CHAPTER IV. THE GIRL WITH THE RED-GOLD HAIR.
The glowing sun had set in the west—a huge ball of fire that seemed to sink into the ground. The shade of night had fallen and darkness veiled in the distant prairie. Supper had been prepared and eaten by the emigrants and some had begun to arrange to retire for the night.
The moon, three-quarters full, was rising slowly, casting its clear, pure light over the vast plain, chasing the darkness away and dancing in little waves of light on the yellow and swift-flowing waters of the Yellowstone.
The fires of the emigrants threw out their uncertain and flickering light upon the faces of the little groups that surrounded them. All were speaking of the dangers of the journey before them, and many a tale of Indian warfare and border peril were rehearsed around the watch-fires of the wagon-train.
By the wagon that stood nearest to the river’s bank a little group of four people were seated; three women and one man. The man was called Grierson; one of the women, the elder one, was his wife; the other, who resembled her strongly in features, was her daughter, Eunice by name. The mother and daughter were dark eyed and dark haired, presenting a decided contrast to the last of the group, who was a young girl, who did not look over sixteen. She had one of those sweet, innocent, childish faces that win favor at the first glance—a face once seen, never to be forgotten—there was something so odd, so striking about it. The face was little, but a perfect oval, with a high, white forehead, dark-blue eyes, full of life and expression, dimpled cheeks, slightly tinged with a crimson flush, that relieved the white, pearly skin, a little chin exquisitely shaped, full, pouting lips, red as ripe cherries, a long, straight nose, and then, the great charm of the head—the red-gold hair that hung in profusion, in little tangled ringlets, clinging elfishly together almost down to her little shapely waist. In figure she was a little sprite of a girl, exquisitely proportioned, with the daintiest little feet and hands. In brief, she was innocence and grace personified. Such was Leona Vender, the fairy, who had tangled up the honest heart of Dave Reed, the guide, in the silken meshes of her red-gold hair.
The Grierson family were neighbors of the Venders in Greenfield, and hearing how well Daniel Vender had made out in the Far West, had determined to try their fortune in Montana and had made preparations so as to set out at the same time as Leona. Leona of course was very glad of their company, particularly as Eunice, the daughter, had been her school companion and was her dearest friend.
Leona, although looking like a mere child of fifteen, was in reality nineteen years of age. Eunice, her friend, was one year older.
“Well, wife,” said Grierson, rising from his seat near the fire, “I guess I shall go to bed. We start at four in the morning, and as we make a long march to-morrow, we shall need all the rest we can get. Girls, don’t sit up late.”
“No, father,” answered Eunice, speaking for both.
Grierson and his wife retired to the shelter of the wagon.
Leona was gazing dreamily out upon the surface of the rolling river, whereon the moonbeams danced like so many silver sprites. Eunice noticed her abstraction.
“A penny for your thoughts, Leona!” she cried, stroking down the curling locks of her friend’s hair.
Leona started a little; a faint smile came to her lips, as she answered in a low voice:
“Perhaps my thoughts are not worth a penny.”
“Oh, Leona!” cried Eunice, “what a little humbug you are! Not worth a penny! Well, now, if I were thinking of what you were thinking of, and you should say what I did, I should have answered that my thoughts were worth a great many pennies.”
Leona smiled again, then looked shyly at her friend.
“How can you know what I am thinking of? I hardly believe I know myself,” said Leona.
“Let me word your thoughts, then, for you. A tall, manly figure; long black hair, curling, oh! so romantically down over his shoulders; a pair of jet-black eyes; an honest, handsome, earnest face—and the—the—well, the wish that he might think of somebody as somebody thinks of him. Come, confess, ain’t I right?” and Eunice put her arms around the slender figure by her side and drew the shapely little head with the silken curls down upon her shoulder.
“Yes,” came in a whisper from the lips of Leona.
“There!” cried Eunice, triumphantly, “I knew that I was right, and, you little cheat, to try to deceive me!”
“But, Eunice,” rejoined Leona, “I don’t know that he cares any thing for me.”
“Then you must be blind!” exclaimed Eunice, impulsively. “Why, I can see that he worships the very ground you walk on. When we are riding with him at the head of the train, he never takes his eyes from you for a single moment. Now, he’s something like a lover; he’s never obtrusive, yet always near at hand to do you service. If he don’t love you, then you will never be loved by mortal man, and your fate will be to die an old maid.”
“Are you sure that he loves me?” asked Leona, dreamily, her fingers pushing the little curls back from her forehead.
“Of course I am! I only wish some such nice-looking fellow would fall in love with me. I wouldn’t let him grieve himself to death for want of a loving word.”
“But, he has never said that he loves me, although I own from his actions that I thought he did,” replied Leona.
