"Their black hair, thick and lowering,
Above their wild eyes hung,
And about their frowning foreheads
Like wreaths of night-shade clung.
'The bisons! ho, the bisons!'
They cried and answered back.
The frightened creatures stood aghast
To see them on their track."
With rifle on shoulder and knife in belt, Nat Wolfe rode along carelessly, for it was midday, and the country was open. That caution which ten years of uncivilized life had taught him never entirely slumbered, and he gave a sharp glance ahead, when, upon turning a low bluff rising out of the plain just here, he descried travelers in advance of him. A moment assured him that they were a family of emigrants making their toilsome way to Pike's Peak. He had seen hundreds of such during the season; had sometimes aided them in cases of sickness and famine; and had cursed in his heart the folly of those men who had brought with them their women and children to share in the hardships of the journey.
The party he now observed was only one of multitudes presenting the same general features. There was a stout wagon, drawn by three pairs of lean oxen at a slow and lumbering pace—probably the last wagon of a train, as it was seldom that a family ventured upon crossing the plains alone. If so, the train was out of sight along the track, which here becomes less monotonous, winding among the bluffs and along the shallow bed of a river, in which, at present, no water was visible. The driver had attempted to lessen the difficult task of his team while ascending a long swell of ground, the heavy wheels of the wagon cutting deep in the sand, by dislodging the two women and three children from their seats in the conveyance. The sun was hot, the air languid, and there were no cool shadows of trees to break the heat and glare of the way. The two elder children, who were boys, ran on with spirit, but a four-year-old girl lagged behind and cried, while the women toiled on with listless, dragging steps. As Nat watched them, one of them stooped and took the poor little child on her back.
"It's too bad!" muttered he, spurring his horse forward.
The whole family looked back anxiously when they heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, the driver involuntarily reaching for his rifle, as the route was one of frequent danger and dread.
"Halloo, madam, let me carry your cub for you," called Nat riding up and lifting the child from the bent back to the neck of his strong animal.
There was a kindness in his voice which dispelled fear, even that of the shy little creature in his arm.
"Thank you, sir."
He looked down at the speaker curiously, for her tone and manner were unexpected. She was a girl, of not more than seventeen, slender, and with a face too quickly hidden again by the drooping and uncomely sun-bonnet, for him to realize fully its peculiar and melancholy beauty.
Nat Wolfe was a hater of Indians and hunter of bison, not a lady's man; so he rode in advance of the slouched sun-bonnet to the side of the wagon.