.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43463
   :PG.Title: A Prairie-Schooner Princess
   :PG.Released: 2013-08-13
   :PG.Reposted: 2014-02-02 - text correction
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Mary Katherine Maule
   :MARCREL.ill: Harold Cue
   :DC.Title: A Prairie-Schooner Princess
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1920
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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A PRAIRIE-SCHOONER PRINCESS
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   .. _`"SOMETHING NEARER, DEARER, SWEETER THAN A SISTER—I WANT YOU FOR MY WIFE!"`:

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      :alt: "SOMETHING NEARER, DEARER, SWEETER THAN A SISTER—I WANT YOU FOR MY WIFE!"—*Page* 356.

      "SOMETHING NEARER, DEARER, SWEETER THAN A SISTER—I WANT YOU FOR MY WIFE!"—*Page* `356`_.

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      A Prairie-Schooner
      Princess

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      By
      MARY KATHERINE MAULE

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      Illustrated by
      HAROLD CUE

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      BOSTON
      LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

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      Published, August, 1920

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      COPYRIGHT, 1920,
      BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD Co.

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      *All Rights Reserved*

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      A Prairie-Schooner Princess

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      Norwood Press
      BERWICK & SMITH CO.
      NORWOOD, MASS.
      U.S.A.

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   *Dedicated to the memory of those gentle
   pioneers who have gone on to their
   reward, but whose influence will long be
   felt in that State to which they came in a
   Prairie Schooner*

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   Thanks are due to Mr. Addison Erwin Sheldon,
   Director of the Nebraska Legislative Reference
   Bureau and The Nebraska State Historical
   Society, for aid in research work.

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   CONTENTS

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I.  `The Strangers`_
II.  `The Grave in the Desert`_
III.  `Princess`_
IV.  `Leaving the Old Home`_
V.  `Westward Ho!`_
VI.  `In Which the Pioneers Hear Alarming News`_
VII.  `A Night of Horror`_
VIII.  `Joe Meets a Friend and Makes an Enemy`_
IX.  `Red Snake`_
X.  `Nebraska`_
XI.  `The Prairie Fire`_
XII.  `A Nebraska Dugout`_
XIII.  `The Minne-to-wauk-pala`_
XIV.  `The New Home`_
XV.  `Building the Sod House`_
XVI.  `In the Hands of the Enemy`_
XVII.  `Eagle Eye`_
XVIII.  `A Life for a Life`_
XIX.  `How Joe Came Home`_
XX.  `Eagle Eye Remembers`_
XXI.  `The Blizzard`_
XXII.  `To the Rescue`_
XXIII.  `Christmas on the Prairies`_
XXIV.  `Ruth Makes a Discovery`_
XXV.  `The Dispatch-Box`_
XXVI.  `Trouble Brewing`_
XXVII.  `War`_
XXVIII.  `In Camp and Field`_
XXIX.  `Home Again`_
XXX.  `Ruth Receives a Surprise`_
XXXI.  `Joe Hears a Strange Story`_

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   ILLUSTRATIONS

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`"Something nearer, dearer, sweeter than
a sister—I want you for my wife!"`_
(Page `356`_) . . . . . . *Frontispiece*

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`The little Princess settled down beside
him, her chin in her hand`_

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`"Keep it; you were good and saved us"`_

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`Sunrise found her plodding on, a forlorn
little figure on a big bay mare`_

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.. _`THE STRANGERS`:

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   A Prairie-Schooner Princess

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   CHAPTER I

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   THE STRANGERS

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From under the curving top of a canvas-covered
"prairie schooner" a boy of about fifteen
leaned out, his eyes straining intently across the
brown, level expanse of the prairies.

"Father," he called, with a note of anxiety in his
voice, "look back there to the northeast!  What is
that against the horizon?  It looks like a cloud of
dust or smoke."

In a second prairie schooner, just ahead of the one
the boy was driving, a man with a brown, bearded
face looked out hastily, then continued to scan the
horizon with anxious gaze.

Beside him in the wagon sat a blue-eyed, comely
woman with traces of care in her face.  As the
boy's voice reached her she started, then leaned
out of the wagon, her startled gaze sweeping the
lonely untrodden plains over which they were traveling.

Inside the wagon under the canvas cover a boy of
nine, two little girls of seven and twelve, a curly-headed
little girl of five, and a baby boy of two years, lay on
the rolled-up bedding sleeping heavily.

The time was midsummer, 1856, and the family of
Joshua Peniman, crossing the plains to the Territory
of Nebraska, which had recently been organized, were
traveling over the uninhabited prairies of western
Iowa.

"Does thee think it could be Indians, Joshua?"
asked Hannah Peniman, her face growing white as she
viewed the cloud of dust which appeared momentarily
to be coming nearer.

"I can't tell—-I can't see yet," answered her
husband, turning anxious eyes from the musket he was
hastily loading toward the cloud of dust.  "But
whatever it is, it is coming this way.  It might be a herd
of elk or buffalo, but anyway, we must be prepared.
Get inside, Hannah, and thee and the little ones keep
well under cover."

In the other wagon two younger boys had joined
the lad who was driving.  On the seat beside him now
sat a merry-faced, brown-eyed lad of fourteen, and
leaning on their shoulders peering out between them
was a boy of twelve, the twin of the twelve-year-old
girl in the other wagon, with red hair, laughing blue
eyes, and a round, freckled face.

Sam was the mischief of the family, and was generally
larking and laughing, but now his face looked
rather pale beneath its coat of tan and freckles, and
the eyes which he fastened on the horizon had in them
an expression of terror.

"Do you suppose it's Indians, Joe?" he whispered
huskily.  "Did you hear what that man told Father
at Fort Dodge the other day?  He said that Indians
had set on an emigrant train near Fontanelle and
murdered the whole party."

The boy on the driver's seat did not answer.  With
his wide grey eyes focused intently on the cloud of
dust in the distance, his tanned face strained and set,
he craned forward, every muscle of his body at rigid
attention.

Presently he handed the lines to the brother who sat
beside him and reaching up into the curving top of the
wagon took down a heavy old muzzle-loading musket.

"Do you think it is Indians?" the boy asked, his
hands a bit tremulous on the lines.

"I dunno.  Can't tell yet.  But we've got to be
ready anyhow.  Better load up your rifle, Lige."

The brown-eyed boy wound the lines around the
whip-stock and took from a rack under the cover a
long-barreled rifle.

They had seen many roving bands of Indians on
their journey, but had never been molested by them,
but at the last settlement they had passed through they
had heard horrifying accounts of the scalping and
massacre of settlers and emigrants by the red men.
On the old Overland Trail between Fort Laramie and
the South Fork of the Platte there had occurred an
Indian uprising a few days before, the terrifying news
of which had reached them at their last stopping
place.

As Joe leaned forward with eyes fastened on the
horizon he suddenly uttered a cry.

"It's a wagon," he shouted,—"an emigrant wagon—like ours!"

From out of the cloud of dust that drifted across
the prairie an object could now be discerned, a large
object, with a white canvas cover.

Joshua Peniman, who had never removed his intent
gaze from the approaching cloud, echoed the cry.

"It *is* a wagon—an emigrant wagon!"  Then as the
dust drifted aside and he could see more clearly,—"and
they are driving at a fearful pace!"

For many weeks now the family had been traveling
over the desolation of the prairies, for days at a
time seeing no human creature but one another.  For
miles all about them lay the prairies, brown, dry,
scorched by the hot summer sun, level as a floor, with
never a tree, a shrub, a bush, a hill, or a mound to
break the dreary monotony of the plains that stretched
endlessly away all about them to the very horizon in
every direction.

It was therefore with the greater excitement and
astonishment that the family saw a wagon drawn by
two furiously plunging horses emerge from the cloud
of dust that had concealed it, and come swaying and
lurching across the plains.

They had stopped their teams now, and the whole
family were standing up looking backward.

"Jerusalem! the folks in that wagon must be in a
terrible hurry, whoever they are!" ejaculated Elijah,
more commonly called "Lige" by his family.

"They'll tip their old schooner over if they don't
look out!" cried Sam.  "Look at her tilt!"

"Pretty risky driving, I should say," said
Mrs. Peniman, shading her eyes with her hand.

"Something must be the matter," cried Ruth, who,
wakened by the talking, had come to the rear of the
wagon.  "I don't believe anybody'd drive like that if
they didn't have to!  Oh, Mother, do you suppose the
Indians are after them?"

"I think not, Ruthie, there does not appear to be any
sign of any one after them.  What does thee make of
it, Joshua?"

"I don't know what to make of it," replied Joshua
Peniman, leaping out of the wagon and keeping his
gaze fixed on the approaching vehicle.  "I never saw
such driving.  What can they be thinking of to drive
their horses like that on such a day!  The man must
be drunk—or crazy!  He'll kill his team!"

The white-topped prairie schooner was now clearly
visible, the horses galloping madly, the wagon
swaying and lurching from side to side, the white curtain
at the back streaming out on the wind.

"Something must be wrong there," cried Joe; "nobody
in his senses would drive like that!  Do you
suppose the team could be running away?  No, they're
leaving the road!  Look, they're turning in here!
They must have seen us!  I wonder——"

With strained gaze the travelers stood motionless,
every faculty absorbed in watching the oncoming vehicle.

Suddenly Mrs. Peniman uttered a startled cry:

"Why, that isn't a man driving—it's a *woman!*"

Joshua Peniman, with hands bowed across his eyes,
exclaimed breathlessly, "My God, so it is!"

As the prairie schooner drew nearer the wonder and
excitement of the family increased.

On the high driver's seat in the front of the wagon
they could now make out a woman; a woman young,
beautiful, white and livid as death; a mass of hair that
gleamed like molten gold in the sunshine blowing
wildly about her shoulders, her eyes distended, her
arms bare to the elbows extended far in front of her,
one hand clutching the reins, the other lashing the
panting, staggering horses, that, lathered with foam
and sweat, were heaving and stumbling, ready to drop
with exhaustion.

"Help, help, *help!*" her wild, piercing shriek came
to them above the clattering of the wagon.

Joshua Peniman, Joe and Lige leaped from their
wagons and ran forward to meet her.  As they
reached her she threw down the reins and reeled and
tottered on the seat.

"My husband—my husband!" she gasped, and
pointed to the inside of the wagon.

Joshua Peniman took the poor exhausted beasts by
their bits and led them up to his own encampment.

"What is it?  What has happened?" Hannah
Peniman cried, running to the woman and with strong,
tender arms lifting her down from the seat.

The woman staggered, and would have fallen if it
were not for her strong support.

"My husband—Lee—my husband!" she cried
again, and breaking from the supporting arms ran to
the rear of the wagon.

Joshua Peniman was there before her.

On the roll of bedding under the canvas cover he
saw the figure of a man lying.  Springing into the
wagon he bent over it, then lifting it in his arms bore
it to the opening at the rear, where Joe waited.
Between them they carried it to the shade of the wagons,
where they laid it on the grass.

As they did so Hannah Peniman stooped over it,
then uttered a sharp cry.

"Oh, *look*, look what has happened to him!" she gasped.

Joshua Peniman bent over the prostrate figure.
Protruding from the breast, with a great pool of blood
staining the shirt about it, was an arrow, buried well up
on its feathered shaft.

"*An arrow!*" whispered Hannah Peniman in accents of horror.

"*Indians!*" cried Joe, a creepy chill running down
his back.

The strange woman had run to the body and
precipitated herself upon it with agonized cries.

"Oh, Lee, Lee!" she shrieked.  "Oh, surely he
isn't dead!  Surely he would not leave us all alone!"

Joshua Peniman motioned to his wife, and with
gentle hands she raised the frail, delicate figure of the
young wife and bore it away to the other side of the
wagon.  Mr. Peniman stripped off the coat and laid
his hand, then his ear, over the heart of the prostrate
figure.

"He is not dead," he whispered, "his heart is
beating faintly.  Get me a pan of water, Joe, and the
spirits of ammonia.  Hurry, lad, a life may depend on
our efficiency now!"

When he had sponged the blood away he tried to
draw the arrow from the wound, but it was too deeply
imbedded.  His efforts only succeeded in starting a
terrific flow of blood, in the midst of which the
wounded man moaned and opened his eyes.

"Marian!" his lips shaped rather than spoke the
word.  Surmising that it must be the name of his
wife, Joshua Peniman sent Lige running to call her.
Then he bent over the wounded man, saying distinctly,
"Thee is with friends, friend.  Thy wife is safe, and
with my wife back of the wagons."

The wounded man rolled his eyes about, then
whispered tensely, "Nina!  Nina!"

Not knowing what he meant, the Quaker nodded
reassuringly.

"Indians?" he asked, pointing to the arrow.

The man slowly raised his hand and groped toward
the wound.  To the intense astonishment of both
father and sons he shook his head.  "Tell—Marian—watch
out—watch out for—for——" his head
dropped back, the blood gushed from his mouth, and
with a gurgling cry he sank back on the grass.

Joshua Peniman knelt beside him.

"Gone!" he said solemnly, reverently removing his hat.





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.. _`THE GRAVE IN THE DESERT`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   THE GRAVE IN THE DESERT

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As Joshua Peniman and his two older sons stood
looking down upon the dead man, the delicate-featured,
high-browed, thoughtful face of a
scholar, upon the hands, smooth, white, tapering, with
well-kept nails and soft palms, the body worn and thin
almost to emaciation, the waxen cheeks hollow and
sunken under the blue-rimmed eyes, a strange sense of
awe and wonder passed over them.

What was this man—this delicate, scholarly-appearing
individual with his soft hands and emaciated
body—doing in an emigrant wagon crossing the
trackless plains?

Who was the woman who was with him—that
young, beautiful, delicately-clad and delicately
nurtured woman, whose sobs and moans they could hear
from the other side of the wagon?

As these questions forced themselves through the
mind of Joshua Peniman the woman came rushing
around the end of the wagon and cast herself down
beside the body.

"Lee, Lee, Lee!" she shrieked.  "Oh, he is not
dead, he is not dead!  Surely God could not be so
cruel as to take him from me!  Oh, Lee, my husband,
my own, my only love!"

Her voice had risen into a high, wailing cry.
Suddenly from the rear end of the wagon from which they
had taken the dead man a head appeared.

To the startled eyes of the boys who first saw it it
seemed the most beautiful head and face they had ever
seen.

It was a small head, fine and delicate, set like a
flower on a little swan-like throat, and covered with
short curls of sunny gold.  Beneath the shining halo
of curls a face looked out, pitifully small and frightened,
with great terrified violet eyes, a quivering rose-bud
mouth, and a skin as fair and delicate as the petals
of a flower.

"Father—Mother!" cried a quivering, childish
voice, "oh, what is the matter? what has happened? what
are you crying so for, Mother?"  Then, as the
terrified violet eyes caught sight of the body, she leaped
to the ground and threw herself upon it with a cry that
Joe could never forget.

The children who had gathered about stood
transfixed, but Hannah Peniman moved swiftly to the
child and took her in her arms.

"Thy father has gone away, dear child," she
whispered in her soft, motherly voice.  "But thee must
be very brave for thy poor young mother's sake.
Thou must help her to bear it."

The child uttered a wild sob, then fled to her mother
and clasped her arms about her neck.

They clung to each other sobbing bitterly for a time.
The boys turned away, and Joe found a lump too big
to swallow choking his throat.

After a time Joshua Peniman bent to the woman tenderly.

"Was thy husband ill, my child?" he asked gently.

"Oh yes, yes, very ill," she answered between her
sobs.  "They told me he had tuberculosis.  He was a
writer.  You must have heard of him.  The doctors
sent us out West.  They told him to get a wagon and
spend the whole summer traveling across the plains.
We were on our way to Colorado for his health.  We
have been out three weeks, and he was better, oh, very,
very much better.  And then yesterday we were
driving along near a creek and some Indians set upon us——"

"Indians?" cried Joshua Peniman, remembering
that the dying man had answered his question with a
shake of the head.

"Yes, Indians—a whole band of them.  They
began shooting at us.  Nina and I happened to be
inside the wagon, but Lee—my poor Lee—was on the
driver's seat.  I don't know when he was hit.  I don't
know that he knew himself.  He shouted out to me to
hide, and to hide Nina, and I did, I hid her under the
blankets beneath the seat——"

"And you are sure it was Indians that attacked
you?" asked Joshua Peniman, while a cold hand of
terror clutched his wife's heart.

"Yes, I'm sure.  I saw them.  I heard them.  Oh,
they were horrible!  Lee never made a sound when
he was struck.  All at once I saw him reel and totter
on the seat, then he came tumbling backward, and I
saw the arrow in his breast.  I tried to pull it out, but
I couldn't, and it bled fearfully, so I stopped.  He was
conscious then, and said, 'Drive—hurry—wagon
ahead!'  I got up on the seat and whipped up the
horses and drove and drove as fast as I could make
them go.  The heat was terrible.  I thought I should
die.  But I saw your tracks, and at last I saw the
smoke of your fire and knew there was help at hand.
I thought I should kill the horses, but I didn't care, all
I could think of was help—help for my poor Lee!"

As she said the last words she uttered a long
wail, threw her arms above her head and plunged
forward over the dead body.

Joshua Peniman lifted her tenderly and bore her in
his arms to their own wagon.

All night they worked over her, with every remedy
at their command, but before the grey dawn of
morning they knew that she would join her husband
before many hours.

Heat, exhaustion, terror, the strain of agony and
fear, the shock to an already weakened and
overstrained heart, were more than nature could bear.

Shortly before daylight she opened her eyes and
looked up into the face of Hannah Peniman, who bent
above her.

"Who are you?" she asked faintly.  "Where do
you come from?"

"Our name is Peniman, Hannah and Joshua Peniman.
And these are our children.  We come from
the Muskingum Valley in Ohio."

"You are Quakers?"

"Yes.  My husband was a leader in the Society of
Friends."