“Very likely. He’s bashful; he’s not one of your city chaps, that have such a good opinion of themselves that they think every woman they meet is in love with them. He’s an honest fellow—as brave as a lion and as true as steel. I tell you what it is, Leona, if you don’t give the poor fellow some encouragement, I shall set my cap for him myself, for I give you fair warning that I am half in love with him already.”
“Why, Eunice!” and Leona looked into her friend’s face, half in reproach.
“There now, don’t be frightened. I shan’t take your lover away from you—probably for the best of all reasons, and that is, that I couldn’t get him if I wanted him!”
“But, if he loves me, why don’t he tell me so?” demanded Leona.
“Why?” cried Eunice. “Because he’s a bashful goose like you are. When we are riding at the head of the train, you and he say scarcely a word to each other, while the other guide, the one they call Abe, and I, have had fine chats together.”
“Why, no!” said Leona, in her earnest way, “you are quite wrong; he has told me all about his life—how he was born here on the frontier and has always lived on the prairie—how he has hunted buffalo, and some dreadful stories about the Indians.”
“And I dare say that you listened to him with those large eyes of yours opened to their widest extent, and that, with every word he spoke, you loved him more and more.”
“Yes,” murmured Leona, softly. “I do love him, and I know I shall never love any one else as I love him.”
“Well, then, the sooner you understand one another the better; but, Leona, do you think that your father will consent?”
“Oh, yes!” answered Leona, “I am sure of it; he loves me too well to refuse. Besides, when he sees Mr. Reed, I feel sure he can not help liking him.”
“Oh! you poor little kitten!” cried Eunice, twining Leona’s red-gold ringlets around her fingers; “because you like him, you think everybody else must.”
“Here is Mr. Reed coming,” added Eunice, quickly. “Now you have a fine chance for a walk along the bank of the river—a moonlight walk—and if you are not both great gooses, you ought to be able to find out whether you like one another or not.”
The manly figure of Dave came into the circle of light thrown out from the fire.
“Good-evening,” he said, as he advanced.
“Good-evening,” replied both the girls.
“Oh, I’m glad you have come, Mr. Reed. Leona has been wanting an escort for a walk up the bank of the river in the moonlight, and I am too tired to go.” Eunice cast a merry glance at Leona’s scarlet face as she spoke. Dave did not notice Leona’s confusion; he was only too happy to be able to enjoy the society of the fair young girl, to him the dearest girl in all the world.
“I shall be happy to offer myself for an escort,” he answered.
“And she would be happy to accept the offer,” cried Eunice, “and you too,” she added, mentally, “if you would offer yourself.”
“There is no danger, I suppose?” Leona said.
“Oh, no!” replied Dave, “we will only go a little way beyond our picket-line, and then we can return.”
Abe, as captain of the train, had thrown out regular pickets, as though on the prairie.
Leona got a cloak of dark cloth from the wagon, wrapped it around her, took the offered arm of Dave, and the two walked off in the path leading up the river.
“Now, if they don’t discover whether they love each other or not, before they come back, then they ought to be ashamed of themselves!” cried Eunice to herself, as she looked after their retreating figures.
Leona and Dave walked on arm in arm; they passed the picket-guard by the river, and got beyond the limits of the camp.
Dark clouds had begun to gather on the hitherto clear sky, and every now and then one would sail across the moon, shading the earth in darkness for a few moments; then the moon would shine out clear again till another cloud followed.
No sounds were stirring on the still night-air save now and then the shrill cry of some little earth insect, burrowing beneath the feet of the lovers.
“Do you think there is danger of the Indians attacking us before we reach Montana?” asked Leona.
“It is difficult to say,” replied Dave. “We are a large party, and the Indians seldom attack unless three to one. They don’t care about fighting if they can help it. If a large war-party should happen to come across our trail, why then of course they would trouble us; but we are not likely to meet any large parties; and the small ones will try and run off our stock if they can, but they’ll keep out of rifle-range.”
“If there should be an attack, you would be exposed more to the savages than any of the rest, would you not?” asked Leona.
“Of course, my partner Abe and myself, being captains of the train, are expected to front all the danger—that is what we are paid for,” returned the guide.
“It is a terrible risk you run,” said Leona, with a half-shudder at the thought of the possible danger.
“Well, Miss Leona,” said Dave, in his honest, straightforward way, “we must all die some day, and from what little I have seen of the world, I should say that we were always in danger. When a train is attacked that I’m with somehow I never think of the chance of my getting killed. The fact is, I’m always too busy looking out for the safety of the train. And if there’s anybody got to die by the hands of the red devils, why, better me than a man who has wife, sisters and daughters that love him. You know, for I have told you, that I am alone in the world, and if I should go under and these red heathen take my top-knot, there wouldn’t be any one in the world to grieve for me.”
