The day’s journey, although it had been a hard and fatiguing one, seemed to have had no effect upon the spirits of the emigrants, who were as merry and laughed and sang as loudly as when they left St. Joseph. They seemed to be supremely happy and contented, and Julian did not wonder at it. They had everything their hearts could desire to make them happy, and he had everything to make him miserable. If he had had parents and brothers and sisters there he would have laughed too, and felt as light of heart as the best of them. But there was not a soul with whom he could claim relationship in less than a thousand miles, and perhaps not in the world. Julian was falling into his melancholy mood again, and he wanted to be alone; the sounds of merriment grated harshly on his ears. He left the camp and hurried down the road. On he went, regardless of the flight of time, through the woods in which the wagons had halted, to the prairie that lay beyond, brooding over the past and speculating on the future.
How long his fit of abstraction continued he could not have told; but when he came to himself the camp-fires were out of sight, and he was standing on an extensive plain which stretched away before him as far as his eyes could reach, without even a tree or bush to break the monotony. He was alone; there was not a living thing within the range of his vision. This was Julian’s first glimpse of the prairie, and it was not without its effect upon him. He gazed in wonder. What an immense region it was that lay between him and his home—all India could be put into it twice, he had read somewhere—and until that moment what a ridiculously faint conception he had had of it! What would he not have given to have been able to tell what lay beyond it? He listened but not a sound came to his ears. An unearthly silence brooded over the vast expanse—a silence so deep that he could hear the beating of his own heart. Julian was awed, almost frightened by it; and turning quickly about he started for the camp at the top of his speed.
Perhaps Julian would have been really frightened if he had known that he was not so utterly alone as he imagined himself to be. There were no less than four persons in sight of him all the while, and part of the time, five. Three of them were Sanders and the men who had left St. Joseph in his company. Having watched the train from a safe distance all that day, they entered the camp as soon as it grew dark to satisfy themselves that the boy of whom they were in search was among the emigrants. They saw him as he strolled through the woods and followed, hoping to find an opportunity to make a prisoner of him. The fourth man, who watched every move Julian made during the time he remained within sight of him, and who carried in his hand a revolver cocked and ready for use, was the emigrant; and the fifth was Silas Roper. The latter, unlike the others, who made use of every tuft of grass to cover their bodies, walked erect down the road, keeping always within rifle-range of Julian, whose form, being clad in dark garments, was thrown out in bold relief against the gray background of the prairie. The emigrant saw him, if Julian did not, and for some reasons of his own thought it best to abandon his pursuit of the boy. He concealed himself in the grass until the trapper had passed on, and then scrambled to his feet and slunk away in the direction of the camp.
Julian had not retraced his steps very far before he began to wish most heartily that he had turned back long ago. There was some one following him—following, too, for the purpose and with the determination of overtaking him. His ears told him that such was the fact, and there was no need that he should look back to make sure of it—he dared not do it. He heard the sound of the pursuit very plainly—the stealthy, cautious patter of moccasined feet on the hard road, which grew louder and more distinct every instant. Who was his pursuer? The guide, beyond a doubt, for he was the only man in the train who wore moccasins. Fear lent Julian wings, and he made headway astonishingly; but there was some one beside the clumsy Jack Bowles in pursuit of him now, and the lightness of foot that had brought him off with flying colors in his race with that worthy could not avail him.
“It’s no use, Julian,” said a gruff voice behind him. “I’m a comin’, an’ if I don’t overhaul you thar ain’t no snakes. You’re ketched, an’ you might as well stop an’ give in.”
But our hero was not one of the kind who give in. He strained every nerve to escape, but his pursuer gained rapidly. He was close behind him now—Julian could hear his heavy breathing; but just as he was expecting to feel his strong grasp on his collar, a blinding sheet of flame shot out of the gloom directly in advance of him, and something whistled through the air close to his ear. In another minute Julian had run squarely into the arms of Silas Roper, and his pursuer had faced about and was making his way through the tall grass as if a legion of wolves were close at his heels.
“I reckon I throwed away that chunk of lead, didn’t I?” said Silas. “You needn’t be skeered now. I know you ain’t hurt, ’cause I’ve had my eyes on you all the while.”
Julian, weak with terror and utterly bewildered to find the guide in front, when he had all the while supposed him to be behind and in pursuit of him, could not reply. But if he was surprised at this, he was still more amazed at the manner in which Silas received him. He did not show the least desire to do him an injury, but on the contrary extended his arm around him protectingly, and supported him until he had somewhat recovered himself.
“You’re lively on your legs fur a little one,” continued the trapper, “but you’re well nigh give out, ain’t you? If thar had been just a trifle more light Sanders would have been past harmin’ you now.”