"Then you are good—good and kind, I know," she
whispered brokenly.  Then clutching Hannah Peniman's
hand and fixing her beautiful, burning eyes upon
her face she hurried on: "My child—my little Nina—what
will become of her?  I am going—going to Lee—I
could not live without him.  Our name is Carroll.
My husband was Lee Carroll—a writer—and I am
Marian Carroll.  The little girl's name is Nina.  Will
you take her—will you take her with you to the
nearest Mission?  I know it is asking a good deal with
your big family—but you will do it—I know you will
do it—for my poor little orphaned child.  I will
explain to her—give her papers and addresses and
all—and they can send her home from there.  Our people
are all—all——"

She stopped, gasping and struggling for breath.
Joshua Peniman lifted her and held a heart stimulant
to her lips.  After an interval, when they feared all
was over, she again opened her eyes.  Mother love
was stronger than death.  "Send—her—to me," she
gasped—"I have not long—to—be—with—her."

They laid her back upon the bed, then sent the child
to her.

For some moments they heard the low murmur of
voices, the sobbing of the child.  Then when there had
been silence for some time Hannah Peniman quietly
parted the curtains of the wagon and looked in.

The young mother lay white and still, her beautiful
delicately carved face looking like sculptured marble in
the dim grey light of morning, the child with her arms
tight clasped about her neck, her cheek on the
fast-chilling cheek of her dead mother, sobbing by her
side.

Hannah Peniman took her in her arms and carried
her out of the wagon.  Apart from her own brood of
little ones she sat down, the little girl still in her arms,
and rocked and crooned to her, talking to her in
gentle, soothing tones, telling her of the great
happiness her young parents would feel in their reunion, in
that place where there is no more parting, no more
sickness or suffering or death.

When the sun had risen they buried the man and
woman side by side in a grave dug in the virgin soil
of the prairie.  Over it the sun rose, shining down
upon the two pitiful mounds of earth in the loneliness
of the desert land, and bringing out upon the two
wooden crosses at their head the inscription Joshua
Peniman had painted upon them, "Lee and Marian
Carroll.  Died July 20th, 1856.  Buried by Joshua
Peniman, emigrant, on way to Nebraska."

Below in smaller letters he had printed the cause
of the death.  That was all that he knew about them.

He had drawn the arrow from the breast of the
dead man before wrapping the still form in the blanket
that was its only coffin and shroud, and without
asking himself the reason why he preserved the arrow
carefully, putting it away in a chest under the seat of
his wagon.

The whole family gathered about the graves, while
the gentle Quaker said over them the simple, earnest
prayer of the Friends, then turned sadly toward the
wagons, which were ready to start again on their
westward journey.

As they turned away from the lonely graves the
child broke from them and with a wild cry ran back
and threw herself face downward upon them.

Ruth and Sara broke into loud sobbing, and even
the boys were obliged to turn aside.

Hannah Peniman went to the child and raised her.

"Come, little one," she said with tear-wet eyes,
"thee must come away.  Thy dear parents are not
there.  That is only the old garments they have laid
down to go to the new home that awaits them.  They
are together now, and will always be happy and well.
They are not far away.  They will watch over thee.
Their spirits will always be near thee.  Thou art
young, life will bring many joys to thee, of which thy
parents will be glad.  Come now, little girl, the sun
grows high, the day will be hot, and we must be on
our way."

As the child, sobbing bitterly and clinging to her,
turned toward the wagon that had belonged to her
parents, which was hitched on behind the one driven
by Joshua Peniman, Mrs. Peniman drew her away.

"Will thee ride in the big wagon with my little
girls?" she asked gently; "they would be very glad to
have thee."

The child raised her pretty head, looked at the Peniman
children with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes, then
slowly shook her head.

"I will ride with that boy," she said, pointing to
Joe, who, seated on the driver's seat of his own wagon,
was valiantly striving to appear manly and keep back
his tears.  He blushed up to the roots of his fair hair,
then leaped down from the seat and very tenderly
lifted the little stranger up on the seat of the wagon.

As the cavalcade started forward, now quite a
procession with the three teams and wagons, the cow
following behind, the collie dog leaping and barking
beside the wagons, the faces of all were turned backward
and their eyes rested on the lonely mounds on the
prairie as long as they were in sight.

The little girl, sitting beside Joe on the high seat
with her trimly-dressed little feet swinging far above
the wagon-bed, kept her head buried in her arms, and
sobbed as if her heart would break.  Gentle-hearted
Ruth cried with her, Lige beat a hasty retreat to the
back of the wagon, while tender-hearted Sam slipped
a sympathetic freckled hand into hers and wept
openly as he smoothed and patted it.

Joe could do nothing but sit soddenly, with a lump
in his throat so big that he could neither speak nor
swallow.  But his eyes had in them all the sympathy
that his lips could not speak, and when the little girl
at last looked up it was straight into those bright,
wistful, moist grey eyes, after which she snuggled up
against him and laid her head against his arm.





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.. _`PRINCESS`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   PRINCESS

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As the wagons creaked slowly along over the
burning, dusty prairies the little stranger cried
more quietly, while the children stared at her
with growing interest and wonder.

They had never seen any one quite like her before.

Living as they had in the quiet Friends settlement
on their farm in Ohio, they had seen but little of the
outside world, and that little had contained nobody in
the least like this fairy-like creature, with her dainty
clothing, her delicate features and coloring and her
sunny golden hair.

"Say," whispered Sam, who was a great devourer
of juvenile literature; "she looks just exactly like the
fairy princesses you read about in story-books, don't
she?  Look at her little feet, and her little teenty white
hands, and how her hair curls, and how little and
white her neck is!"

Lige looked and nodded.  "An' look at her clothes,
too!  City folks' clothes.  Wonder why her mother
let her wear clothes like that in the wagon?  Our
mother wouldn't let Sara and Ruth."

"You bet she wouldn't.  She makes 'em wear calico aprons."

They glanced again at the little figure on the seat
in front of them; at the dainty white dress, the little
lace-trimmed petticoat that showed below its edge, the
white stockings, the dainty little kid slippers, and then
at each other and their own rough clothes and rough
red hands.

"Makes you feel kind of like a tramp, don't it?"
muttered Lige, and privately resolved to get out his
second-best suit and put it on in the morning.

Joe meanwhile was casting sympathetic glances at
the little figure beside him, and trying hard to think of
something to say or do to comfort her.  The sight of
a meadow-lark flying up from a little bunch of grass
near by gave him an opening.

"Bet there's a nest and some eggs in that bunch of
grass," he remarked nonchalantly, and was rewarded
by seeing the big violet eyes come up from the little
monogramed handkerchief, and the golden head raised
to see.

"Where?" she asked, with a child's readily aroused
interest.

Joe was enchanted.

"Right over there," he explained, pointing with the
whip.  "Want to see if there ain't?"  He stopped
the horses and all the children sprang out and ran to
the patch of grass.

Sam reached it first, and made emphatic signs to the
others to come quietly.  When they had all crept up
they found a nest indeed, but better than eggs in it,
for there were four big-headed, wide-mouthed speckled
little birds, that, when they felt the stir in the grass
near them, stretched up their skinny necks and peeped
industriously.

The boys laughed, and even Nina managed a little
smile.  When they went back to the wagon she was
not crying, and her three anxious escorts exerted
themselves to their utmost to keep her busy and interested
for the remainder of the day.

After a time Sara and Paul joined them, and
Mr. and Mrs. Peniman, riding in the other wagon with
the younger children, were pleased and glad to hear as
the day progressed that the voice of the little stranger
joined in their talk and laughter.

"What shall we do with her, Hannah?" asked
Joshua Peniman anxiously.  "Somehow it weighs
heavily upon my heart to think of leaving this little
orphaned child among strangers at a Mission.  I
presume they would be kind to her, and perhaps would
exert themselves to get her home to her own people,
but——"

The sigh with which the sentence ended found an
echo in Hannah Peniman's heart.  She had been
thinking of the matter all day, wondering in what
direction lay their duty.

"I agree with thee, Joshua," she answered.  "A
Mission is no place for a little girl like her.  She bears
every evidence of delicate and tender rearing, and
gives promise of great beauty.  She is thirteen years
old now, her mother told me, and in a very few years
will grow into a beautiful young maiden."

For many miles the couple drove along in silence, the
voices from the other wagon coming frequently to
their ears.  After long and earnest thought Hannah
Peniman spoke:

"Joshua," she said, "my heart cannot forget that
the hand of the Lord was laid upon us, too, in crossing
these prairies.  There is always before me the picture
of that tiny mound we left behind us in this great
trackless desert when our own little girl was taken
from us.  Perhaps God has intended to comfort us by
sending to us this other child, whose sorrow has
linked her to us.  Somehow I cannot find it in my
heart to abandon her to such care as she would find
at a Mission."

Joshua Peniman turned to her, love and approval
beaming in his eyes.

"Spoken like the true woman thee is, Hannah," he
said, clasping her hand.  "But I would not that an
added burden should be laid upon thee.  Thou hast
many little ones to attend to, and this stranger
child——"

"—Would not make me any more care, dear.  She
can run wild with Ruth and Sara out there on the
plains, and I believe that our boys are kind and
chivalrous enough to take care of her."

"But her clothes, Hannah?  With eight children of
our own to keep covered——"

"One more would not matter.  Beside, the child
is thirteen years old, and should learn to sew.  Soon
she will be able to attend to her own clothes.
And"—with a little smile that had in it a tinge of
pain,—"I imagine few clothes will suffice in the
country to which we are going."

"But the cooking——"

"She would be a help to Ruth and Sara in their
share of the work.  And as for the food she will
eat——"

"We must not think of that," cried Joshua
Peniman hastily.  "The Providence which threw her into
our hands will see to it that we are able to feed her.
When we reach another town of size I will write to the
relatives of which her mother spoke.  Until that
time——"

"—Until that time," interrupted Mrs. Peniman, with
her motherly smile, "she shall be even as our own,
and we will care for her as her poor young parents
would have wished her to be cared for."

"God bless thee for a good and noble woman, Hannah,"
said her husband; and so the fate of the little
stranger was decided.

Meanwhile as the wagons jogged on through the
long, hot, silent afternoon the children grew better
acquainted, and presently began to talk of themselves and
one another.

"How long have you been on the way, Princess?"
asked the irrepressible Sam.  "We been out eight
weeks now."

The little stranger looked up at him quickly.

"My name isn't 'Princess,' it's Nina," she said.

"But you look just like a princess—like the princess
in the fairy stories, don't you know?"

Nina, who had been an indefatigable reader of fairy
tales herself, recognized the compliment.

"Aw, no I don't, either!" she ejaculated scornfully.
"The princesses in fairy stories are always beautiful."

"So're you," urged the gallant Sam.  "You do,
too, look like a princess, don't she, Joe?"

Joe glanced up shyly.  "I've never seen a princess,"
he admitted, "but I *think* you do.  I think you are
beautiful.  You are the most beautiful person I have
ever seen."

Long years after, when time and fate had wrought
many changes in their lives, Joe remembered the speech
and thought no differently.

The little girl blushed and hung her head.

"You're a silly boy," she told him.  "I don't look
a bit like a princess.  What makes you boys say such
foolish things?"

Joe seldom said anything that he had not thought
out pretty thoroughly, and he now puckered his
forehead and searched for the reason in his mind that made
this little girl seem different from any other he had ever
seen.

"I guess," he began thoughtfully, "it's 'cause you're
kind of different.  You see we've always lived on the
farm, and the folks we knew were just plain Friends,
who didn't think much about dress or looks, just work
and service, you know.  But you—well—I dunno, I
don't know how to say it—but you look like—like
something out of the sky, or the air, or a book or
something.  Not like us—like you were meant for work
and service, but kind o' like the birds and flowers an'
the pretty things of life.  I guess that's what Sam
means when he says you look like a princess."

"W-ell, partly," admitted Sam.  "Anyhow I'm
going to call you 'Princess.'"

"I don't care what you call me," cried the little girl,
with a smile that brought little sparkles into her eyes
and made a dimple play hide-and-seek in either
rose-hued cheek.  Then turning again to Joe, "You're
Quakers, aren't you?"

"Yes," he replied, "all our people have been Friends
for generations back.  Father was the founder of a
sect where we lived."

"But you boys don't talk like Quakers!"

"No, we don't use the plain language any more.
You see we have been at school with other boys who
didn't use it, so we got out of the way.  Father doesn't
use it to people of the world, either; we only use it at
home.  We've always lived in Ohio.  Where did you
used to live?"

The sadness which the conversation of the last few
minutes had driven from the face of the little
"Princess" returned.

"We really lived in New York," she said.  "But
we traveled about so much I don't know just where
our home really was.  You see Papa was a writer—wrote
books, you know, and he had to travel about a
lot, and Mama and I always went with him.  She
could never bear to be away from him, and they always
took me.  We lived in France and Italy and Germany
and Russia, and it was awful cold there in Russia, and
Papa took sick.  He was awfully sick, we thought he
was going to die.  The doctors sent us back to
America, and we came out West for his health.  We got a
wagon and team in Chicago and were on our way to
Colorado.  He was better—lots and lots better, and he
might have got well, but then—then——"  Her voice
broke and the tears welled up into her eyes.

"Oh," broke in Lige, who could not bear to see the
clouds obscure the sunshine of the past few minutes,
"you ought to see what we've been through!  I tell
you we've had adventures!  We came all the way
from Ohio in these wagons, and I tell you what we've
had some lively times!"

"What kind of adventures?" queried the Princess,
the natural curiosity of a child aroused by these
allusions to incidents of a thrilling nature.

"O Jerusalem, all kinds of 'em!" cried the delighted
Lige, fairly swelling with importance.  "We got into
a flood an' nearly lost our wagon, and coyotes got after
the horses, and little David got lost an' fell into the
river, an'—an'—oh, all kinds of things!"

"Tell me about them," demanded the Princess, who
dearly loved a story.

Lige looked at Joe.  He was a handsome boy, who
was fond of occupying the centre of the stage, but he
knew that his brother could do greater justice to the
thrilling adventures they had been through than he
could.

"You tell her, Joe," he said.  And as Joe pulled the
horses into a smoother place in the road and threw one
leg over the other, the little Princess settled down
beside him, her chin in her hand, her great violet eyes
fastened upon his face, as he proceeded to tell their
story.

.. _`The little Princess settled down beside him, her chin in her hand`:

.. figure:: images/img-026.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: The little Princess settled down beside him, her chin in her hand.

   The little Princess settled down beside him, her chin in her hand.

That the reader may know as much about the Peniman
family and their great adventure of crossing the
plains as did the little Princess, we will leave the
wagons lumbering slowly along over the baking plains
and return to the Muskingum Valley in Ohio from
whence they made their start.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LEAVING THE OLD HOME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   LEAVING THE OLD HOME

.. vspace:: 2

It was on the morning of May 15, 1856, that
Joe Peniman awoke as the first grey streaks of
morning were coming in the sky.  In the yard
beneath his window he could hear the sound of voices,
footsteps going to and fro.  Inside there was the
sound of bumping and thumping of furniture, of much
talking, the hurried noises of preparation for some
great event.

He started up and glanced at the window.  Day was
coming!  *The Day*!  The day he had been dreaming
of and hoping for and longing for for months!

He leaped out of bed with a shrill yip of joy and
pulled the bedclothes off his slumbering brother.

"Hi, Lige," he shouted, "wake up!  It's to-morrow—I
mean it's to-day—it's *The Day* at last!"

Lige raised a sleepy face from the pillows, blinked
once or twice, rubbed his nose, then sat up with a jerk.

"Jerusalem, is it *morning*?" he ejaculated.  "Why,
I never slept a wink all night.  Couldn't, I was too
excited.  Oh, golly, this is to-morrow, isn't it?  No, it's
*to-day* now—and we're going to start right after
breakfast!  Ki-yi, *ain't I glad*!"

He did an extemporaneous war-dance around the
room, then brought up beside the bed where Joe was
hastily getting into the new gingham shirt, the dark
suit, and strong copper-toed shoes that had been laid
out upon it.

Outside in the yard they could hear the sound of
talking, of men going to and fro.  There was the
sound of rumbling wheels, the regular strokes of a
hammer, and many directions given in the mild but
decisive voice of their father.

It was very early still.  In the shadows it was still
dark, and over the whole earth there lay that hush, that
sense of mystery and silence that comes with the early
dawn.  The sky above the east pasture showed faint
streaks of pink and mauve, and the fragrance of the
apple and peach and plum and cherry blossoms in the
old orchard came up to them, mingled with the scent of
wet grass and clover, the lowing of the cows in the
pasture, the crowing of the roosters in the barnyard.
It was with something like a pang that Joe recognized
the shrill and strident voice of little Dicky, his favorite
bantam rooster.

Under the old elm-trees two heavy new wagons were
drawn up, and their father, mounted on the dash-board
of one of them was fastening in place the white canvas
cover, stretching it taut over strong ash bows that were
bent from side to side of the wagon.

A thrill passed through the hearts of the boys as they
leaned half-dressed out of the window.

The *Prairie Schooners*!

The romantic craft in which they were to embark
that day on the most wonderful adventures of their
lives!

They had talked of and dreamed about and anticipated
the coming of this day for many months.  Now
it seemed almost too good to be true that it was really
here at last.

It seemed to the boys as they hung out of the
window that the yard was full of men, and that they all
seemed in a great hurry and bustle of preparation,
going to and fro between the barn and the house and
the wagons carrying boxes and bundles and bedding
and furniture and stowing it away in the wagons
beneath the canvas covers.

They recognized their Uncle Jonathan among them,
and sent forth a loud and triumphant hail to their
Cousin Fred, who was standing about wistfully watching
the loading of the wagons.  Bill Hale, the "hired
man," was there, and Uncle Charles, and Friend
Robinson, and neighbor Hines, and many more.  A queer
sort of a sinking sensation seized the pit of Joe's
stomach as he saw Friend Robinson carry out his
mother's old rocking-chair and the baby's cradle and
put them into the wagon.

