Allie.
“Allie, it sure ain’t anythin’ else,” he replied. “Thet is what I’ve been lookin’ fer. … A day old—mebbe more.”
“Uncle Bill, is there any danger?” she asked, fearfully gazing up the slope.
“Lass, we’re in the Wyoming hills, an’ I wish to the Lord we was out,” he answered.
Then he picked up the deer carcass, a heavy burden, and slung it, hoofs in front, over his shoulders.
“Let me carry your gun,” said Allie.
They started toward camp.
“Lass, listen,” began Horn, earnestly. “Mebbe there’s no need to fear. But I don’t like Injun tracks. Not these days. Now I’m goin’ to scare this lazy outfit. Mebbe thet’ll make them rustle. But don’t you be scared.”
In camp the advent of fresh venison was hailed with satisfaction.
“Wal, I’ll gamble the shot thet killed this meat was heerd by Injuns,” blurted out Horn, as he deposited his burden on the grass and whipped out his hunting-knife. Then he glared at the outfit of men he had come to despise.
“Horn, I reckon you ‘pear more set up about Injuns than usual,” remarked Jones.
“Fresh Sioux track right out thar along the brook.”
“No!”
“Sioux!” exclaimed another.
“Go an’ look fer yourself.”
Not a man of them moved a step. Horn snorted his disdain and without more talk began to dress the deer.
Meanwhile the sun set behind the ridge and the day seemed far spent. The evening meal of the travelers was interrupted when Horn suddenly leaped up and reached for his rifle.
“Thet’s no Injun, but I don’t like the looks of how he’s comin’.”
All gazed in the direction in which Horn pointed. A horse and rider were swiftly approaching down the trail from the west. Before any of the startled campers recovered from their surprise the horse reached the camp. The rider hauled up short, but did not dismount.
“Hello!” he called. The man was not young. He had piercing gray eyes and long hair. He wore fringed gray buckskin, and carried a long, heavy, muzzle-loading rifle.
“I’m Slingerland—trapper in these hyar parts,” he went on, with glance swiftly taking in the group. “Who’s boss of this caravan?”
“I am—Bill Horn,” replied the leader, stepping out.
“Thar’s a band of Sioux redskins on your trail.”
Horn lifted his arms high. The other men uttered exclamations of amaze and dread. The women were silent.
“Did you see them?” asked Horn.
“Yes, from a ridge back hyar ten miles. I saw them sneakin’ along the trail an’ I knowed they meant mischief. I rode along the ridges or I’d been hyar sooner.”
“How many Injuns?”
“I counted fifteen. They were goin’ along slow. Like as not they’ve sent word fer more. There’s a big Sioux camp over hyar in another valley.”
“Are these Sioux on the war-path?”
“I saw dead an’ scalped white men a few days back,” replied Slingerland.
Horn grew as black as a thundercloud, and he cursed the group of pale-faced men who had elected to journey eastward with him.
“You’ll hev to fight,” he ended, brutally, “an’ thet’ll be some satisfaction to me.”
“Horn, there’s soldiers over hyar in camp,” went on Slingerland. “Do you want me to ride after them?”
“Soldiers!” ejaculated Horn.
“Yes. They’re with a party of engineers surveyin’ a line fer a railroad. Reckon I could git them all hyar in time to save you—IF them Sioux keep comin’ slow. … I’ll go or stay hyar with you.”
“Friend, you go—an’ ride thet hoss!”
“All right. You hitch up an’ break camp. Keep goin’ hard down the trail, an’ I’ll fetch the troops an’ head off the redskins.”
“Any use to take to the hills?” queried Horn, sharply.
“I reckon not. You’ve no hosses. You’d be tracked down. Hurry along. Thet’s best. … An’ say, I see you’ve a young girl hyar. I can take her up behind me.”
“Allie, climb up behind him,” said Horn, motioning to the girl.
“I’ll stay with mother,” she replied.
“Go child—go!” entreated Mrs. Durade.
Others urged her, but she shook her head. Horn’s big hand trembled as he held it out, and for once there was no trace of hardness about his face.
“Allie, I never had no lass of my own. … I wish you’d go with him. You’d be safe—an’ you could take my—”
“No!” interrupted the girl.
Slingerland gave her a strange, admiring glance, then turned his quick gray eyes upon Horn. “Anythin’ I can take?”
Horn hesitated. “No. It was jest somethin’ I wanted the girl to hev.”
Slingerland touched his shaggy horse and called over his shoulder: “Rustle out of hyar!” Then he galloped down the trail, leaving the travelers standing aghast.
“Break camp!” thundered Horn.
A scene of confusion followed. In a very short while the prairie-schooners were lumbering down the valley. Twilight came just as the flight got under way. The tired oxen were beaten to make them run. But they were awkward and the loads were heavy. Night fell, and the road was difficult to follow. The wagons rolled and bumped and swayed from side to side; camp utensils and blankets dropped from them. One wagon broke down. The occupants, frantically gathering together their possessions, ran ahead to pile into the one in front.
Horn drove on and on at a gait cruel to both men and beasts. The women were roughly shaken. Hours passed and miles were gained. That valley led into another with an upgrade, rocky and treacherous. Horn led on foot and ordered the men to do likewise. The night grew darker. By and by further progress became impossible, for the oxen failed and a wild barrier of trees and rocks stopped the way.
Then the fugitives sat and shivered and waited for dawn. No one slept. All listened intently to the sounds of the lonely night, magnified now by their fears. Horn strode to and fro with his rifle—a grim, dark, silent form. Whenever a wolf mourned, or a cat squalled, or a night bird voiced the solitude, or a stone rattled off the cliff, the fugitives started up quiveringly alert, expecting every second to hear the screeching yell of the Sioux. They whispered to keep up a flickering courage. And the burly Horn strode to and fro, thoughtful, as though he were planning something, and always listening. Allie sat in one of the wagons close to her mother. She was wide awake and not so badly scared. All through this dreadful journey her mother had not seemed natural to Allie, and the farther they traveled eastward the stranger she grew. During the ride that night she had moaned and shuddered, and had clasped Allie close; but when the flight had come to a forced end she grew silent.
Allie was young and hopeful. She kept whispering to her mother that the soldiers would come in time.
“That brave fellow in buckskin—he’ll save us,” said Allie.
“Child, I feel I’ll never see home again,” finally whispered Mrs. Durade.
“Mother!”
“Allie,