"Have you searched with a light? Perhaps the cattle have trampled on her, or she is hurt in some way, so as not to be able to call out."
"The Lord forbid!" muttered Buckskin Joe.
"The wind took our lantern, I s'pose; we can't find it," said Mrs. Wright.
"Wal, I'm a-goin' for to find that gal," said Joe, catching up his lantern. "Let the traps go to darnation—the gal's worth more'n the hull lot. 'Sides, I've promised to be on hand next time she got into danger."
"You go in one direction, making the circuit of the camp, as near as you can guess it, and I will go the other until we meet," said the stranger. "It's impossible to make a fire just yet; but this wind will subside within an hour, so that we can then build one. If any one of the party are lost in the darkness, it will serve to light them back. Fortunately there is nothing to be feared from the desert, that I know of; and, unless she has been injured by flying missiles, the young lady is probably safe, and not very far off."
He said this with the cool decision which marked his general manner, yet the quick eye of the guide detected an uneasiness and paleness of countenance, caused either by his interest in the girl, and fear for her, or by the excitement of the scene he had just passed through.
So completely had the corral been broken and the camp scattered, that it was difficult to trace its exact position, or to tell just where it would be wisest to search for the missing girl. After an hour's wandering, assisted also by many others, the two men met, with no tidings. The wind having lulled, it was proposed to build a bright fire, in the hope that it would guide her back. This was done; the blaze streamed up vividly, enabling the emigrants to work with more certainty amid the ruins of their property. But no clue was obtained to the accident which had befallen Elizabeth.
Daylight brought to view a pitiable state of affairs. Two days of hard labor would barely enable the trains to proceed. Much property was irretrievably lost—literally scattered to the winds. There was the body of one—who yesterday was one of their number, full of health and hope—now waiting its lonely burial beneath a stunted tree of the desolate plain. There was the injured man, to whom the rest of the journey must be a lingering and painful one. And, saddest perhaps of all, was the strange and total disappearance of the pride and star of the company—the sweet young maiden whose face had been like a memory of home to the roughest.
"This is what I should call suthin' of a pickle," soliloquized Buckskin Joe, leaning on his rifle, and looking off toward the rising sun, scratching his head instinctively to assist his thoughts; "if thar' had been sand enough lyin' about loose to swaller her up, or rivers, or woods, or even a Red River alligator, I should know where to look. Blast it! if it wur only an alligator, I'd fetch her out and bring her to—blast me, if I wouldn't! But I'm free to own that I'm mighty onsartain which way to look, cause all parts of the compass is 'zactly alike, and thar' ain't a mark so much as a blade o' grass for a sharp feller to fix his attention to. Now, if it wur the thickest woods that ever growed, and she'd bin stole by the slyest Injun, I'd have more hopes. 'Cause there'd be a bended twig, or a footstep in the leaves, or a bit of caliker on a bush, or suthin'. I can't see what could a' took her, lest the wind actually carried her off, which it mought do easy enough, for she was a light little critter—so purty—and if it did, it must have sot her down hard enough to take the breath out everlastingly." Here he fell into a fit of silent abstraction.
"What are you thinking about?"