Through the trees across the creek he could see the
red roof of his grandmother's house, the old Quaker
homestead where his mother was born and had grown
to womanhood, and nearer the woods and stream and
lanes where his brothers and sisters and himself had
played all their lives.

In the tree outside the window he caught a glimpse
of the robin that had nested in that same crotch of a
branch for five summers.  She was sitting now.  The
young birds would be out in a few days.  Joe turned
his eyes hastily away from the bright glance of the
little mother as she peered up at him.

"Come, boys—come, Joseph, will thee stand staring
out of that window all day?" a voice cried behind him,
and he withdrew his head quickly and turned around to
see his mother standing in the doorway.  She was all
dressed and ready for the journey, in a dark grey
worsted dress with a white collar, her brown hair neat
and shining, her face a little pale, and her sweet blue
eyes reddened by recent tears.

"Come, come, boys, thee must hurry," she cried.
"Thy father has been afoot for an hour or more, and
breakfast is nearly ready.  Elijah, did thee put on the
new stockings I laid out for thee?  Tie thy necktie
neatly, Joseph.  And hurry, now, the day that thee has
been looking forward to so long has come at last, and
thee must begin right now to be brave young pioneers."

Her voice quivered a little but she smiled at them
bravely, then hurried away.

Out under the elm-trees the boys found preparations
for the journey rapidly approaching completion.  The
great white canvas covers of the wagons were now in
place, making a domed shelter for the interior of the
wagons, and most of the household goods that the
family were going to take with them to their far
western home had already been stowed away inside.

As Joe stood watching these preparations something
of the finality of the change was borne in upon him.
Up to this moment he had thought of nothing but the
wonderful journey across the plains, the romance, the
adventure, the strange, novel, and interesting things
he would see and do along the way.  Now it suddenly
came over him that he was leaving his childhood home
forever.

He thought of the boys, the playmates of his whole
life, whom he was leaving behind; of the swimming-hole
down under the willows; the nest of young kittens
under the barn; the sunfish and croppies in the stream.
He thought of his playmates at old-fashioned "round
ball," and wondered, with just the suggestion of a
pang, who would play in his place this summer.

Just below the house the creek murmured musically
over its pebbly bottom, and near it was the old
willow-tree in which he could see the platform of their
playhouse—all that was left of it—most of it having been
torn down and the lumber used for crating furniture
and covering boxes.

His thoughts were beginning to grow a bit sombre
when a call to breakfast interrupted them.  He
hurried into the big sunny kitchen, in which he had eaten
his breakfast every morning of his life.

It did not look natural this morning.  An extemporaneous
table had been arranged of planks set on sawhorses,
and upon it was spread the breakfast, with odds
and ends of dishes and crockery that were to be left
behind.  About this board the family was gathered,
while the kitchen was filled with relatives, neighbors,
and friends.

Mrs. Peniman's mother, Mrs. Jennings, sat at the
head of the table, with little David in her lap, and her
noble placid face looked withered, wan and pale, as if
she had not slept for many nights.  Mrs. Peniman sat
beside her with baby Abigail on her knee, and Joe
noticed with a queer constriction in his breast that her
face was very pale and her white lips pressed together
as if to keep them from trembling.  Aunt Sue stood
behind her, her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, and
Aunt Jenny, his mother's youngest sister, sat on the
floor at her feet, her face hidden in baby Abigail's
dress, crying as if her heart would break.

Back of them against the wall Uncle Charles and
Uncle Henry were biting their lips and surreptitiously
blowing their noses, and Uncle Jonathan and Uncle
Benjamin, while pretending to be very busy passing
around trays of coffee, occasionally found time in a
corner to mop their eyes with their handkerchiefs.
Old friends and neighbors whom he had known all his
life stood about the room looking grave and sober,
while there were tears in all the women's eyes.

Joe and Elijah stood in the doorway, loath to go in,
but their father beckoned them to him.  He was a tall,
thin man, with a broad brow upon which waved thick
dark hair just tinged with grey.  His eyes were dark,
with a keen yet very gentle expression, and the almost
womanish beauty of his mouth and the square masculinity
of his chin were lost in a heavy dark-brown beard
which grew high on his cheeks and was trimmed square
below the points of his collar.

The boys noticed as they came to him that his eyes
were red, and the hand that he laid on Joe's shoulder
trembled slightly.

When the breakfast was over and the last
preparations being made on the wagons Friend Robinson
turned to Mr. Peniman with a heavy sigh.  "I tell
thee it is a pretty serious business, friend Joshua, to
break up a home like this and go away into the wilderness
with a family like thine.  I don't blame Hannah
for feeling sad about it."

"*Blame* her?" cried Joshua Peniman.  "Who could
blame her?  She is the bravest woman in the world.
Many women would be prostrated at leaving the home
in which they were born and had lived all their lives,
their mother, sisters, brothers and all the friends of a
lifetime to go away into a wild and unknown country
to encounter the dangers and hardships of the life of a
pioneer.  But she has been our inspiration, she
has given courage to us all."  After a moment he
cleared his throat and went on huskily, "I don't know
that any of us particularly enjoy the prospect before us."

"Why does thee persist in going then, Joshua?"
broke in his brother Henry.  "There is time even yet
to reconsider thy decision.  It is a great undertaking,
a great responsibility thou art laying on thyself.
Think of Hannah—think of the children—think of the
dangers and the hardships and privations that thee and
thine will have to undergo in that desert country——"

"I have thought of nothing else for months, Henry,"
replied Joshua Peniman solemnly.  "I cannot tell thee
the struggle I have been through.  I fully realize what
this breaking up of her lifelong home must mean to
Hannah.  I know what it will mean to the children—and,"
with a sudden twitching of his gentle face,
"what it will mean to myself.  But I feel that it must
be done.  It is a duty we owe our little family.  It is a
duty I owe to my religion and my God.  Thee knows
the condition of the country, Henry.  Thee knows
that war is inevitable between the North and South.
It will be a terrible war, a war of brother against
brother, father against son, neighbor against neighbor;
one kindred pitted against another.  Thee knows our
faith, our principles.  Could I stay here with my five
sons and have them brought up to human slaughter?
Could I stay here and have them sent forth to shoot
down their fellow-men?"

"But that is all nonsense, Joshua, thy boys are but
children yet."

"Joe is almost sixteen.  In five years he will be
twenty-one.  Tell me, brothers, at the rate things are
going in this country now how will things stand
between the North and South in five years?"

"Well," put in Bill Hale, "there ain't no signs of
war *yit*; the trouble between the North and South
hain't got no further than shootin' off their mouths, an'
so long's they confine themselves to that kind of
warfare I reckon you an' th' boys would be middlin' safe
here."

"It isn't a question of safety," retorted Joshua
Peniman with as near to a flash of anger in his eyes as Joe
had ever seen.  "It is a question of *principle*.
Suppose this country does get into war and there should
be a draft.  My boys are Quakers.  How could they
go?  And how could they avoid going if they were
drafted?  Even should there be no real fighting for
years to come still those boys would be brought up in
an atmosphere of rancor, hostility, and controversy.
Hannah and I do not want our children to grow up
with hatred in their hearts.  We want them to grow
up in love and brotherly kindness to all men."

"But thee could keep the children out of it all,
Joshua," put in Uncle Charles.  "Here on the farm
they would not come in touch with the political
controversy to any great extent, and both thee and thy boys
could keep thyselves entirely aloof from the trouble."

Joshua Peniman shook his head.  "No, brother
Charles, thee knows that that would not be possible.
Thy affectionate heart is speaking now, not thy reason.
Thee knows how I stand on this matter of slavery.
Thee knows that already I have embroiled myself, have
made many and bitter enemies for myself by my
connection with the underground railway.  I *have* run off
runaway slaves, and I will run them off again every
chance I get; for I believe it to be a wicked and
iniquitous business.  No man has a right to own and
control another human being.  I am a man of peace,
who loves my fellow-man, and yet"—he paused and
turned his eyes upon Joe, who crimsoned under the
scrutiny,—"no longer ago than yesterday I found my
oldest son, an offshoot of good old Quaker stock,
drilling a company of boys in the manoeuvres of war."

"I didn't mean any harm, Father," burst forth Joe,
"thee knows that I would not hurt any one!  It is
only that it is fun to drill.  I love to march and
counter-march my men about."

His father nodded.  "I know, my son.  And therein
lies the danger.  Thou art breathing in the spirit of
warfare with the very air.  I do not blame thee, lad;
how could it be otherwise?  The minds of men are full
of it.  The papers are full of it, and people talk of
little else.  I tell thee, friends, war is inevitable, and I
will not have my young lads filled with the spirit of it.
Hannah thinks as I do, and long before the red carnival
of blood-lust is let loose in the land we will be far
away, out on the clean, wholesome prairies, where our
boys and girls can grow up to noble man and womanhood
untouched and untainted by the unholy slaughter."

"But thee should think of the material prosperity of
thy children as well as their spiritual good, brother
Joshua," argued Charles.  "Thee knows that out there
in that untrodden wilderness they will have little or no
opportunity for education——"

"We are thinking of their material prosperity.
What chance in life would our nine children have
here?  I would be a poor man all my life, and could
do nothing to establish a future for them.  With a
big family like ours we need room, more opportunity
for development, and that we will find in the new
country.  If we go west now, while the children and
the country are both young they will have great
opportunities.  I will take up a homestead and make them a
good home, and as the boys grow old enough they
can take up timber-claims and homesteads so that
by the time they reach manhood they will each have a
valuable property, a good start in life, and a chance to
make of themselves whatever they see fit."

"Yes, but their education——" urged Charles,
whose heart was sore at the thought of seeing his
brother and his young family set forth for that strange,
far land, and hoped even now at the last moment to
turn him from the purpose.

"That does not trouble us, Charles.  Thee knows
that I was once a teacher in a college, and that Hannah
has also had a good education.  There is nothing to
prevent us from conducting a little school of our
own for our children until such time as there will be
good schools in that growing country for them to attend."

"But what good'll schoolin' do 'em if they was all
to get skulped by them bloody Injuns out there?" put
in Bill Hale.  "My wife's sister-in-law's cousin went
out west onct, an' he never come back.  The Injuns
got him.  Like's not they made soup of him.  But I'm
bound to say that if he was anything like the rest of
that family he'd 'a' made dern poor soup, even fer a
cannibal."

Joshua Peniman did not join in the general laugh
that followed Bill's remark.  He glanced uneasily at
his watch, then at the house.

"Call thy mother, Joe," he said; "it is growing late,
the sun is up, and we should be on our way.  Ah, here
they come now!"

As he spoke Mrs. Peniman came down the steps, the
baby in her arms, leading little David by the hand.
Her sister Jenny followed with Mary, and Ruth and
Sara walked on either side of their grandmother, their
hands in hers, while Sam and Paul, with red noses and
watery eyes, followed.

The powerful bay team, Jim and Charley, hitched to
the big wagon, were prancing and fidgeting, and the
sorrel team, Kit and Billy, hitched to the lighter
wagon, which it had been decided that Joe should
drive, were harnessed and ready, when Bill Hale
came racing from the house waving a bundle in his hand.

"What's the matter?" cried Joe, checking them up.
"We must have left something behind!"

"Couldn't have forgotten the baby, could we?"
queried Sam.

By this time Bill Hale had reached them, carrying a
large bundle tied up in a napkin in one hand, and in
the other swinging a pair of squawking chickens by the
legs.

"Ye 'most missed it, I tell ye," he grinned.  "Ol'
Mis' Perkins brought ye over some things t' take on
your journey, an' she never got here until jist now.
I've et Ma Perkins' pies an' things an' I couldn't abear
fer ye to miss 'em."

He handed the package tied up in the napkin to Mr. Peniman.

"Mis' Perkins 'lowed she wanted to send some
chicken along fer yer lunch," he went on, looking down
at the squawking fowls in his hand, "but hearin' that
the Friends had cooked up s' much fer ye she figgered
she hadn't better cook hern, but send 'em along on th'
hoof like, so's ye could have 'em any time ye liked."

The children all laughed, and even Mr. Peniman
smiled.

"That was very kind of Friend Perkins," he said.
"Thank her for us, won't you, Bill?  But I declare I
don't see how we are going to take those live chickens!
We've got about all the live stock we can handle now."

"Oh, we must take them, Joshua," said Mrs. Peniman.
"It would never do to send them back when she
was so kind.  We can manage to take care of them
somehow."

"I've got a box in my wagon that hasn't much in it,
Father," said Joe; "we could turn the things out and
put them in that."

"You can kill and eat them any time they get to be
a bother, you know," said Uncle Charles, who stood by.

Ruth, who loved every living creature, and who
would have fed and mothered any number of pets,
protested loudly.

"Oh, we will *not* kill them, Uncle Charles!" she
cried.  "Look at them, Father, aren't they perfect
darlings?  Let's take them along for pets, Father, I'll
take care of them!"

By this time Joe and Lige had cleared the box of its
contents, and with Bill Hale's help soon had the struggling
fowls shut up in it, with slats nailed up in front
to keep them in.

"Oh, aren't they *lovely* chickies?" cooed Ruth, who
had jumped out of the wagon to watch the operation.
"We'll call this one Dicky, and this one Mother
Feathertop, to always remind us of our old Mother
Feathertop at home."

"All right; ready there?" called Mr. Peniman.

Cherry, the red cow, that was tied behind the big
wagon, looked back and gave a mournful bellow, as if
she knew that she was leaving her old home forever;
Spotty, the collie dog, leaped forward with a bark, and
the children scrambled to their places in the wagons.

Joe never liked to remember the few moments that
followed, as relatives, friends, neighbors, chums, and
playmates of a lifetime crowded close about the
wagons to bid them good-bye.  There were sobs and
tears, close embraces, choked words of love and
farewell; hands were shaken, tears shed, husky good-byes
spoken.  But it was soon over.

The boys sprang to their places, the reins were
gathered up, the word of command spoken, and the prairie
schooners drove slowly out of the farmyard, en route
for the Golden West.





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.. _`WESTWARD HO!`:

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   CHAPTER V


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   WESTWARD HO!

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The road over which the Peniman family set
forth led through southern and eastern Ohio,
where the roads were good, shade and water
abundant, and where pretty towns and villages lined
the way, so that their larder was always plentifully
supplied with fresh meat, fruits, and vegetables.

The wagons in which they were to make their long
overland journey to the new territory of Nebraska had
been carefully prepared for the comfort of the travelers,
and the first part of the trip was like nothing so
much as a prolonged family picnic.  Their night camp
was made in beautiful woods beside murmuring
streams, and if bad weather came a town or village
was always within easy reach, where the wagons could
be put in a stable and the family repair to a hotel until
the storm was over.

On their seventh day out they reached Columbus,
and during the week that followed traveled across the
western part of Ohio and crossed into Indiana, where
they made a stop of a few days with old Quaker
friends.

Their progress was necessarily slow, averaging not
more than fifteen to twenty miles a day.  On June
seventh they arrived in Indianapolis, then but a small and
inconsequential town, where they made a stop of a few
hours to lay in a fresh suppy of meat, fresh fruits,
bread, butter, and vegetables, then struck into the main
road leading north and west to Crawfordsville, where
they stopped long enough to buy a doll for little Mary,
a tin trumpet for David, and ice-cream for the rest of
the family.

This part of the journey, while pleasant and interesting,
was uneventful, and though the boys enjoyed it,
much as they would have enjoyed a prolonged picnic,
they were looking eagerly forward to the adventures
which lay in the wild and untrodden land beyond the
Missouri River.

On June fourteenth they arrived at the beautiful
Wabash River, and made their camp upon its banks for
the night, where the whole family had a refreshing
bath in its sparkling waters.

Up to this time the weather had been fine, the roads
excellent, and the traveling pleasant.  But the day they
began their journey across the State of Illinois the
weather changed and a heavy rain set in which
materially interfered with both their comfort and their
progress.

At first the children found it rather fun sitting snug
and dry under their canvas roof while the rain
pattered down upon it.  But when day followed day and
the rain continued to fall, when they had to make camp
at night in wet groves with a fire that would not burn
and clothes and shoes that were never dry, it was not
quite so pleasant.

Betrayed into neglecting his canvas covers by the
long dry spell Mr. Peniman now found that they had
shrunken from the sun and were beginning to leak,
and the family woke morning after morning to find the
rain spraying down into their faces, and to crawl out
of damp beds to find the ground a mush of wet grass
and mud, and no dry wood obtainable with which to
start their fire.

There was no running before or behind the wagons
these days, no playing in the fields, picking wild-flowers
or frolicking on the road as the white-topped
wagons crawled along; all day long while the horses
plodded monotonously along through puddles of water
or mud that went over their fetlocks and ruts that let
the wagons down almost to the hubs of the wheels,
they sat tired, bored, and hoping for fair weather and
sunshine.

On the fourth day of the rain, when the wagons had
become so damp that they were decidedly uncomfortable,
they came to a house toward evening, and
Mr. Peniman alighted to ask if the people who lived in it
would give them shelter for the night.  They found
both husband and wife down with the ague, and little
cheer or comfort in the neglected house, but were glad
to accept the shelter of its roof and the chance to dry
their clothes by the fire.  When they were starting on
in the morning Mr. Peniman tried to buy some hay and
grain from the owner of the place, whose name was
Grigsby, but he refused to sell.