A cloud at the moment was passing over the moon, which shaded the earth in darkness, or Dave, if he had looked at Leona’s face, would have seen that her eyes were filled with tears.
“You are wrong,” Leona said, in her low, sweet tones. “There is some one in the world that would mourn for you.”
Dave thought for a moment, then he spoke:
“Yes, I forgot the ‘Crow-Killer.’ I believe he does love me like a brother, although he is old enough to be my father, and until a short time ago we had never met.”
“Then there are two that would mourn for you, for there is another besides him.” Leona was blushing scarlet at her own boldness. Dave detected a meaning in her tone and words that sent a thrill of joy to his heart; and Leona, feeling his arm tremble within hers, knew that she was understood. When two people love each other, and wish each to know of that love, as a general thing it don’t take very long for them to discover the truth, and so, as they walked on in the darkness, walked on beside the winding river, Leona and Dave knew that they loved. Oh, happy moment, when the first love fills the heart, that before had been vacant!
Dave was the first to break the silence.
“Leona,” he said, “I’ve wanted for a long time to tell you how much I cared for you, but I never found the courage to do so until now. I’m only a poor guide, but if you’ll give me your love, I’ll work hard and build up a home for you that one day you won’t be ashamed to share.”
“I should never be ashamed of any home where you are, David,” replied Leona, looking up into her lover’s face, with those trusting blue eyes, so full of innocence and love. “I can not give you what you ask, for it is not mine to give—it is yours already.”
David Reed had never felt so happy, and so the lovers walked on, weaving bright hopes for the future—that future which always looks so bright to those who love.
Dave, so engrossed by the sweet girl at his side, had not noticed a dark figure that moved when they moved, and halted when they halted; and now, as the lovers sat down by the river-bank, hand in hand, and whispered low words of love and of eternal faith, the shadowy figure extended itself flat on the prairie a hundred yards or so from them, and became invisible in the gloom.
A few hundred feet from where the lovers sat was a little thicket of dwarfed oak trees. Concealed behind the thicket from the view of the fort and the wagon-camp, stood a white horse, spotted on the flanks with patches of black. ’Twas the horse of the Indian who had called himself a chief of the Yancton Sioux. As the moon was again obscured by clouds, forth from the little thicket came the Indian himself. Snake-like he crawled toward the lovers, who, listening only to each other, did not dream that danger was nigh. On came the savage, noiseless as a cat. In his hand he carried a long scalping-knife; his face was bedaubed with war-paint, vermilion and white. Every second brought the creeping savage nearer and nearer to the unconscious pair. He had accomplished half the distance between the thicket and the lovers, when for a few moments the moon again struggled forth and threw its beams over the prairie; the savage sunk down in the grass. When the moon was again obscured, he recommenced his onward passage. But if his approach had been unnoticed by the lovers, ’twas not so with the shadowy form on the prairie. That watcher evidently had seen the Indian, for, imitating his motions, he made his way noiselessly through the grass, also toward the lovers. When the savage got within ten feet of Leona and Dave, he paused for a moment, gathered himself together like a cat—he had not noticed the dark form in his rear, so intent was he on his prey—sprung upon Dave and aimed a lightning stroke at his back; but, at that very moment, Dave moved a little to the right, to kiss, for the first time, the upturned lips of Leona—a movement that saved his life, for the knife of the Indian, missing his body, only cut through the loose red shirt. The force of the shock, though, sent Dave headlong off the bank into the river. In a moment the Indian seized Leona, raised her in his arms and was about to fly across the prairie, when the dark shadow which had trailed him in the grass, and which was none other than Abe, the “Crow-Killer,” sprung upon him. The Indian relinquished Leona, who sunk to the ground, to grapple with the “Crow-Killer.” His only object now was to escape, but the grasp of the old Indian-fighter was not easily shaken off. They closed in a fearful struggle; the moon once more shone forth, and they beheld each other’s features; the surprise was mutual.
“The ‘Crow-Killer’!” cried the savage, in the Crow tongue.
“White Vulture!” exclaimed Abe.
“Yes, son of ‘Little Star’,” cried the Indian.
For a moment the grasp of the “Crow-Killer” relaxed; the savage tore himself away and fled across the prairie toward the thicket, where stood his horse. Abe drew a revolver and leveled it at the flying Indian; a moment he covered him with the shining tube; he was in easy range, and the “Crow-Killer” was a dead shot; a moment he held the life of the White Vulture at his mercy; then he slowly dropped the revolver from the poise, muttering:
“Not by my hand! his blood must not be on my head!”
Dave speedily gained the bank, nothing hurt by his involuntary bath, and they all returned to the camp. Abe charged both Leona and Dave to say nothing of the attack as it would only create useless alarm. The Indian having gained his white steed fled in the darkness.