Some clusters of wild blossoms grew within the circle of the wagons still untrampled and pure. She saw them drooping heavily beneath a rain of dew, and going up to them, swept the drops off with her hands, thus taking a morning bath which was half moisture, half perfume.
“Now,” she said, looking around upon the green undulations of the prairie, “now for a straggle among the flowers. One never gets a lonely walk when we are on the move. I am tired of being forever cautioned to keep close to the wagons. Now for the prairie. How the green waves rise and swell to the morning wind. It is like launching forth on an ocean. It seems as if one could swim through the grass.”
Esther Morse—this was her name—ran back to the tent and brought forth a pretty straw hat, very coarse, but so garnished with crimson ribbons that it had a look of dainty sumptuousness, which she carried away by the strings. Thus she left the camp, singing as she went, but in a low voice that harmonized with the gush of bird-songs that swelled through the morning.
Esther passed the almost sleeping guard, who, tired with his night of watchfulness against the prowling Utes, was leaning noddingly upon his rifle. She flashed upon his sight rather as some visitor from starry climes than that compound of earth we call woman.
“’Tain’t my business, Miss Esther,” he muttered, more to himself than her, “but who knows what red-skins may be a-watchin over behind them rocks yender.”
“Never fear for me, Abel Cummings,” replied the girl cheerfully and with a sweet smile upon her face; “I only want to take a short walk in the grass. Never fear for me, I will be back long before breakfast is ready.”
“If ever thar was an angel thar goes one,” soliloquized the man as she passed him.
And on she rambled, far beyond the usual limits prescribed by camp regulations. Well might a poetic fancy be lured by such a scene. The cloud-crowned caps of the Wind River Mountains loomed ghost-like in the rare, blue air—the sloping prairie around was green in its spring freshness—the foliage, that marked the river’s tide, glitteringly bright, and the just rising sun throwing over all its rare and delicate sheen of golden-vermilion. These before, and above, and around; while behind, the tented wagons dotted the greensward, looking as if a fairy caravan had encamped in a new Eden.
Careless of all danger—thinking but of the glorious scene around her, Esther Morse stepped rapidly over the rolling ground and soon was lost to sight. Now and then she paused and stooped to examine some dainty bud, and then, as if anxious to make the most of her time, pressed forward again. The plash of swiftly-running waters greets her ears, and soon she stoops over the sparkling tide which came surging over a pile of rocks. Well might she look in the pool below. Such rare beauty was never mirrored before in that sylvan looking-glass; the foot of a being so fit to be the sovereign of the scene never before trod the mossy brink. She cools her brow with the spray, and the foam-beads flash amid the blackness of her luxuriant hair. She bends still more closely over the silvery tide, and can almost count the snowy pebbles beneath. A bird flits by and she listens to its song for a moment, but to send back a reply still more sweet. An antelope stays its rapid course for an instant, upon the opposite bank, to gaze upon her with its pensive eyes, ere its hoofs, swift almost as light, ring a merry chorus as it speeds away, buoyant with innocent life. Truly it is a bower of beauty—a very paradise in the far distant wilderness. The spirit of evil should indeed forbear to set his foot or leave his serpent trail in a place like that.
Hark! Like the aroused stag, her ear is bent to listen. She holds her breath and stands poised for flight. Is it the wind playing idly among the branches—the stir of her father’s train preparing for their onward march—the rush and thunder of the buffalo herd, or the stealthy tread and long, shambling gallop of the gaunt, gray wolf? Is it the step of some one sent in pursuit of her—some one to guard her against danger—or—and the very thought sent a thrill of fear quivering through her entire frame—is it, can it be the wily savage seeking for plunder, prisoners, perhaps scalps?