"Nope," he said, drooping listlessly against the
door-post with a shawl over his shoulders, "I cain't
sell you no grain nor hay.  Had th' shakes so bad this
spring I hain't got to do much farmin', and I hain't got
hardly enough to feed my stock."  Then, as a shrill
squeal pierced the air his eyes brightened and an idea
seemed to strike him.  "But I tell you what I will do,"
he drawled, "I'll sell you two of the nicest little suckin'
pigs you ever see.  Their mother up an' died of the
cholery a few nights ago, and they ain't old enough to
eat yit.  Me an' the old woman, havin' th' shakes so,
cain't bother to feed 'em, so I'll let you have the pair
of 'em for two dollars.  Goin' off in th' wilderness like
you be they might come in handy."

He shuffled off to the barn, and soon returned
carrying a basket in which were two tiny pigs only a few
days old.  With a grin he drew from his pocket a
nursing-bottle filled with warm milk and held it to the
little white pig's mouth.  It took hold like an old hand
at the business, and the children shouted with glee
while the little spotted brother squealed shrilly with
envy.

When the nursing-bottle had been refilled Ruth
demanded the privilege of feeding the protesting young
porker, and sitting down in the straw took the little
pig in her lap and fed it so dexterously that her
brothers yelled with delight.

Of course that settled it.

With one accord the children demanded the possession
of the two little pigs, and with a long-headed
thought for the possible needs of the future Mr. Peniman
agreed, and the listless Grigsby filled a box with
straw and packed the little fellows cosily into it.

"What shall we name them, Father?" cried Ruth,
hanging lovingly over them.  "They are such darlings
they ought to have real lovely names."

"Call them Romeo and Juliet," said Mr. Peniman,
with a twinkle in his eyes.

In talking with the Grigsbys Mr. Peniman had
learned that they had chosen a bad road, and were
traveling through a poor and swampy part of Illinois,
where the roads were all bad and chills and fever
prevalent, and by their advice had left the road over which
they came and striking north and west came out upon
a much better road, that in the course of a few days'
traveling brought them to the Sangamon River, and a
few days later to Decatur.  Here they remained a few
days to dry out their clothes and wagons and renew
their supply of provisions, being regaled at supper that
night with sweet corn and watermelons.

It was now July first, and very hot weather.  The
travelers were burned and tanned as brown as Indians,
and were beginning to feel like real pioneers.  They
drove into Springfield, the capital of the State, on the
evening of the third of July, and Joshua Peniman
suggested to his wife that the wagons be put up in a livery
stable and the whole family go to a hotel, where they
could all have a good tub bath, a night's rest in a real
bed, and a few meals at a real table.

"We are going far away into the wilderness," he
said, "and it may be years before our children will
have a chance to see a Fourth of July celebration again.
I believe that all young Americans should love and
honor that day.  I think we had better stay over
to-morrow in Springfield, let the little ones have a good
time, and take the boys to see the celebration we see
advertised, while thee has a good rest at a hotel."

When told of this plan the young Penimans were
delighted.  The novelty of traveling in the wagons had
begun to pall a trifle, and the thought of a day in a city,
a night at a hotel, and the exciting events promised by
the great posters that lined the roads, gave them great
pleasure.

It turned out to be a great day for them.  They
started out immediately after breakfast, and
firecrackers, torpedoes, flags, and rockets were purchased
at the first store they came to, and in the intervals of
other excitement the boys revelled in pops and bangs
and explosions, while the girls exploded their torpedoes
on the sidewalks, and they all marched gaily to the
music of many bands.

There was a great parade in the forenoon, in which
the Whigs and Democrats vied with each other in the
exhibition of floats, bands, and flower-decked carriages.
Long columns of men of both parties marched and
shouted, bearing transparencies extolling the virtues of
their particular candidates.  The Buchanan men wore
white coats and caps, and carried huge portraits of
their candidate.

There was to be a great political rally at the park in
the afternoon, and after dinner the boys and their
father followed the crowd to the pretty shaded
inclosure, where a great pavilion had been erected,
gorgeously decorated with flags and bunting.

The place was already crowded when they arrived,
but they pushed their way through the throng and
succeeded in getting seats on a long bench before the
speakers' stand.

It seemed a little thing that they should be so placed
that Joe should be able to look directly into the
speaker's face and hear his every word, but upon such
trifling things the whole course of a life sometimes
depends.

Bands played, a great chorus upon the platform
stood up and sang "America," and then a stir and
flutter passed through the crowd as a party of
gentlemen in frock coats with tall "chimney-pot" hats,
made their way to the platform, where they were
greeted with great bursts of applause.

The Peniman boys had never heard a public speech
in their lives.  Partly owing to the fact that their
father was a Quaker and avoided discussion of the
question that was beginning to seethe and burn through
the length and breadth of the land, partly because
of the remote and quiet farm from which they had
come, they had heard little of the agitation of the
times.

Politics were at a white heat throughout the country.
The pro-slavery and anti-slavery parties were each
using every artifice in their power to elect their
candidates.  Arguments, discussions, public speeches and
inflammatory meetings were taking place in every part
of the United States, and the fire that later burst into
so fierce a conflagration was beginning to smoulder
hotly beneath the surface.

There was something in the very air of that meeting
that breathed tension, excitement.  And Joshua Peniman
felt a cold chill smite his heart, as sitting with his
young sons he listened to the conversation that went on
about him.  Joe, too, felt the electric atmosphere.  His
eyes brightened and his color rose.  When a dapper
little gentleman with a massive head and a keen, ruddy
face mounted the platform and began to speak he
leaned forward eagerly.

He liked the speech.  The cultured voice, the smooth
periods, the forceful gestures of the man fascinated
him.  Yet he found his mind continually protesting
against the statements he made.  The boy knew
nothing of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill, the Wilmot Proviso,
or the Missouri Compromise, but as the speaker
proceeded he found himself arguing passionately against
him in his own mind.  When the speaker sat down,
amid terrific applause, Joe turned to his father.

"Who is he, Father?" he asked in a whisper.

"His name is Douglas—Stephen A. Douglas.  He
is a United States Senator from Illinois," replied Mr. Peniman.

"He's a great speaker," whispered Joe thoughtfully;
then half-hesitatingly, as if trying to put into words a
thing that was not clear in his own mind, "but
somehow—I suppose it's pretty presumptuous of me to
say so—but somehow I don't agree with what he says."

Joshua Peniman turned a quick, pleased look upon
his son's face.

"Nor do I, Joe.  His reasoning is false, spurious.
Such a policy as he is advocating could only plunge our
country into endless trouble.  He is a Democrat, and
though he claims that he does not care whether 'the
cause of slavery be voted up or voted down' he is
doing more, perhaps, than any other one man in the
Senate to uphold it and increase its power and territory."

"But, Father——" began Joe, but his whispering
voice was lost in a terrific storm of cheers and hoots
and yells as a tall, gaunt man in a long-tailed coat of
shabby black, mounted the platform.

As he began to speak, in a deep, earnest voice, that
had in it now and then a whimsical quality of humor,
now and then a deep note of pathos, there was a
general craning forward in the crowd, a stillness, a
breathless attention, that had not been accorded the previous
speaker.

From his first words Joe sat entranced.  In every
statement that he made the boy found an echo in his
own heart.  His blood tingled, his color rose, he
clenched and unclenched his hands, a great surge of
exultation, excitement, a stir that he had never before
known passed through all his being.

The crowd about him seemed equally roused and
swayed by the words of the speaker.  At times as
the impassioned sentences rose and swelled through the
air they were stopped by the wild cheers that burst
from the throats of the thousands of listeners.  And
when he leaned forward, pointing his long, gaunt
finger at them, his deep, sad eyes fixed as if in prophetic
vision, a stillness so great passed over the audience
that the breathing of the man next him was perfectly
audible.

"And I contend," thundered the orator, "that no
man is good enough to own and govern another man
without that other's consent.  Slavery is founded on
the selfishness of man's nature; opposition to it is
founded on the love of justice.  These principles are
in eternal antagonism, and when brought into collision
so fiercely as slavery extension brings them, shocks and
throes and convulsions must ceaselessly follow.  These
two principles cannot stand together.  They are as
opposite as God and Mammon; and whoever holds to
one must despise the other.  'A house divided against
itself cannot stand.'  I believe that this government
cannot endure permanently half slave and half free.  I
do not expect the Union to be dissolved—I do not
expect the house to fall—but I do expect that it will cease
to be divided."

The last words rang out in such an earnest, impressive,
almost prophetic tone as to make a cold shiver
run through the audience.  For a moment the speaker
stood silent, his black hair fallen forward over his
forehead, his sad grey eyes, deep-set and hollow,
gazing out over the assembled people.  Then as a great
storm of applause broke out and the people made a
rush for the platform he bowed and retired.

Joe woke as from a trance when the audience began
to file out.

"Who was he, Father?" he asked breathlessly.
"Who was that man?"

As he looked up into his father's face he saw that his
cheeks were flushed and his usually gentle, kindly eyes
were blazing.

"His name is Lincoln, I believe," he answered,
rousing himself with an effort from the thoughts the
address had set running in his mind.  "He is a lawyer, a
member of the legislature from Sangamon County,
some one told me."

For a long time Joe was silent.  Lige spoke to him
about something else, but he did not hear him.  When
he spoke again they were out on the street and on their
way back to the hotel.

"Do you believe I could ever be a lawyer, Father?"
he asked.

His father smiled, then answered gravely, "I have
no doubt you could, Joe, if you set your mind on it."

"And a member of the legislature—like that man?"

Joshua Peniman laughed outright.  "Well, I don't
know about that, my son.  That man appears to me to
be a rather unusual sort of a person.  But you might
become a member of the legislature, perhaps."

"Then that's what I'm going to do when I'm a
man," said Joe decisively.

After a long pause he lifted his eyes to his father's
face.

"Do you believe in the abolition of slavery, Father?"

"I do indeed, my son," replied Mr. Peniman earnestly.
"As Mr. Lincoln said 'No man has a right
to own and govern another without that other's
consent.'"

"Do you believe in the abolition of slavery enough
to fight for it, Father,—if our country should have to
go to war?"

"Quakers cannot fight, Joe.  We are bound to peace."

"But if war should come," urged the boy, "if we
should have to fight—if the South should secede——"

"*God forbid!*" cried Joshua Peniman, in a voice
whose deep, quavering earnestness was a slight indication
of the storm that was raging in his heart.  "May
God forbid such a catastrophe!  Let us not talk of it.
Let us not *think* of it.  Let us pray the Almighty
Ruler of the Universe to avert so frightful a calamity
to our nation!"

Joe glanced up quickly and opened his lips to speak,
but the expression that he surprised upon his father's
face caused him to close them promptly, avert his eyes,
and walk silently beside him.

In the evening there was a great torchlight procession,
followed by more speaking at the Opera House.
But this function the Peniman family did not attend.
Mr. Peniman, stirred, anxious, feeling a prescience of
the storm that was brewing in the country, was eager
to get away; to get his young lads out of the spirit of
rancor and bitterness that was abroad in the land, and
out onto the clean, quiet prairies where the inhumanity
of man to man would not throw its baleful shadow
over them.

In the morning long before the celebrators of the
night before had opened their eyes the two prairie
schooners were on their way, and the young pioneers,
with faces turned westward, were starting upon the
most exciting part of their journey.





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.. _`IN WHICH THE PIONEERS HEAR ALARMING NEWS`:

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   CHAPTER VI


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   IN WHICH THE PIONEERS HEAR ALARMING NEWS

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Their Fourth of July spent in Springfield was
a day long to be remembered by the Peniman
family.  The children talked of it many days
as the canvas-covered wagons rumbled slowly along
the dusty, rutted Illinois roads, and years later, when
the events then being so darkly foreshadowed on the
horizon had come to be matters of fact, it helped to
shape the destiny of Joshua Peniman's sons.

Joe had something new to think about now as he sat
in the wagon holding the reins in his hands while the
horses plodded on through the long, hot, silent days,
and his mind was often busy with the future that lay
before him, while plans, dreams, ambitions began to
unfold themselves in his mind.

They passed through Beardstown and camped on
the Illinois River, then struck off again to the west,
and twelve days later sighted the Mississippi River.

It was Lige who first caught sight of the great
brown swiftly-flowing waters.

"Look," he cried, breaking into Joe's day-dream by
poking him in the ribs, "look what a big river we're
coming to!  Wonder what river it is?"

"Mighty big one—and a mighty dirty one, too,"
commented Sam, hanging away out of the wagon to
get a better look at it.  "Look at the whopping big
bridge across it!" he whooped, pointing at the great
bridge that spanned the muddy waters.  "Hey,
Father, what river is that?  It's a mighty big one!"

Mr. Peniman turned and looked back with a smile.

"What river is that?  That's a great question for a
boy your age to ask!  Don't you know where we are?
What have you studied geography for if you don't
know what river that is?"

"Oh, I know!" shouted Ruth, "I know, Father!
It's the Mississippi!  This is Illinois, that State over
there is Iowa, and that is the Mississippi that flows
between!"

"Ah, good girl!" applauded her father.  "Of
course!  The Mississippi—the great Father of Waters.
And the boundary line "—he continued thoughtfully,
speaking more to himself than the children,—"between
the old East and the new West."

"The Mississippi at last—hurray!" shouted Joe.

"Huh, I knew it all the time," grunted Sam.
"Ruth needn't think she's so smart.  Golly, when I
got kept in last winter 'cause I couldn't tell what States
were bounded by the Mississippi I didn't think I'd be
crossing it so soon!"

They spent the night at Rock Island, then the
terminus of the Chicago and Rock Island Railroad, and
the next day crossed the Mississippi at Davenport, on
the first bridge built across the river, which had been
completed but a few weeks before.  They stayed there
that night, then started on, and two days later drove
into Iowa City, then the capital of the State.

As the two wagons progressed slowly through the
bare, wide clayey streets, which were flanked on either
side by one-story unpainted buildings, as if dumped
unceremoniously into their present location with no
view to permanency, they observed groups of men
gathered together talking excitedly.  Presently a troop
of cavalry dashed through the streets, followed by a
company of infantry.

"*Soldiers!*" ejaculated Lige.  "Wonder what soldiers
are doing out here?"

As they drew up before the bare, unpainted general
store Mr. Peniman turned to the boys and told them to
stay in the wagons.

This was most unusual, as the boys were always glad
to get out at these stops, stretch their legs, buy candy
and gum, and exchange greetings with the boys and
dogs they generally found congregated about the door.

"Aw, why not, Father?" protested Sam.  But his
protestations were cut short by his father's uplifted
hand and the expression on his face.

"Because I wish you to," he said with unusual
curtness, and disappeared within the store.

"Don't see why he wouldn't let us get out,"
grumbled Sam, "I wanted to buy some candy."

It seemed a long time before their father returned
to the wagons, and when he did Joe noticed that he
looked pale and grim and that his lips were compressed
into a close, white line.

He went from store to store swiftly, with absorbed
attention, and greatly astonished the occupants of the
wagons by coming back with a new Enfield rifle in his
hand, followed by a man carrying a keg of powder and
a big box of cartridges.

"Who's the new gun for, Father—me?" cried Joe
with delight.

"Yes, you can shoot well enough now to be trusted
with a gun.  Lige can use the old rifle.  I bought one
of those new Colt's revolvers for you, Mother."

"For *me*, Joshua?" Hannah Peniman opened her
blue eyes very wide.  "Why, dear man, thee knows
that I could never use a gun.  I am deathly afraid of
them."

"We are going away into the wilderness, Hannah,"
he said very gravely, "thee must learn."  And the
words were spoken in a tone and with an expression
that made her start and look at him closely.

When they were once more upon their way she
turned to him and asked in a low voice, "What is it,
Joshua?"

They had never had any reservations from one
another, and though he wished now with all his heart that
he might spare her he knew that he stood in need of
her courage, her help, her calm, cool judgment.

"There has been a massacre of whites by the
Indians not far from here," he told her.  "The white
settlers along the Little Sioux have been obliged to flee,
and many of them have been murdered.  I cannot tell
thee the horrible details.  They are sending out State
troops.  It was all brought about by the treachery of a
white man, they tell me, but——"  He broke off
abruptly and sat gazing into her horrified face.

"They say," he continued, "that most of the
Indians around here are friendly, but a white trader
deceived and murdered the brother of Chief Inkpaducah,
and he has roused his whole tribe to vengeance."

"And they have killed the settlers—and women—and
children?" she gasped, every vestige of color
leaving her face.

"They killed the children.  They have carried the
women away into captivity."

"Oh, God, have mercy on us!"

"In God's care and mercy alone can we trust,
Hannah," he answered.  "We will never give these red
brothers cause for anger against us, and perhaps we
may escape harm at their hands.  But I must confess it
has given me a great shock.  I wish——"

"The children—the children——" she whispered in
anguish.  "Oh, Joshua, I wish we had never come to
this terrible country.  I wish we had stayed at
home——"

"I have been wishing the same thing.  But it is too
late now.  We have come too far on our way.  Thee—thee
would not advise that we turn back now, would
thee, Hannah?  When we are so near the goal?"

For a moment she sat silent, her sweet blue eyes,
wide and filled with horror, fixed upon the western
horizon, her arms clasped tightly about the baby, which
she pressed almost fiercely to her breast.  After a time
she turned to her husband and laid her hand on his
arm, saying bravely:

"No, Joshua.  My heart is filled with fears, but
thee has sacrificed too much to turn back now.  We
can only go on, and pray that Almighty God will
protect us."

"My brave, noble wife," he whispered, and kissed her.

That night when they made their camp the two
wagons were drawn close together and the cow and
horses instead of being picketed out were placed beside
them.  No camp-fire was built that night, and the
supper was prepared over as small a fire as possible, a
piece of sacking placed over the top of the stove-pipe to
absorb and keep down the smoke.  Before they retired
their father gave each of the three older boys a gun
and ammunition.

"We have reached the real West now, lads," he told
them, "and must be prepared for some of the adventures
you have been looking forward to for so long.  I
have no idea that you will have occasion to use those
guns to-night, but like good pioneers you must keep
them ready and in order for whatever might happen."

