“Very well,” said Boone. “Now I have a request of my own to make.”
“Sing it out! dod—no—nothing! I didn’t say it—but I’ll do what you want me to,” said Sneak.
“I think you will not suffer for the want of sleep,” continued Boone; “and I wish you to go out and get as many of the neighbours to join us as possible. You can go to three or four houses by midnight, sleep a little, and meet us here, or in the prairie, in the morning.”
“I shall cut stick—if I don’t I wish I may be do—I—indeed I will!” and before he ceased speaking he was rushing through the gate.
The little party then took a hasty repast, and, throwing themselves on the couches, endeavoured to sleep. Boone and Joe were soon wrapped in slumber; but neither Roughgrove nor Glenn, for a great length of time, could find repose.
“Strive to be composed, my friend; all will be well,” said Glenn, when the disconsolate old ferryman gave vent to numerous heart-rending sighs.
“If you only knew”—commenced Roughgrove, in reply, and the words he was about to utter died upon his lips.
“I can well imagine the extent of your bereavement,” said Glenn; “but at the same time I am sure she will be returned to you unharmed.”
“It was not Mary alone I alluded to,” said Roughgrove; “but to lose two children—all that we had—so cruelly—Oh! may we all meet in heaven!”
“Then you had two children, and lost them both? I never heard the other mentioned,” said Glenn, now evincing a most lively interest in the subject.