"I will introduce them. Though Lottie is far from well—her poor mother's death has nearly killed the child—she will gladly do all that is in her power to comfort your daughter."
"I too have lost my mother," softly murmured Mabel, her large eyes filling with tears, as she glanced up into the stalwart emigrant's face.
"Poor child!" muttered Mitchell, yielding to a sudden and uncontrollable impulse, and bending low in his saddle, he imprinted a fatherly kiss upon the smooth white forehead of the maiden.
Mabel's face flushed, but she did not appear to take offense at the abrupt action, though she cast a swift glance toward her father. Then, with an effort, Mitchell recovered himself, and soon explained the facts of the strange meeting to the wondering emigrants, the train having caught up during the delay.
Mabel was kindly greeted by Lottie, and then the white-tilted wagons hid them from view. The father was furnished with the beverage he desired, and then, seemingly forgetful of fatigue and weariness in his anxiety for the welfare of the wagon-train, he rode along ahead of the train on Mitchell's horse, while the latter walked.
"You say you have no regular guide?"
"He deserted us night before last," moodily replied Mitchell, his brow lowering.
"Can it be that he is in league with these devils?" mused the other, half to himself. "It looks black—very black!"
Mitchell glanced impatiently at his companion. These vague hints were alarming, when coupled with the still unexplained appearance of the couple in that wild and apparently unsettled region.
"Mr. Mitchell," abruptly uttered the stranger, "I am about to tell you a very strange story, and you would do well to listen to it very closely, as, if I mistake not, it concerns you and yours deeply. First, my name is Guilford; I am a retired officer of the regular army, and Mabel is my only child. Why we left a comfortable home in the East to journey overland to California, does not matter just now—suffice that we did.