A thrill passed through the hearts of Joe and Lige
as they listened to his words.  Not even then did they
appreciate the menace they portended.

That night Joshua Peniman did not sleep in the
wagon as he had been accustomed to do, but with
Spotty beside him and a loaded musket at hand lay
down beside the wagons wrapped in his blanket.

There was little sleep for the elders of the party.
The children, who had been allowed to hear nothing of
the horrors of the massacre, slept tranquilly, but
Joshua Peniman patrolled his camp all night, while his
wife lay among her little ones in the wagon with her
heart like an ice-cold stone within her breast.

They were now traveling through an almost uninhabited
part of western Iowa, where settlers were far
apart and shade and water grew scarcer and farther
apart every day.

The weather had grown intensely hot, and the poor
animals, forced to travel all day through the heat of
the sun without sufficient water, suffered greatly.

The cow especially seemed to feel the strain, and
after one intensely hot day, during which the pioneers
had all suffered, she gave but a small portion of milk,
and lay down when they made camp refusing to graze.

That night the baby was taken ill.  Both father and
mother did all that they knew for her, but she grew
steadily worse, and two days later, while they were
traveling over a barren, desolate expanse of country
with no living creature in sight but themselves, she
passed away.

They stopped and made a little grave in the desolate
prairies, over which they placed a tiny cross marked
with her name and age.  Then the bereaved parents
went on their way, with what agony of spirit only
those who have lost a precious little one may know.





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.. _`A NIGHT OF HORROR`:

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   CHAPTER VII


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   A NIGHT OF HORROR

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"And so," Joe concluded his long story, during
which the afternoon had waned and the long
shadows over the prairies told of the coming
night, "we left little Abby behind us and started on
again.  Father and Mother were terribly sad.  Sometimes
I was afraid that Mother could not live through
it.  They seemed awfully nervous and afraid all the
time, too.  Father never went to bed at night, but sat
or lay beside the wagons with Spotty beside him and
his gun in his hand, and Mother would not let any of
us get away from the wagons.

"It was fearful hot all that time—hotter even than
it is to-day—and we had to travel slow on account of
the cow.  We just plugged along, and then
toward night we hauled up beside the road and
camped.  Nobody had any heart to eat, so it didn't
matter.  Once in a while we came to a little town, or
some houses, but we seldom stopped.  Father seemed
in a hurry to get where we were going, and Mother
didn't seem to care about anything.  Two or three
times we had a scare about Indians, but they never
came very near to us.  Then one day when it had been
so hot and dusty that we were all almost suffocated we
saw a kind of a draw ahead and made for it, thinking
we would camp there that night.  It wasn't much of a
place to camp, but we didn't see any sign of water
anywhere, and Mother was just about beat out.

"Golly, I bet I'll never forget that evening!  We
were all feeling mighty miserable.  I happened to
look off toward the wagon road, and I saw a big cloud
of dust.  First I thought it was just a whirlwind, and
then we were afraid it was Indians.  But after a while
we made out that it was an emigrant wagon, being
driven by a woman.  That surprised us a lot.  She
was driving like the old Harry, and Father ran out
toward the road to meet her when we heard her
yelling for help.  When the wagon came nearer we
saw——"

"Stop, stop, oh *don't*!" cried the little Princess,
covering her eyes with her hands while shudders shook
her frame.  "Don't," she cried again, "I can't bear
it—I can't *bear* it!  I know—I know the rest!"

"Yes," Joe took her hand very gently, "you know
the rest.  It was your wagon—and—and—it brought
us—*you*."

For a little while all the children were silent.  Ruth
crept up and put her arm about the little stranger's
waist.

"I guess God sent you to us to be a little sister to us
in baby's place," she said chokily.

Nina turned and put her arm about her neck.

"Perhaps He did.  I never had any sisters or
brothers.  I'd like to be your sister.  I like you."

"I'm glad," said honest Ruth, and kissed her.

"So'm I," cried Lige; but Joe said nothing.

That night when camp was struck the three wagons
were drawn into a circle with the horses and cow inside.

Joshua Peniman did not remove his clothing, but
having seen his family comfortably disposed, with the
strange child in the wagon with his wife and the
younger children, he stretched himself out beside the
wagons, with Spotty near him and his musket by his
side.  Joe refused to go to his place in his own wagon,
but lay down beside his father.

The prairies looked vast and still under the glimmering
starlight with no sound but the sough of the
wind through the grass and the occasional howling of
a coyote.  For a long time he lay awake, some vague,
haunting uneasiness upon him.  Twice he sprang up,
his musket leveled, every nerve and muscle strained to
attention.

They had agreed that Mr. Peniman was to take the
first watch of the night and Joe the second.  At two
o'clock Joe woke, and seeing his father patrolling up
and down beside the wagons insisted that he should go
to bed.  This the weary man refused to do, but
wrapping himself in his blankets lay down upon the ground.

Joe sat beside him, his gun leaning against his knees,
and looked up at the silent stars, feeling them
companions in his loneliness.

It was between two and three o'clock, and he was
beginning to doze, when a low, ominous growl from
Spotty caused him to start wide awake, his gun
clenched in his hand.

Spotty was standing, stiff-legged, the hair on his
neck raised, his lips drawn back showing his teeth,
growling deeply and staring into the shadows back of
the wagons.

Joe did not move, but remained motionless listening.

Presently he heard a soft rustling in the grass.

A moment later by the light of the stars he made out
a dim silhouette creeping toward the wagons.

"Stop," he cried, "or I'll shoot!"

Instantly Joshua Peniman was on his feet.

"What is it?" he whispered huskily.

"Man—Indian—over there by the wagons!"

The whispered words had scarcely left his lips when
an arrow whizzed by his ear.

Instantly Joshua Peniman's gun, leveled at the point
from which the arrow came, barked through the darkness.
The shot was answered by a wild, shrill whoop,
and suddenly the night seemed to be filled with flitting
figures.

Joe's gun was at his shoulder, and as one huge naked
savage leaped at his father he fired.  The Indian fell
with a groan, but almost before he had touched the
ground another had taken his place, rushing toward the
white man with uplifted tomahawk and blood-curdling
yell.  He was almost upon him when a sharp "crack"
spoke from the back of one of the wagons, and the
Indian dropped and lay motionless, while Lige,
half-dressed, leaped out and ran to his father's side.

Sam on the seat of Joe's wagon held the rifle firmly
at his shoulder.  His freckled face was very pale, but
the blue eyes were shining in a way that boded ill to
the Indian who should come within range of the old
rifle.

In the opening of the big wagon, between its curtains
stood Hannah Peniman, her revolver in her hand.
Her face was white and set, but the hand that held the
weapon did not tremble.

The night was now hideous with yells.  With the
blood-curdling war-whoop that had carried terror to
the hearts of so many early settlers on the plains the
Indians were now circling about the camp, watching
their opportunity to break through.

Suddenly from somewhere in the distance rose another
cry.  The heart of Joshua Peniman almost died
in his breast.

"Another band!" he muttered, as he crowded down
the charge in the old musket.  Their case had seemed
hopeless before, but they had firearms while the
savages seemed to be armed only with bows and arrows,
and might have had a chance.  But if another band of
savages joined those already upon them——

"Ki-ki-ee-ee-ee!" rang the cry through the night.

The Indians who were creeping up toward the
wagons suddenly paused and stood still.  Some sudden
instinct made Joe raise his musket and fire into the
air.  Then at the top of his lungs shout, "Ki-ki-ee-ee-ee!"

He had no idea from whom the cry had come,
whether from white man or Indian, friend or foe; but
some sure instinct told him that whoever they might be
their presence was unwelcome to the marauders.

While the sound of his shot and cry were still
reverberating in the air there came a swift rush from the
darkness outside the circle of wagons, and in the
starlight they could make out the naked outlines of a band
of Indians who made a rush for the wagons.

In the terror and excitement of the moment they did
not notice that one of the band separated himself from
the rest, and slipping into the shadows made his way
noiselessly as a serpent to the rear of the Carroll
wagon, where he climbed under the curtain and was
lost to view.

Joshua Peniman uttering a warning shout sprang to
the front of the wagon in which were his wife and
younger children, with the child of the deceased
Carrolls.  Hannah Peniman was guarding the rear of the
wagon, her revolver cocked and ready in her hand,
while Joe and Lige at the front and back of the other
wagon were making good use of their firearms, and
Sam, standing up in the front was banging away with
the rifle as fast as he could load and fire.

As the Indians rushed toward them it looked for a
moment to the travelers as if all hope was lost.  At the
moment when the savages burst through their guard
the shrill "Ki-ki-ee-ee-ee!" again smote upon their
ears, and an instant later the sound of wild yelps and
thundering hoofs was all about them, and another band
of Indians, mounted and in full war panoply, burst into
the encampment.

The travelers thought their last hour had come.

"To the wagons, to the wagons!" shouted Joshua
Peniman.  "Inside, Sam!  Lige, help thy mother
guard the rear!  To me, to me, Joe!  We must try to
keep them away from this wagon at least!  Now, is
thee ready?  *Fire!*"

As his words rang out above the tumult a tawny
chief with eagle feathers in his hair, who was riding
by, checked his horse so abruptly that he threw it back
upon its haunches.  He cast a swift, searching look at
the man and boys who stood so resolutely before their
wagons, and suddenly threw up his hand.  Riding
toward them he waved a piece of white cloth above his
head, then halted his horse before them.

"Is thee a Quaker?" he surprised them by asking in
fairly good English.

"Yes, I am," replied Joshua Peniman, looking not
at all like a Quaker with his wild, disordered hair, his
set white face and his gun at his shoulder.  In the
excitement of the moment he had no time to think of the
strangeness, the incongruity of the question.  All he
could think of was that for some unknown reason the
other Indians seemed to have drawn off, and for a
moment at least there appeared to be a pause in the
savage onslaught.

The Indian who had spoken to him whirled his pony
about and shouted a few words in a language they
could not understand.  Instantly there came a wild
yelp in answer, and a moment later there was the
clamor of a battle cry, the wild thundering of hoofs,
the crash of blows, the uproar of battle.  Before the
horrified pioneers knew what was happening the sound
of battle began to recede from them, had grown faint
and fainter, had died away across the plain, and the
night was still about them.

Even then they could not realize that they had been
saved; that death—horrible death—and worse than
death—had in some miraculous way been averted from
them.

They expected momentarily that the savages would
return.  Joshua Peniman and the boys reloaded their
muskets.  Mr. Peniman snatching the axe from the
wagon laid it beside him.  Joe slipped a long sharp
knife inside his belt.

Strangely enough none of them spoke.  The moment
was too tense, the struggle for life too imminent
for words.

Moments passed.  The shrill yelps and cries grew
fainter and fainter and finally died away.

An intense, silent half hour went by.  Then Joshua
Peniman lowered his gun to the ground and looked
about him.

"I believe they have gone!" he whispered.

"I believe so too!" replied Joe in the same tone.

"Keep on guard.  I'll look around."

Cautiously and with musket ready he made a tour
around the wagons.

Two Indians, both dead, lay in the grass not far
away, but there was no sign of any living creature
about the place but themselves.

He returned to the wagons relieved but perplexed.

*What did it mean*?  He could not account for it.

"They appear to be gone," he said.  "For the life
of me I cannot understand what happened, but
somehow, by God's merciful providence, we have been
spared."

"But how—why—why did they go away like that?"
Joe demanded.  "Does thee think they will return,
Father?"

"It is a most mysterious proceeding.  I do not know
what to think of it.  But I scarcely think they will
return—at least not immediately."

The children, who had been hidden under the wagon
seats covered with blankets, now crept out, still too
terrified to speak.

"I don't believe they'll come back," said Joe, who
had been thinking hard.  "Do you know, Father, I
believe that there must have been two tribes.  I believe
they are at war with one another, and that the last ones
that came—those that came on horseback—drove the
others away.  They didn't come together.  There weren't
many of those Indians that attacked us first, and they
came on foot.  We would have heard horses, but they
crept up on us like shadows.  If Spotty hadn't warned
us we might all have been murdered in our sleep.  I
didn't hear a sound until he began to growl."

"Nor I either," answered his father.  "Thee may
be right."  Then suddenly for the first time the
peculiarity of the question that the big chief had asked him
flashed into his mind.  "Why, I guess thee is right,
Joe," he cried.  "That big fellow with the eagle
feathers in his hair held up a flag of truce.  He asked
me if I was a Quaker!  I never thought about it until this
moment.  How strange—how passing strange!  How
did he guess—how could he know—it must have been
he who saved us!"  Then suddenly catching sight of
his wife's deathly face he turned to her.  "Go lie
down, Hannah, thee is all used up.  The danger is past
for the time.  What ever miraculous interposition of
God's mercy saved us it seems clear that we are saved.
Our enemies have gone and we can sleep in peace.  Go
to thy rest, too, Joe.  Thee has done well.  I feel that
I have a real man to depend on in these trying times."

The look in his eyes, the pressure of the hand on his
shoulder, sent Joe away to bed with a warm glow in his
heart.

Presently the camp was still again, and Joshua Peniman
patrolled up and down and all about it, with his
musket over his shoulder and Spotty at his heels until
the rosy glow of morning was tinting the eastern sky.

Just before sunrise he received a severe shock, when
looking across the pathless prairies toward the north he
saw an Indian riding toward him.

For many moments he watched the advancing figure.
When it came within musket range he raised his gun to
his shoulder and shouted:

"Stop, or I'll fire!"

The Indian did not check his pony, but held up a bit
of white rag.  As he came nearer, riding his pony as
erect and motionless as a bronze statue, the pioneer saw
with a start that it was the Indian who had spoken to
him the night before.

"How!" he said, bringing his pony to a halt before
the white man and sliding down from its back.

"How!" answered Joshua Peniman, answering the
western salutation.

The Indian came closer.

"You Quaker, eh?"

Wondering, the white man answered as he had
answered the night before, "Yes, I am."

"Me Quaker too."

"*You?  You a Quaker?*"

A grave smile broke over the impassive,
copper-colored face.

"Me Neowage, Chief Winnebagoes.  Live Omaha
Reservation.  Friends' Mission."

"Oh-h!"  A great light began to dawn on Joshua
Peniman.  "Oh, you are one of the tribe who were
put in charge of the Friends' Mission?[#]  Then it was
*you* who saved us last night?"

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] During the year 1856-1857 the Winnebago tribe, being much
depleted by continual wars with the Sioux and Arapahoes,
sought protection at the Reservation in Omaha.  There the
remnants of the tribe were put under the protection of the Friends'
Mission, and many of them became converts to the
faith.—SHELDON'S *History of Nebraska*.

.. vspace:: 2

The big chief nodded.

"Me hear you say 'thee' to you boy.  Me know
you Friend."

"And because I was a Friend you saved me—me
and my family!  Oh, Friend, I thank thee!"

He stepped forward and grasped the Indian's hand.

With a dignity equal to his own the chief shook it
warmly.

"Friends good people.  Good heart.  Good friend
to Winnebagoes."

"Then you are a Winnebago?  Who were the
others—those Indians that attacked us?"

"Dirty Sioux."  He turned and spurned the dead
body in the grass with his foot.

"Ah, they were Sioux, eh?  Are the Sioux hostile
to white men?"

"Sioux bad Indian.  Heap bad heart.  Winnebago
good Indian.  Heap white man's friend."

"I am glad, glad indeed to hear it.  You don't know
how you relieve my anxious heart.  But how did it
happen that you came to our aid so opportunely last
night?"

The Indian folded his arms across his brawny chest.

"My tribe war with Sioux," he said.  "Heap much
trouble now.  Inkpaducah on war-path.  Kill heap
white men.  Me hear gun, know trouble.  My young
men on war-path.  Fight Sioux all time.  Me come,
drive Sioux away."

"God be thanked you did come.  You saved our
lives.  How can I thank you?"

The Indian waved his hand with a royal gesture.
As his keen eyes roved about the encampment they fell
upon a scrap of paper which lay under the Carroll
wagon.  He strode over to it and picked it up, then
remained gazing at the ground for some minutes.

The wagons stood backed up to the edge of the
ravine, and back of them the ground was soft, in some
places muddy.

Neowage pointed silently.  Joshua Peniman hurried
to his side.

"White man print," he grunted, indicating a well-defined
footmark in the muddy earth at the back of the
Carroll wagon.

Joshua Peniman stooped and examined it carefully.

The sharp edges of a hard leather sole and the
imprint of a boot heel were plainly discernible.

*A white man!*

With perplexed face he stood staring at the imprint.

That Indians might attack them was perfectly
understandable, but that a white man should be among
them—that *a white man* was one of those howling
demons who had set upon his camp the night before—was
a thing that he could not understand.

Neowage glanced sharply at his feet.

"Not you mark?"

"No, I was not near the back of that wagon.  It
was unoccupied.  And you see that is a much larger
foot than mine."

"You boy?"

"No, my boys are all going barefooted."

"Who?"

"I wish I knew."

The Indian was turning the scrap of paper he had
picked up under the wagon over and over in his hands.

"Tore," he said, pointing to the ragged edges.

Mr. Peniman took the paper and scrutinized it carefully.
It was but a small scrap, and its edges showed
that it had been torn recently and hastily.  As he
turned it over the words: "and the said Lee C. Carroll——"
caught his eye.

With a strange leap of his pulses he turned and ran
to the Carroll wagon.

As he threw aside the rear curtain and looked in he
uttered a loud exclamation.

The inside of the neatly-arranged wagon was in
chaos, trunks torn open, boxes and bundles rifled of
their contents, clothes, books, papers scattered about;
and the dispatch-box, placed in the hands of Nina
Carroll by her dying mother, which contained all her
money, deeds, papers, and all the information that had
been left her regarding herself and her parents and the
relatives to whom she was to be sent—*was gone*!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JOE MEETS A FRIEND AND MAKES AN ENEMY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   JOE MEETS A FRIEND AND MAKES AN ENEMY

.. vspace:: 2

The sound of the voices outside had wakened
the boys, who, worn out from the excitement
of the night, had fallen into a fitful slumber.

