloaded. Let us return to Verty.
The pigeon, upon being released, rose into the air rapidly, making
large circles, and then, without pausing a moment, swept
away on its white wings, in a southerly direction.
Verty fixed his eyes on the bird, gave Cloud the rein, and
passed through the streets of the good town of Winchester like
the Wild Huntsman, or other impersonation of the German
Legends.
We will not describe the sensation which this remarkable
event excited in the usually still country town. The children
ran; the elderly maiden ladies, standing at their doors, cried
“gracious!” and the general impression seemed to be, that a new
inroad of the border savages was about to take place—Verty
being regarded as the avant courier of the band.
He soon passed out of the town, however, and with his eyes
fixed on the fast-disappearing pigeon, sped on as rapidly as before.
Cloud flew over the green turf of the common he was traversing,
like the shadow of that natural phenomenon from which he
derived his name. He seemed to enjoy the race, and neighed for
pleasure.
The pigeon sank down toward the horizon—seemed about to
disappear—Verty uttered a deep sigh. But no: the bird suddenly
pauses, drops from the clouds, and settles upon the roof of
a house crowning a grassy hill, which hill was distant from Verty
not more than a quarter of a mile.
A smile of delight passed over Verty's countenance. He had
found Redbud—she was there!
There was no longer any necessity for such headlong speed—
he could go on slowly now—the goal was near, and would not
fly as he approached.
Verty drew near the house, which was a tall, wooden structure,
embowered in trees, and carefully reconnoitered with true hunts-man-like
precision. He thought that the place looked like the
residence of Redbud—it was so bright, and sunny, and cheerful.
On the roof sat the returned pigeon, cooing, and pluming his
wings among his fellows.
