“Ugh!” The arms of the Indian were extended, his eyes flashed with the fires of savage triumph. He gathered her up from where she stood white as death and frozen with fear, and, as a hawk seizes rudely on its prey, bore her off.
CHAPTER II.
NATURE’S NOBLEMAN—WALTERMYER.
“Abel Cummings, what are you a-doing there, my good man? Come, be stirring;” and the speaker issued from a large wagon near at hand.
“Doin’, Squire? Only lookin’ out to see if I could see any thing of Miss Esther. But it ain’t of no use, for she’s gone clear out of sight,” replied the man, addressing the owner of the train, and the father of the wandering girl.
“You might be in better business than spying after a runaway girl. Let her go. Hunger will soon bring her back again, I’ll warrant. So stir around—wake up the men, and have every thing ready for a start.”
“But, Squire, they say that thar’s lots an’ lots of Indians a-skulkin’ around, and who knows but that they may carry Miss Esther off and—”
“Eat her up, I suppose!” interrupted the parent, with a hearty laugh.
Checked in his speech, the man turned sullenly away, and in the bustle of the hour had soon forgotten his fears. So, indeed, it was with the majority, if they had in fact any curiosity about a young creature who had always been accustomed to wander at will and without restraint. But, careless as the father apparently was, he often turned his eyes in the direction pointed out by the man, and grew more and more troubled that she did not return.
Strange, very strange it would have been if that father had not been anxious, for she was all that remained to him of a beloved family. Wife and sons had fallen victims to the terrible reaper of the scythe and hour-glass, as he swept in a fearful epidemic through the land. This beautiful daughter was now his sole idol. Heart-sick, he had turned his back upon the place of his birth—gathered up his means, and, following the westering star, had determined to make for himself a new home in the regions “where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound save its own dashings.”
The breakfast-hour arrived and still the girl came not; passed, and she had not appeared. The time of starting was delayed, until a feeling of intense uneasiness—a vague sense of danger, took possession of every heart. Anxious eyes were strained prairie-ward, but in vain. No flutter of dress or springing step told of her coming. Once, only, moving life appeared in the distance: they saw a troop of horse sweeping over a far-off eminence—wild horse they must have been, for none bore riders. For one moment they flashed before their eyes, floundering madly on, and then were lost in a cloud of whirling dust, which alone told of their passage.