As the fact of the looting of the Carroll wagon, with
its disastrous consequences to the young survivor of
the tragedy, forced itself upon him Joshua Peniman
uttered a loud exclamation.

Instantly Joe and Lige leaped from the wagon, their
guns in their hands, and Mrs. Peniman, still grasping
her revolver, parted the rear curtains of the wagon and
looked out.

When their eyes fell upon the Indian both boys
started violently, and Joe raised his gun.

"No, no, son, put down thy gun," cried his father.
"This is a friend.  It was he who so mysteriously
saved us last night.  He is a Friend, and has learned
to speak a little English at a Friends' Mission."

"Oh," cried Hannah Peniman, and in the little
exclamation was wonder, relief and surprise.

"But see, Hannah," went on Mr. Peniman, "see
what those miscreants have done!  They have rifled
the Carroll wagon and carried off everything of value
in it, including the dispatch-box."

"The *dispatch-box*?"  Hannah Peniman's face
whitened and her eyes grew dark with horror.  "They
have taken the dispatch-box?  Oh, Joshua, that box
had in it everything relating to the property and
identity of that little girl!"

Her husband nodded.

"I know," he said.  "It is a terrible catastrophe.  I
should have put that box in my own wagon."

"But who would have thought—who would have
supposed that Indians——"

Neowage who had been looking and listening
impassively, interrupted her.

"Indian no want papers."

Mr. and Mrs. Peniman started and looked at one
another.

"True," said Joshua Peniman, pulling at his beard,
"that is true, Neowage."

Presently he looked up at his wife with a troubled
face.  "There is more in this than we see now," he
said in a low tone, and told her of the scrap of paper,
the print of a white man's boot at the rear of the
wagon, of the broken locks and opened trunks and
scattered books and papers in the wagon.

"There is something very strange about it," he
concluded.  "Our own wagons were not disturbed, our
horses were not taken; it almost looks to me as if the
assault was made upon us to cover the rifling of the
Carroll wagon."

He stopped abruptly and stood for some moments
with head bent thinking intently.  Then going to his
own wagon he returned with the arrow he had taken
from the body of Lee Carroll.

Silently he handed it to Neowage.  Silently the
Indian inspected it.

"Santee Sioux," he said after a moment, handing it
back.

"Are you sure?"

"Sure.  See plenty.  My young men fight Santee
Sioux.  Kill my people, two, t'ree, five hunnerd.
Drive my people way from hunting grounds.  My
people starve.  Go Omaha Reservation.  They put us in
Friends' care."

"And this is a Sioux arrow?"

The Indian nodded.

"I took that arrow out of the dead body of a white
man.  When he was dying he told me that it was not
an Indian that had killed him."

Then by a sudden impulse he told the chief the whole
story.

When it was finished the Indian remained standing
with his arms folded across his bare brown chest, his
head bent, his face impassive.  After an interval he
spoke.

"You got papoose now?"

"Yes."

"She sleep in wagon?"

"No, she has never slept there since her father and
mother died.  She sleeps with my little girls in that
wagon," pointing to the canvas-covered prairie
schooner where his own children lay asleep.

"Indian no want papoose.  Indian no want paper.
White man want papoose and paper."

Joshua Peniman nodded.  "Yes, I see your point.
But I don't know.  It's beyond me.  I don't know
what to think."

The children, awakened by the talking, had now
crowded to the back of the wagon, and Ruth, Nina,
Sam, and Paul were staring out with bulging eyes.

For the first time they were gazing upon a real Red
Man of the Plains, and strange to say their father was
not shooting at him nor scalping him, nor even being
scalped by him, but was standing quietly talking to
him, evidently asking his advice.

The younger children were also awake now, and
Mrs. Peniman got down from the wagon and began
preparing the breakfast.

"Thee must stay and break bread with us, friend
Neowage," said Joshua Peniman; and presently the
whole family were gathered about the oilcloth on the
grass, with Neowage cross-legged and silent among
them.

It seemed very strange to be thus eating breakfast
with one of the savages of whom they had stood in
such deadly terror the night before; the little girls
shrank closer to their mother and peered at him with
fearful eyes, but the boys watched his every movement
with fascinated gaze, and Lige began mentally
composing a letter to Simeon Fisher, in which he meant to
tell him all about his friend Neowage, the great and
mighty chief of the Winnebago tribe.

The chief, however, after one keen glance from his
black eyes seemed to pay little attention to them.  His
eyes were fastened upon Nina, and whether it was her
tragic story or her winning beauty that held his
attention they could not tell.

When he had finished eating he rose abruptly and
said, "Me go now."  Then turning to Mr. Peniman he
extended his hand.

"No be 'fraid," he said in his deep guttural voice.
"Neowage you friend.  He watch over you.  No let
Quaker family get harm."  Then as he turned to
where his pony was standing, its bridle trailing on the
ground, he included them all in one quick glance and
muttered a guttural "goo-bye."

Mrs. Peniman rose and gave him her hand, thanking
him for his protection.  The boys also hastened to
shake hands with him.  But Nina sprang up from her
place and ran to him, taking from her neck a pretty
little blue chain, and laid it in his hand.

"Keep it," she said, smiling up at him; "you were
good and saved us.  Keep that to remember us by."

.. _`"KEEP IT; YOU WERE GOOD AND SAVED US"`:

.. figure:: images/img-084.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "KEEP IT; YOU WERE GOOD AND SAVED US."

   "KEEP IT; YOU WERE GOOD AND SAVED US."

The Indian looked down from his great height upon
the golden-haired little girl, then to the chain in his
hand.

"Umph!" he grunted, but they knew from the
smile on his face that he was pleased.

"What you name?" he asked.

"Nina—Nina Carroll."  Then with a shy little
smile, "The boys call me 'Princess.'"

"Umph!" again grunted the Indian, and mounting
his pony rode swiftly away.

As the pioneers traveled on through the heat and
dust of that day the hearts of Joshua Peniman and his
wife were deeply troubled.  It was not alone that their
worst fears of the perils of the plains had been realized
in the attack of the night before, but the menace and
mystery of the theft of the dispatch-box left a deep
sense of fear and depression upon them.

"I cannot but fear for the child," Joshua Peniman
said, after long study.  "We know nothing about her,
who she is, what her life may represent, or what
enemies her family may have had.  The thought is
forcing itself upon me that we should not keep her with us,
that we must leave her at the first Mission we come
to, as her mother requested.  They may be able to get
her back to her own people."

"But who are her people?  How can we ever tell
that now?  Every bit of information, every letter, address,
paper, everything relating to her or her relatives,
was in that box."

"But surely the girl herself knows——"

"Very little.  I have talked with her.  It appears
that she and her parents have been traveling abroad a
great deal of the time since she was born.  She knows
that they lived in New York, also for a time in
St. Louis, but she does not remember the address in either
place.  Her mother's parents are dead, I believe, and I
judge from things she has told me that there must have
been some trouble with her father's family, and that
the young couple lived rather an independent
existence."  Then after a long pause, "Somehow I cannot
bear to leave the child at a Mission.  Think of leaving
our Ruth——"

"I know, Hannah, but her safety——"

"Yes, I realize that.  We have the right, perhaps,
to jeopardize the lives of our own family in this trip
across the plains, but have we the right to expose the
life and safety of this child, that has been left in our
care?"

They sat in deep thought for some minutes.  From
the other wagon they could hear the chatter of the
children's voices, as Ruth, Lige, Sam, Joe, and Nina
excitedly discussed the events of the night before.  She
still grieved for her parents, but little by little the
society of the wholesome, healthy-minded young Penimans
was winning the little Princess back to cheerfulness.

"She seems very happy with us," sighed Mrs. Peniman.

"Yes, I believe she is.  I wish we might keep her
with us," answered her husband gravely.

The next day they reached the Des Moines River,
and after making their night camp by the beautiful
stream made their way the next morning to Fort Dodge,
which had been built on the east side of the Des Moines
two years before.  Here they found other travelers
and heard the horrible details of the Spring Lake
massacre, and also of the depredations of the Sioux on the
South Fork of the Platte.  Sam and Lige, who were
standing near, overheard a mover relating to their
father the circumstances of a hideous murder of a
party of emigrants which had occurred near Fontanelle
but a few days before.  These accounts, while they
thrilled the boys with a sense of adventure, made their
parents more anxious than ever, and many times the
temptation assailed them to give up the hazardous
journey and return to safety and civilization.

But there was something in the make-up of the early
pioneers that forbade them to turn back, and after a
few hours of rest they replenished their supplies and
went on their way.

While at Fort Dodge Joshua Peniman made
inquiries in regard to Missions, and learned that a
Presbyterian Mission had been founded at Bellevue, the
first permanent white settlement in Nebraska, on the
west side of the Missouri River.  To this he determined
to make his way, and leave in safety the child of the
strangers who had been entrusted to his care.

The travelers had now left civilization far behind
them.  The boys, who had so eagerly anticipated the
adventures of the journey, now had more than sufficient
of it to satisfy them.  What white settlers there were
in the country at that time were settled along the
streams and rivers, leaving the space between unorganized
and wild.  As they traveled on trees and water
grew farther and farther apart.  There were some
trees, mostly willows and cottonwoods, along the
borders of the streams, all the rest was grass and sky.

They often saw large bands of Indians sweeping
across the plains, hunting the wild game that was
everywhere in great abundance.  They saw great herds
of elk and antelope, and wild turkeys were plentiful,
with great flocks of prairie-chickens and quail.

They had no difficulty in providing their table with
fresh meat now, for the boys and their father had but
to go out with their guns for an hour or two in the
evening and come back with their game-bags full.

But while they had meat in plenty they could no
longer get fruit or vegetables.  They could not supply
their daily needs at towns or villages, for there were
no towns, and the settlements were so far apart that
many times they traveled for days without ever seeing
a house or human.  When they did find a "settler"
or squatter, his home was on the bank of some river
or stream, and his food consisted mostly of "sow-belly"
and coffee, with little enough of either for
himself, and none whatever for guest or traveler.

The lack of green food troubled Mrs. Peniman
greatly, for with the voracious appetites of her young
brood she realized that they should have vegetables to
offset their constant consumption of the heavier diet.

One morning while they were traveling through
western Iowa she suddenly leaned out of the wagon
peering down into the grass.

"Stop a minute, Joshua," she cried, "I see something
over there I want to investigate.  It looks to me
as if the Lord might be sending us the vegetables we
have been wanting."

Mr. Peniman stopped the team and she scrambled
nimbly down.  Seeing her leave the wagon, Ruth,
Nina, Sam and Paul eagerly followed her.

"What is it, Mother?  What do you see?" cried Ruth.

Just then Sam stooped down and held up a small
green object between his fingers.  "Look, Mother,"
he cried, "look at the funny little green balls!"

"Ah," cried Mrs. Peniman, seizing it eagerly,
"that's what I thought!  That's what I was looking
for!  Look here, see?"

She stooped down, pointing to a delicate green vine
with small leaves and delicate tendrils that grew in the
grass at her feet.

"Pea-vines!" exclaimed Ruth.

"Yes, pea-vines! and these are some kind of a wild
pea.  I am almost sure they would be good to eat."

By this time Mr. Peniman, Lige and Joe had joined them.

"Oh," said Mr. Peniman, "*buffalo peas*!  I have
often read of them growing on the plains."

"Are they good to eat, Father?" asked Sam, who
was in a chronic state of being hungry.

"I think so; we might try them.  Run about and
gather all you can, children; we'll cook them when we
camp to-night."

With pails and baskets the young people ran about
gathering the peas from the low trailing vines.

"They're the queerest peas I ever saw," said Joe;
"they haven't any pods, and they're so *big*, look!"
and he held up a round green ball about as large as a
marble, pale green on one side and on the other a dull,
purplish red.

When camp was struck that evening there was great
interest shown in the preparation of the buffalo peas.
After soaking them in water Mrs. Peniman put them
on to boil with a pinch of soda, then drained off that
water, put fresh water upon them, let them boil again,
and when they were tender served them with a
dressing of milk.

The family ate them, but it was the general opinion
that the peas had grown too old to be prepared in that
way, and on the next evening Mrs. Peniman made
them into a pea soup, which was pronounced delicious
by the entire family, and became a distinct addition to
their diet as long as the buffalo-pea season lasted.

The boys had often remarked as they traveled farther
and farther westward into the uninhabited wilderness
that the road over which their prairie schooners
rumbled was a broad, hard highway, with scarcely a
blade of grass upon its surface.  Joe wondered at this,
and asked his father why it should be so.

"We are traveling over the old Oregon Trail, my
boy," Mr. Peniman told him.  "It is an old, old trail,
the first highway made into the wilderness of the west
by the feet of white men."

"Who made it?" demanded Lige, who resented any
one having been ahead of them in pioneer life.

"The trail was first made in 1813 by what was
known as the Astorian Expedition, which set out from
St. Louis with about a hundred men, intending to cross
the mountains and build a fort for the American Fur
Trading Company in Oregon.  You boys should read
the history of that expedition; you would find it most
interesting."

"Did they get there?" asked Sam, who was always
interested in the result of any adventure.

His father smiled.  "Yes, Sam, they got there.
When I knew that a part of our journey would lead us
along the old Oregon Trail I read up its history.  They
had a terrible journey, but after great losses and
hardships seven men reached the Columbia River, where
they built a fort which they called Astoria, after John
Jacob Astor of New York, the president of the fur
company.  The Indians set upon them and stole their
goods and their stock, and they returned to St. Louis
with only one old horse, which they had succeeded in
trading for with a friendly Indian."

"But that was so long ago, Father," put in Joe, "I
should think the trail would have been lost since."

"It probably would have been," answered his father,
"but that it was kept open by the Oregon emigration
of 1832.  But it was beaten into its present good
condition and has been kept so by the gold-seekers and
emigrant trains that began the rush to California in
1849.  This is also sometimes called the 'Mormon
Trail,' because it was over this very road that we are
traveling now that the Mormons passed on their
pilgrimage to Salt Lake in 1847.  They, too, had great
hardships and losses, and had to winter at Florence, a
little trading-station on the Missouri River, which we
should reach very soon now."

"Jiminy, that's interesting," cried Joe, who had
been listening intently; "it makes it so much more
interesting when you think of who's been over this old
road before.  How much easier and pleasanter it is to
learn history and geography when you're right on the
spot than when you are sitting on a hard bench at
school!"

Toward evening the country became more rolling,
and shortly before sunset they saw in the distance a
blue haze and high steep bluffs.

Joe, whose eyes were always on the alert, cried,
"River ahead!"

Mr. Peniman, who was studying a map spread out
on his knees, looked up.

"Yes," he said, "that is the Missouri River."

"*The Missouri*—at last!" whooped Lige, "hurray,
now the fun will begin!"

Mr. and Mrs. Peniman looked at one another.  To
them the experiences that lay beyond the Missouri did
not appeal in the light of *fun*.

The day had been hot and clear, and as the sun sank
in the west it left a sky of intense brilliancy, shot with
crimson and gold, fading away toward the horizon in
tender pink and mauve and lavender.  They drove
into the straggling little trading-post of Florence,
where the unhappy Mormons had passed such a tragic
winter many years before, and as they left it and drove
over a small hill their eyes fell upon a sight grander
and more beautiful than Moses saw from the top of
Nebo's Mountain.  The valley of the Missouri lay
before them, and with the great river sweeping by long
lines of bluffs covered with waving trees it presented
to them a panorama both magnificent and inspiring.

"See that great bluff over there, Joe?" called his
father.  "That's where the Lewis and Clark Expedition
held their first great council with the Indians.  It
was called *Council Bluffs* in memory of that event,
which was the beginning of the opening up of this great
western country.  I am told it has come to be a great
Indian trading-station."

Twilight was beginning to fall as they drove into the
trading-post, which is now the city of Council Bluffs.

It was a great sight to the young easterners.  On
every hand were Indians, Indians and more Indians.
Some wearing the cotton shirt and trousers of civilization,
others blankets, others rejoicing in the garb of
nature, augmented by a breech-clout and a few feathers
in their hair.  The squaws with their papooses strapped
on their backs stood stolidly about, some in blankets,
some in ugly calico "Mother Hubbard" wrappers.
These Indians were mostly Omahas, with some
Pawnees, Arapahoes and Potawatamis, all friendly to
the white man.  The Omaha Reservation was but a
short distance away, and the Indians were bringing in
skins, furs, and buffalo hides and exchanging them for
blankets, flour, coffee, and the white man's "fire-water."

There were many emigrant wagons gathered in the
wide straggling street, between two rows of one-story
shanties, and white men were trading with red men,
home-seekers anxiously seeking information, dogs
were barking, children crying, men arguing and
swearing, while the patient oxen hitched to the wagons
breathed gusty sighs of rest, and the few women who
were on their way to a home in the new country west
of the Missouri looked on with troubled eyes or
hurried in and out of the few straggling shops making
their purchases.

The Peniman family had all alighted from their
wagons before the general store, and while Mr. and
Mrs. Peniman went in to make some purchases, followed
by David and the little girls, Joe and Lige stood
outside, looking with interested attention at the
strange, novel spectacle of an Indian trading-station.

They were watching some white men who were
talking with a group of Indians.  Suddenly Joe pricked
up his ears and walked nearer.

A tall, slenderly-built man, with a red, dissipated
face, watery red-lidded eyes, and longish red hair was
holding out a string of beads and jabbering in his own
language to a tall, handsome young Indian who had
an otter pelt over his arm.

"Aw, don't you *do* it," Joe burst out suddenly.
"He's stringin' you!  That string of beads ain't worth
twenty-five cents."

