Looking over the account of the "Elm Creek Massacre," Ollie's eyes open rather widely; but, a moment after, he remarks sneeringly: "This fiction of the Rocky Mountains seems to make quite a hero of your friend Lawrence. I wonder if he wrote the book himself?" And the gentleman chuckles to himself, imagining he has been rather witty.
Miss Travenion's reply rather disconcerts him.
"I am glad you call him my friend," answers the girl, a gleam of admiration in her blue eyes. "Any man who could do what is written there, is worthy to be any woman's friend."
"Oh, indeed," says Mr. Livingston, rather nettled at this; partly because he thinks his joke is not appreciated, and partly because he does not care about Erma Travenion showing an interest in any other man save his own small self. "I suppose you will soon make a first-class border ruffian out of your hero?" Then he utters oracularly: "I wonder how it is that some girls seem to take such interest in 'men of blood.'"
"I don't take interest in 'men of blood,'" cries Miss Travenion, rather warmly, for this remark about border ruffians is not pleasing to her; "but I do take interest in the men of courage, determination and manhood, who are risking their lives to make this country a greater America."
But here she gets a surprise from Ollie, who, incited by the beauty of the girl, which is made greater by her enthusiasm, replies suddenly: "If I thought you would like it, Erma, I myself would become a pioneer."
The idea of Mr. Ollie's turning frontiersman, proves too much for Miss Travenion's control; she bursts into a fit of laughter, which disconcerts the young man, and makes him retreat from her, with a plaintive, "I meant what I said. I didn't believe you would treat my expression of regard for you with a jeer."
Left to herself, however, Erma goes into more thought about this man who has risked his life for others, and even after she has gone to bed, as she turns upon her pillow, visions of Captain Harry Storey Lawrence, fighting Indians, come to her, and she wakes up with a suppressed scream, for he is about to be scalped, and finds that it is only the shriek of the locomotive, and the war-whoops of the Indians are only the outcries of the porter, announcing that they are approaching Sydney, where they have thirty minutes for an early breakfast.