CHAPTER II.
THE TELL-TALE PIPE.
Long before the first beams of breaking day illumined the eastern horizon, the shrill voice of the little, wrinkled, half-apish-looking guide, Paul Chicot, roused the sleeping camp, bidding all prepare for a long, hard day's travel. Eagerly the emigrants flew around, for once more the golden phantom seemed beckoning them on.
And yet, despite their anxiety, that day was to carry them no nearer the golden land. A blow fell that for the moment drove away all such thoughts.
"Whar's Dutchy?" suddenly queried Paul Chicot, running his beadlike eyes rapidly around the little group.
As customary, the emigrants were regularly divided into "messes." One of these messes was formed by the guide, Chicot, Nate Upshur, an Irishman called Tim Dooley, and "Dutchy," as the fourth member was familiarly known.
This last personage was an enigma to the greater portion of the emigrants. At times he appeared the polished scholar, then again one of the most ignorant men imaginable. He had joined the train at St. Charles, preferring the overland route on account of his poor health, hoping thus to recuperate. He seemed possessed of plenty of money, paying his fare in gold, without a demur at the price.
"I don't know—I hain't seen him since last night," replied Upshur, wiping his lips, after a long draught of coffee.
"Go hyste him out, Tim. He takes so durned long to fix up his ha'r an' teeth afore eatin' thet he won't be ready fer the road none too soon. Tell 'im we're all ready fer startin'," muttered Chicot.
Dooley arose and glided toward a small tent a little to one side, and pushing back the hanging door-flap, entered. The next moment he reappeared, staggering back with starting eyeballs and hair standing on end, a wild cry bursting from his pallid lips.