The young Indian turned and looked at him, and the
man, turning several shades redder than before,
wheeled upon him with an oath.

"Mind your own business, you little pup," he roared,
"who's askin' your advice!"

Whether he understood what had been said or not,
Joe did not know, but the Indian turned and walked
away, carrying the pelt with him.  The man strode up
to Joe with a menacing attitude.

"I'll teach you to interfere in my business again,
you meddlesome young fool," he shouted, and raised
his clenched fist.  At this moment Mr. and Mrs. Peniman
came out of the store, followed by Ruth, Sara,
and Nina Carroll.  Joshua Peniman, seeing his son
threatened, hurried to his side, and the man, with
another great oath, turned and faced him.

As he did so the oath died on his lips, his eyes
flew wide and his mouth fell open, and the fiery color
receded from his face, leaving it grey and ashen.

Joe, staring at him, saw that his eyes were fixed
upon Nina, with the look of a man who sees an
apparition from another world.

"What's the matter here?" cried Joshua Peniman.
"Joe, what has this man been doing to you?"

"Nothing," answered Joe with a laugh, "he's just
mad because I busted up his trade with an Indian.
Say, what do you think, the old cheat was tryin' to
trade that young buck out of a splendid otter skin for a
string of nasty little cheap yellow beads!"

Joshua Peniman turned to the man, but he was paying
no attention to them.  With eyes fixed on the face
of the little Princess he stood motionless, his thin,
dissipated face almost white through its coat of tan.

Mrs. Peniman, who saw the look, seized Nina by the
hand and hurried her away.

The man whirled upon Joshua Peniman.

"Who is that?" he demanded.  "What's her name?"

"Who?" asked Mr. Peniman coolly.  He too had
seen the expression, and was on his guard immediately.

"That—that girl!  Where did she come from?
What's her name?"

Ruth and Nina had come out of the store together.
Joshua Peniman, whose conscience would not let him
lie, purposely misunderstood which little girl he meant.

"That little girl is my daughter.  Her name is Ruth
Peniman.  She comes from the Muskingum Valley in
Ohio," he answered.

The man stared at him with fiery eyes.

"Are you lying to me?  If you are you'd better
make your will right now."

"I am not lying to you.  I never lie.  My name is
Joshua Peniman.  I and my family are crossing the
plains to Nebraska.  The little girl you just saw come
out of that store with my wife is my daughter Ruth.
This is my son Joe."

The stranger turned and cast a snarling glance at
the boy.

"He'd better not interfere in my business again, or
his name'll be on a coffin-plate," he growled, and moved
away.

Joshua Peniman motioned to the wagons.  "In with
you, boys," he said in a low voice, "we'll have to get
away from here."

When they were in the wagons again and on the
road he turned to his wife.

"What does it mean?" he said in a voice so low
that the little girls who were in the back of the wagon
dressing the china dolls they had bought at the
trading-station could not hear him.  "What is this
mystery that is following us?  It is evident that Nina is
in danger from some one—for some reason that we
know nothing about.  I shall be thankful when we can
put her into the hands of those who are in a better
position to protect her than we are."

"That man back there," breathed Mrs. Peniman,
scarcely above a whisper, "that horrible
creature—thought—acted—*as if he knew her*!"

"He did know her—or he thought he did!  He had
some sort of a shock when his eyes fell upon her.  He
was not sure, and I think I threw him off the trail."

"It is strange—strange—in this vast new country—what
can it mean?" cried Mrs. Peniman, and gazed out
over the prairies with brooding eyes.





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.. _`RED SNAKE`:

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   CHAPTER IX


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   RED SNAKE

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It had been Joshua Peniman's intention to pass the
night at Council Bluffs and cross the Missouri in
the morning.  But the events that had transpired
at the general store so alarmed him that he decided to
leave the trading-station at once, anxious to get the
child who appeared to be so surrounded by mystery
away from the proximity of the stranger with the
degenerate, fox-like face.

They drove until dark along the banks of the river,
then made their camp in the woods in a place that
looked sheltered and secure.  They had finished their
supper and were preparing for bed when the young
Indian, whom Joe had advised not to trade his otter
skin for the stranger's worthless string of beads, came
striding into their camp.

He walked straight up to Joe and held out his hand.

"Good boy," he said, greatly to the lad's astonishment.
Then without another word laid the otter skin
in his hands.

"Hello," cried Joe, "where'd you come from?"

"Me Pashepaho.  Son Pawnee chief.  Spik li'le."  Then
looking down at the otter skin—"Heap bad man."

"Who?  Oh, the feller that was tryin' to do you
out of this skin for a string of beads?  I should sa-ay
so.  He's a crook, he is.  But say, P—p——"

"Pashepaho.  Son chief."

"Uh-huh," nodded Joe, to whom the son of a chief
was no different from any other Indian, "but look
here, Pashepaho, you fellers ought to learn the value
of your goods and not let those thieving white men
skin you like that.  I happen to know that this is a
good otter skin, because my uncle used to deal in furs
and I've seen lots of 'em.  Those beads he was tryin'
to trade you weren't worth a quarter."

"No?" the young Indian looked at him and a slow
fire smouldered in his eyes.

"White brother liar.  Take 'way red man's land,
take 'way red man's furs, take 'way red man's wife,
give red man fire-water."

Mr. Peniman had come up to hear what the Indian
was saying.  "That's true," he said gravely, "the
white men are setting a bad example to their red
brothers, I fear."  Then after a moment's pause,
"Do you know who that man was, Pashepaho?"

"Red Snake.  Heap bad man.  Got bad heart.
Trade with Indian.  Live Santee Sioux."

Joshua Peniman started.  "He lives with the
*Santee Sioux*?"

The Indian nodded.

"But he is not an Indian, he's a white man, isn't he?"

"Squaw-man."

For a moment Joshua Peniman stood staring at him,
his brain whirling.

A white man—lived with the Santee Sioux!  Had
evidently recognized—or partly recognized—Nina
Carroll!  Who could he be?  What the relation
between him and the departed Carrolls?  What could
be the meaning of this tangle in which he had involved
himself by taking into his custody the friendless child
of the white man who had been slain by a Sioux arrow!

The young Indian pointed to the pelt, which still
hung carelessly over Joe's arm.

"Me give," he said.  "Pawnee heap white man's friend."

"You mean you want to give me this skin?" cried Joe.

The young Indian grinned and nodded.

"Oh, no, Pashepaho!  That pelt's worth good
money.  I have no use for it, and you ought to get a
good price for it.  I'm awfully much obliged all the
same; it was fine of you to want to make me a present.
I like you.  You're square.  Shake.  You and I will
be friends, shan't we?"

Pashepaho shook the hand that Joe extended to him.
Joe dashed into the wagon and scrambled out again
a moment later carrying a bright red necktie in his
hand.

"Here, you take this.  I'd like to make you a
present.  I know you like red.  It'll look good on
you."

Pashepaho took it eagerly, scrutinizing the brilliant
bit of silk with the pleased smile of a child.  Then he
proceeded to wind it about his head, tying it in a knot
in the back and letting the ends hang down over his
shoulders.

"There!  That looks fine!  I knew it would be
becoming to you," cried Joe, without an intimation that
that was not the accustomed manner of wearing neckties.

The Indian looked from the boy to his father with
a pleased grin.  "You sleep?" he asked.

"Yes, we're going to camp here to-night," answered Joe.

"Me sleep, too."

Joe brought him out a substantial supper, which he
ate squatted on the grass beside the wagons, and when
the family settled down to their night's rest he lay
down beside them with his blanket over his head.

It was long past midnight when Joe was awakened
by a slight movement at his feet.  He had heard no
sound.  Spotty was standing, his ears cocked forward,
and the young Indian, motionless as a statue, stood
with bow bent, an arrow in rest.

"What's the matter?  What do you see?" cried
Joe, springing up.

"Sh-sh!" whispered the Indian.

For a moment longer he stood, then discharged the
arrow and at the same moment let loose a blood-curdling
yell that roused the family and set the children
to screaming.

Mr. Peniman leaped wildly to his feet.

"What is it?  Where are they?" he shouted,
but the young Indian laughed and snapped his fingers.

"Gone!" he said with a gesture of wide flight,
"Red Snake coward.  Think Big Chief come."

"*Red Snake*!  Was Red Snake here?  How do
you know?  What was he doing?  Were there other
Indians with him?"

Pashepaho shrugged his shoulders.

"Me know he come.  Me come.  He scare.  He
run 'way.  He no come more.  Think heap much
Pawnee here."

He chuckled to himself, but Joshua Peniman did
not join in his merriment.  He knew now that a deadly
enemy was following them, and that while Nina Carroll
was in their hands there could be neither rest nor
security for the family.

They rose early, and taking a grateful farewell of
Pashepaho started on their way.

In the fresh light of early morning, they caught their
first glimpse of Nebraska.

The land all about them lay smiling, with tall
prairie grass waving to and fro and flickering with
constantly changing shades and colors, the river
glinted like a sheet of silver, and over all arched the
sky, blue as an amethyst, with the delicate shades of
early sunrise coloring the east.

They crossed the Missouri on the ferry-boat *General
Marion*, which had been running only since the spring
of the year before, and found themselves in Omaha,
taking their first view of the bare, straggling
settlement which is now the chief city of the great
agricultural State of Nebraska.

At that time Omaha was the centre of the reservation
of the Maha, or Omaha, tribe, and a trading post
for the trappers and traders who had come to profit by
the credulity and ignorance of the Indians.  Missionaries
were here who had come to carry Christianity
into the wilderness, and a few white settlers who at
that date had found their way across the river into the
newly organized territory.  The great motionless
prairies lay spread out in striking contrast to the
uplands and valleys along the river, with the sombre
brown of the vegetation lighted up by the sunrise
through a soft haze that cast a glamour over the
picture.

The Omahas were camped in their teepees on the
lowlands, bucks, squaws, papooses, dogs, wigwams and
ponies huddled together, just as they had come from
their great annual hunt in the Elkhorn valley, where
elk, bison, antelope and other game abounded.  There
were a few shanties and log huts scattered about, but
at this date, August of 1856, there were not more than
fifty white families in the whole of Douglas County.

Joshua Peniman inquired the way to Bellevue, and
after a brief stop in Omaha set forth for the Mission
at that point.

Before leaving Omaha, Hannah Peniman had sent
the children into the other wagon, and drew the little
Princess to her, reminding her of her dead mother's
wishes, and telling her that they were now near
Bellevue, where they would leave her at the Mission,
from which she hoped that she might be sent home to
her own people.

Somewhat to her surprise, the little girl received
the announcement with grief and terror.

"Oh, no, no, no," she cried, "I don't want to be
left there!  I'd *die* of homesickness there!  Oh,
Mother Peniman, don't leave me, don't leave me,
please don't go away and leave me!"

"But you would only be there a short time, Nina,"
said Mrs. Peniman gently; "they would soon send
you home."

"I *have* no home," she cried, bursting into a wild
storm of weeping; "I don't know any of my people.
My papa and mama are dead, and there is no one who
wants me or cares for me!  Oh, don't leave me,
Mother Peniman, please, please take me with you!"

"Can you tell me the names of any of your
relatives, Nina?  Don't you remember your grandfather
or grandmother?  Haven't you any aunts or uncles or
cousins?  Who is there back there where you used to
live that you could go to?"

"I don't know, I don't know!" sobbed the child.
"I never knew any of them.  My grandma and
grandpa on Mama's side are both dead, and I think
Papa must have quarreled with his parents, for he
never talked about them.  We lived abroad 'most all
the time, and when we were in this country we lived
all by ourselves in New York."

"But can't you tell us the names of any people who
would know who your relatives are?  Your mother
said——"

"No, no, I can't, I can't!" sobbed the child.
"Everything was in the box Mama gave me.  She told
me that full particulars were in there.  I don't know
who they can send me to—I have no friends—no one
who loves me——"

Hannah Peniman looked at her husband over the
head that was buried on her breast.  The past few
months had drawn lines in the comely face, had silvered
the shining brown hair with threads of grey, and left
deep shadows in the sweet blue eyes.

"She doesn't know—she doesn't understand, the
poor lamb," she said tremulously.

"Oh, yes, I do know, yes I do understand," sobbed
the child.  "I know that my papa and mama are dead
and that I am left all alone in the world—I have no
one who loves or cares for me—and now you are
going to send me away—leave me all alone at a
Mission—and I'll die—I'll just *die*——"

Her voice had risen into a loud sobbing wail, and
the children in the other wagon heard it.  In a
twinkling Joe, Lige and Ruth were running back to
them.

"Mother—what's the matter with Princess—I heard
her crying," panted Ruth, scrambling into the wagon.

"They're going to leave me—leave me—at the
M-M-Mission," sobbed Princess.  "They're tired of
me—they don't love me—and they're going to send
me back h-h-home!"

Joe sprang into the wagon, his face looking strangely
pale and set.

"Leave her at a Mission?  Father—what does she mean?"

His father explained, as gently as he could, omitting,
for the sake of the little girl, the danger that
threatened them on her account, and which seemed to
be so relentlessly following her.

The child had thrown herself into Joe's arms, and he
listened with his arms clasped about her.

"It was the dying wish of her mother, Joe," Mr. Peniman
concluded.

"But she is dead—and Nina is alive.  If she doesn't
know her own people—if she doesn't want to go to
them—isn't it better that she should be allowed to do
what she wants to with her own life?"

"But the danger, Joe——"

Joe clasped his arms more tightly about her.  "I'll
take care of her, Father," he said, with an expression
that made the words like a vow.

A few hours later they reached Bellevue, the oldest
town in Nebraska, and once designed to be its capital,
and Mr. Peniman drove directly to the Mission.

They left Nina in the wagon with the other children
while they went inside.  What was said or done, what
discoveries they made, or what caused them to so
quickly reach a decision the children never knew; but
only a few minutes had passed before they saw them
returning, and Hannah Peniman's head was held high
and an angry spot was burning on either cheek as she
climbed into the wagon.

Nina, with tear-stained face and eyes swollen and
red with weeping, was clasped in Ruth's arms, and both
of them were crying together.  When they heard the
approach of Mr. and Mrs. Peniman Nina raised her
head with a gasping sob, but Mrs. Peniman bent over
her, took her in her arms and pressed her to her breast.

"Don't cry, poor lamb," she comforted, "thee
shall not be taken from us.  I believe your chances
are better with us than they would ever have been
there.  God took our baby daughter from us, and I
believe that He has given us thee to comfort us.  Cry
no more, dear child, thee shall stay with us, and our
fortunes shall be thy fortunes, to the end of the
chapter."

There was great joy in the wagons when the news
went forth that Princess was not to be taken from
them.  The children had all become devotedly attached
to their little comrade, and her happiness was
no greater than theirs when they learned that they
were not to be parted.  Mr. and Mrs. Peniman, too,
felt a great weight lifted from their hearts.

"He who never faileth us will guard her, Joshua,"
said Hannah Peniman, a mist in her brave blue eyes.
"I could never have found it in my conscience to
abandon the poor lamb.  She will be to us as one of
our own children, and I know that her mother will
rest more tranquilly there in her grave on the lonely
prairies knowing that her little one is with us.  Her
spirit will watch over her, her love will guide her
safely through all dangers and alarms."

"God grant that it may be so," answered Joshua
Peniman solemnly.





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.. _`NEBRASKA`:

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   CHAPTER X


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   NEBRASKA

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The Peniman family found the little town of
Bellevue the most pleasant and attractive
place they had struck in many days' travel,
and it comforted the hearts of the elders of the party
to find that after all Nebraska was not the treeless
and verdureless wilderness they had been led to expect.

Located on the banks of the great Missouri,
overlooking the green wood-crowned bluffs, with the soft
verdant valley winding its way below, they were not
surprised as they gazed upon it that the old fur-trader,
Manuel Lisa, had named it "belle vue," or "beautiful
view," so many years before.

This was the stopping-place of all the adventurers to
the far western land.  Trappers, traders, travelers and
prospective settlers all stopped here for rest and
refreshment before making the plunge into the wilderness
that lay beyond on the trackless plains.  Missionaries
here made their first attempt to civilize and
Christianize the Territory, and Mr. and Mrs. Peniman
found great comfort and solace in sitting again in a
church, even though not of their own particular faith,
and listening to the word of God.

They made their preparations to leave this last
anchor to civilization with much reluctance and regret.
They wished many times that they might consider their
journey ended here.  But the object of that journey
had been to so locate that each of their growing lads
might be enabled to homestead his 160 acres as soon
as he was old enough, and the bottom lands of the
Missouri were already pretty well squatted by trappers
and settlers.  So after a pleasant and restful day at
Bellevue they purchased the last essentials for their
home in the wilderness, loaded them into the Carroll
wagon, and started westward on the most trying and
perilous part of their journey.

They crossed the Platte River, a winding, shallow
stream twisting along over its flat sandy bottom, which
gave the Territory the Indian name of "Ne-bras-kah,"
or "Flat Water," and started across the prairies.

After leaving the Oregon Trail there was not even
a track to be seen on the prairies.  There was no road,
nor any sign of a road.  All to the westward seemed
an unbroken wilderness.  Meadow-larks sang in the
grass, deer or antelope now and then flitted across their
vision far away in the knee-high sage-brush, and their
eyes strained westward over an ocean of immensity
that looked as if it stretched away unbroken to the
very edge of the world.

They watched the sun go down that night as the
voyager sees it go down at sea, sinking inch by inch
with no obstructing obstacle between, until its red rim
sank below the horizon, leaving them alone on the vast
solitude of the prairies.

It was well for the family that they had carried
wood and water from their last camp at Bellevue, for
there was neither wood nor water in sight.

The wagons were drawn up in a semicircle, the cow
and horses placed inside, and the family gathered close
together about their supper table, as if feeling the need
of human contact in the vast loneliness that brooded
about them.

They woke the next morning with the blaze of sunshine
in their faces.  It was a marvelous thing, this
awakening on the silent unbroken surface of the plains,
with the sun coming up like a great crimson hogshead
over the flat rim of the earth, changing it from black
to grey, from grey to pink, from pink to rose and blue
and green and purple; and in all that great expanse,
over which the eye could travel in every direction to
the very limits of the horizon, to see no living creature
but each other.

The day was hot and cloudless, and as the wagons
bumped and crawled along through the grass something
of the dread silence and loneliness of the prairies
crept into their hearts, and a sort of awe came over
them.  The children found themselves dropping their
voices and speaking low, as if they were in church;
and Mr. and Mrs. Peniman avoided each other's eyes
and spoke but seldom, as their gaze stared out over
the interminable plains.

There were no trees in this land through which they
were now traveling, and the only bird that gladdened
their ears or eyes for many a long day to come were
the little meadow-larks, which perched upon a swaying
stalk or weed uttered its clear, gurgling melody.

One morning as they were jogging along, Lige, who
sat beside Joe in the wagon, suddenly jogged his arm.

"Look, Joe," he cried, "what are all those little
humps in the ground?  See, there are thousands of
them!  Aren't they queer?  Let's ask Father what
they are."

His father heard and smiled.  "Just watch," he
said.  "And Ruthie, thee and Sam and Paul should
watch, too.  Those are little houses, and some queer
little fellows live in them."

"What lives in them?" asked Joe.  At the same
moment Sam, who was lying on the beds in the back
of the wagon, stuck his head out of the rear curtains
and gave a squeal of delight.

"Oh, I see!" he shouted.  "Look at that queer
little feller sittin' right up on the roof of his house!
Come on out, Ruth, greatest sight you ever saw!
Queerest little things, bigger'n gophers and not
striped, just kind o' plain brown, with their arms
folded across their chests.  What in the world are
they, Father?"

"They are prairie dogs," answered Mr. Peniman.
"We are passing through what is called a 'prairie
dog town.'  I have read of them many times, but have
never seen them before."

They had stopped the teams, and the family all
scrambled out of the wagons to see this strange and
novel sight of a "town" in which nothing lived but
prairie dogs.

"Why, just see," cried Joe, "there are *millions* of
them!  Just look at that fellow over there, Ruth,
sitting up on the roof of his house scolding at us!"

And truly there did appear to be millions of them.
The whole surface of the ground as far as they could
see was dotted over with the queer little dome-like
houses, made of the clayey soil of the prairies thrown
up into small heaps or mounds; and on each sat a
small reddish-grey animal, a little larger than a squirrel,
with tail cocked up saucily over their backs, and paws
folded demurely across their fat little stomachs, gazing
with bright, bead-like eyes at the intruders, of whom
they did not seem to be in the least afraid.  On each
side of the face were pouches, in which they carry out
the dirt when burrowing the holes in which they live,
and in which they pouch nuts, roots, and other dainties.
They seemed filled with curiosity, and as they came
swarming up out of their holes to sit on the tops of
their houses, they made a peculiar barking noise,
something like the bark of a young puppy.

This amused the children immensely.  "How deep
are their holes, Father?" asked Sam.

"I have read that they are tunneled back long
distances, and that many of the underground passages
connect the mounds with one another.  I have also
read," he continued with a twinkle in his eyes, "that a
prairie dog, an owl, and a rattlesnake lives in every
hole."

"A *rattlesnake*?" cried Ruth.  "Wouldn't it bite
the prairie dogs?"

Joshua Peniman laughed.  "Well, I don't know,
Ruth, that is what I read; but my own opinion is that
as the main business of little Mrs. Prairie Dog is to
keep snakes and other varmints from eating her little
ones I hardly think she would tolerate a rattler in her
house.  But come now, jump in, we must not spend
any more time here.  No doubt there are many just
as interesting and curious things to see farther on."

They stopped early that night on account of the
heat, wanting to save the horses all they could.  A
strong wind came up about sundown, which soon grew
to be a gale, and which almost blew them off their feet
as they scampered about on the prairie trying to find
something of which to make their fire.

It was their first taste of the "Nebraska zephyrs,"
of which they were to see so much later on, and it
kept the whole family busy chasing about after hats
and bonnets, brooms, dish-pans, and all sorts of things
that blew out of the wagons.

"I can't find anything to build a fire of, Mother,"
cried Joe after a vain search, "there's nothing out
here, only wind and grass.  Don't you think we'd
better use some of our stored-up wood?"

Lige, who was just returning from a prolonged
chase after Ruth's sunbonnet, suddenly stopped short
and pointed away across the prairies.  Joe turned and
looked, then remained staring.

"What in the name of goodness——" he ejaculated.

"Look, Mother, what are those things over there?"
called Lige.  "Do you think they are some kind of
animals?"

"Sheep!" ventured Sam, staring away intently toward
where a number of dark objects were moving
rapidly toward them from the south.

"No, they're too small for sheep," said Mrs. Peniman,
puckering her forehead and narrowing her eyes;
"what in the world *are* they?"

"They've got a queer gait," cried Joe, "and they're
coming a-whizzing.  Could they be wild turkeys?"

"Oh, no, they're not fowl of any kind."

"Will they bite, Mother?" queried little Mary.

"Maybe they're coyotes," suggested Paul.

Just then Mr. Peniman, who had been out looking
after the horses, appeared.

"Look, Father, what are those things over
yonder?" cried Lige.

Mr. Peniman shaded his eyes with his hand and
gazed intently out over the prairies.  Then he began
to laugh.

"Hurry up, boys," he cried, "here's the stuff for
your fire coming to you!  Catch as much of it as you
can as it goes by, for I warn you that with this wind
it won't wait long on anybody."

"But what is it, Father?" asked Joe curiously.

"It is called 'tumble-weed.'  It is a sort of bush,
with a small, slender stalk.  During the summer this
bush grows almost round, and when the fibre of the
plant dries the stalk becomes brittle and the first hard
wind breaks it off; then the bush rolls over and over
across the plains, sometimes traveling for miles before
a high wind."

"Oh-h," cried Lige, with a falling inflection of
disappointment in his voice, "I thought it might be
something interesting."

"So it is something interesting," said Mrs. Peniman.
"Did you ever see a more interesting sight than
that?  It looks like a Lilliputian army marching
toward us!  Hurry up everybody, get in line, let's stop
all we can.  I know they will make a splendid fire."

Always ready for anything new the children hastened
to form in a line, even down to small David, who
was continually being blown off his short legs.  As
the tumble-weeds came toward them, rolling over and
over before the strong south wind, they had a great
game, stopping them, chasing after them and running
them down, while Mr. Peniman piled them up and
threw a horse-blanket over them to keep them from
blowing away.

It was a great romp, and the children shrieked with
laughter as they all chased after the strange, grotesque
bundles, with the wind beating in their faces and
almost carrying them away.

"Whew! that's more fun than pom-pom-pull-away!"
puffed Lige, throwing himself flat on a great
tumble-weed which was trying hard to elude him.  And
Mrs. Peniman, with her hair blown down and her
cheeks as red as Ruth's, declared it was the liveliest
game she had taken part in for many a long day.

When broken up and crowded under the pot and
into the little sheet-iron camp-stove they found it
excellent fuel.  It burned out quickly, but made a hot
fire, little smoke, and saved the precious store of
firewood so laboriously gathered up and so carefully
hoarded for emergencies.

That night the moon was full, and the boys begged
to sleep in their blankets outside.  As the night was
very hot and it was close and stifling under the canvas
their mother gave her consent.  The dry prairie grass
made a good mattress, and rolled up in their blankets
like old campaigners they lay looking up into the
wonderful night sky for a long time before they could fall
asleep.

At last the fatigues of the day and the deep quiet
of the prairies lulled them to rest.  Sam and Lige
were fast asleep and Joe was beginning to doze, when
there came to his ears a sound so weird, so blood-curdling
that he sprang up, his heart beating heavily.

His first instinct was to grab for his musket.
Spotty was standing up, with hair bristling and lips
drawn back, growling fiercely.

The wagons were, as was their custom these days,
drawn up into a semicircle, and the boys were lying
within it close to the big wagon.  Just back of the
wagon the three teams of horses were picketed, and
just beyond them the cow.

As Joe stood listening intently, his musket in his
hand, he heard the horses begin to plunge and snort.

He glanced at his father, but the sight of the thin,
tired face of the sleeping man stopped him.

For a moment all was silent as the grave.  Then
again came the long, hoarse, raucous cry.

He stooped and shook Lige.

"Wake up," he whispered in his ear, "there's
something after the horses!"

Lige woke with a start, and grabbed his rifle as he
sprang to his feet.

"Where?" he whispered.  At the same moment the
howling was repeated, and the horses back of the
wagons began to rear and snort with fear.  Suddenly
the cow sent forth a terrified bellow.

With musket over his shoulder Joe dashed between
the wagons, followed by Lige.

The moon was at its full, and the flat surface of the
prairies was dimly visible all about them.  Outlined
against the horizon they saw a number of gaunt,
shadowy forms flitting silently.  At no great distance
from them a creature, larger than a big dog, sat up on
its haunches and with head raised to the moon uttered
a long, wailing howl.

From far away across the prairie it was answered,
and while they stood listening the night grew hideous
by the calling and answering of the deep-chested howl
of grey wolves.

"Wolves—grey wolves!" whispered Joe, "they are
after the horses!"

Presently as they stood with suspended breath dim
grey shapes came gliding across the prairies toward
them.

Almost as he spoke they heard the cow give a terrified
bellow, and heard her tugging wildly at her rope.

"The cow, the cow!" shouted Lige, and together
the boys leaped forward.

They saw the poor animal crouched and cringing
with terror, and as they sprang forward, gun at
shoulder, they saw a huge, gaunt grey figure leap at her
throat.

Scarcely waiting to aim, Joe shot.  The reverberation
had scarcely ceased when his father was at his side.

"What is it?" he cried.

"Wolves—wolves!  They are after the horses—they
almost got the cow!" shouted Lige, and fired
again into the shadows, where he could make out the
slinking grey figures.

Joe too was loading and firing.  The horses, half
mad with terror, were rearing and snorting, and the
cow plunged in wide circles, blowing and bellowing
with fear.

Mr. Peniman, musket in hand, ran to them, but the
wolves had been frightened away.  He found two
great, gaunt, grey marauders dead, but the others,
frightened by the shots, had disappeared as swiftly and
silently as shadows.

The boys were greatly disappointed to find that they
had not killed more of the midnight thieves.  "There
were such a lot of them," cried Joe; "what became of
the rest?  I thought I would kill half a dozen at least."

"Wolves are great cowards.  When they heard the
shots they probably made off with all speed.  I think
you did exceedingly well to get two in this uncertain
light.  Too bad we can't skin these fellows and keep
the pelts as souvenirs of your first wolves.  But you
will no doubt have the chance to get plenty more, so
we will let these fellows go.  We'll have to watch for
them after this.  It would have been a bad lookout for
us if they had got the horses or the cow."

This incident served to show the pioneers that other
dangers than those of Indian raids menaced their night
camp on the plains, and served to make them more
watchful than ever.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE PRAIRIE FIRE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PRAIRIE FIRE

.. vspace:: 2

A few days later the travelers drove into a
dreary, straggling little settlement of a few
log and sod shanties on a little stream called
Salt Creek.  Here they spent the night, glad of the
company of other white settlers.  There was a general
store in the little settlement, at which Joshua Peniman
bought a barrel of salt pork, a barrel of flour,
sugar, coffee, rice, tea, beans, dried peas, and a bucket
of lard and a firkin of butter.

"I am doubtful," he said as he loaded them into his
wagon, "whether we will come to another place where
we could get supplies."

Early the next morning they loaded up their wagons,
bade farewell to the other movers, and struck off
across the trackless prairies.

It was still early, and the drum of the prairie-chickens
came to their ears across the silence of the
plains.  Joe and Lige took their guns and went in
search of them, and soon returned with a couple of
fine young hens, which Mrs. Peniman cooked for their
dinner.

A strong, hot south wind was blowing, which
toward evening increased to a gale.  Even the shadows
of night did not bring relief from the heat, which
seemed to increase rather than diminish.  Mrs. Peniman
could not sleep.  With a feeling of suffocation
and uneasiness upon her she tossed from side to side.
The air was hot and close, and in her nostrils there was
a pungent smell.  With the instinct of danger strong
upon her she sprang up, and jumping out of the wagon
looked about her.

Off to the south the sky was red, and straining her
eyes through the darkness she saw, low against the
horizon, a leaping tongue of flame.

She ran to where her husband lay sleeping.
"Joshua," she whispered, laying her hand on his arm,
"Joshua, wake up!  I smell smoke, and away over
yonder I think I see a fire——"

"*Fire!*" the sleeping man was wide awake and on
his feet in a moment.  "Fire?  Where?"

Mrs. Peniman pointed.

For an instant he stood staring at the little tongues
of flame that licked up over the horizon, then sprang
to the pickets and began untying the horses.

"Prairie fire!" he cried.  "And there's no telling
where it will stop in this wind!  Call the boys!"

When the boys were roused he gave them no time
to ask questions.  In quick, nervous tones he issued
his orders.

"Hitch up as quick as you can, Joe," he shouted,
"there's a prairie fire over yonder!  Lige, get up the
black team.  Sam, run and bring in the cow.  Pack
those things in the wagons, Hannah, never mind order
now.  Ruth, get a couple of pails of water out of the
kegs.  Paul, pull up those stake-pins, wind up the ropes
and throw them in the wagons!  Hurry, hurry, all of
you, we haven't a moment to lose!"

Working with feverish haste he turned often and
glanced at the line of red on the horizon.

"It's miles away yet," he said in a low voice to his
wife; "we may be able to get out of its path, but with
this wind——"

He stopped abruptly, then leaping into the wagon
shouted, "Come on, in with you, never mind those
things, Hannah, never mind anything now!  The
wind has changed, and that fire will be down upon us
in less than half an hour.  Whip up your horses, boys,
don't spare them now!  With that fire behind us——"

He leaned forward as he spoke and lashed his team;
the horses plunged forward with a leap that made the
wagon careen.

Over the coarse prairie grass they fled, the horses
straining and plunging, while they looked continually
behind them to where the red line had left the horizon
now and was creeping toward them, the red tongues of
flame leaping higher and higher as they caught the dry
grass and rosin weeds.

The air grew suffocatingly hot, and before long
particles of burned grass and weeds, carried by the
gale, began to fall about them.

"Watch that nothing catches fire in the wagon,
Hannah," shouted Joshua Peniman, bending forward
and laying the whip across the backs of the petted team
that had scarcely ever felt a blow in their lives
before.  "Watch the children's clothing.  Have wet
cloths handy!"

The wind, a gale before, now seemed to have
increased in fury, and before it the fire leaped and
roared like a furnace.

"Faster, Joe, faster!" yelled his father; "it's gaining
on us, we've got to reach a stream or draw of some
kind——"

Leaning far forward on his seat with the whip in his
hand and the reins clutched hard, Joe did not wait for
the finish of the sentence.  With voice and whip and
lines he urged the horses forward, shouting at them,
shaking the lines over their straining backs, whirling
the whip about their heads, as in a blinding reek of
smoke and dust they thundered on, while closer and
closer behind them came the roaring flames.

The horses were soon panting and lathered with
sweat, staggering and stumbling under the strain of
the heavy wagons, and poor Cherry, fastened on
behind, was almost pulled off her feet, and slid and
stumbled bawling wildly.

The whole sky was illuminated now, and the air so
filled with smoke that they could hardly breathe.
Behind them the ominous crackling and snapping of dry
grass grew louder and louder, as the fire, fanned by
the high wind, rushed through the tall, dry prairie
grass with the velocity of a cyclone.

All at once without decreasing the pace of his horses,
Mr. Peniman stood up in the wagon and looked back.

They heard him utter a sharp, inarticulate sound,
and the horses were stopped with a jerk that almost
threw them upon their haunches.

"No use," he shouted, leaping out, "we can never
make it!  Got to fight it out here!  *Out everybody*,
and fight for your lives!"

Joe and Lige stopped their teams, and drawing the
wagons up together they leaped out and tied their
teams to the rings in the side of the other wagon.

"The kegs!" shouted Joshua Peniman, "roll out
the kegs, and those gunny-sacks!  We've got to
back-fire, it's our only chance now!"

With frantic haste the boys rolled out the precious
kegs of water, while Mrs. Peniman, with an instinctive
knowledge of what to do, threw out a couple of
brooms, some old coats, and a bundle of gunny-sacks.

The children, aroused at the first call of danger, had
all gotten into their clothes by this time.  With their
heads enveloped in wet towels, wet brooms and gunny-sacks
in their hands, they stood ready to do as their
father commanded.

Having secured the horses firmly to the wagons
Joshua Peniman rushed back over the way they had
come for some two hundred feet, and called the family
to him.

"We've got to set a back-fire here," he shouted;
"watch it closely, don't let it get away from you, and
beat out every tongue of fire that tries to get beyond
you.  Have your brooms and sacks ready.  *Now!*"

The whole family, with the exception of Mary and
David, who had been left asleep in the wagons with
Spotty to guard them, were now lined up at a distance
of some two hundred yards nearer to the oncoming fire
than the wagons.  It required courage for young
people who had never, until they had begun this journey,
encountered real danger, to face the roaring wall of
flame that rushed toward them, but they were well
disciplined and obeyed their father's orders implicitly.

Seeing that they were all in readiness Joshua
Peniman stooped and put a match to the grass at his feet.
Instantly it leaped into a flame.  He let it burn a little
way, then whipped out the edges, making a straight
track of fire of about a hundred and fifty feet wide.
This Joe instantly recognized as a "fire-guard."  Then
backing up a few steps at a time, and keeping the
flames under control, they let this second or
"back-fire" burn toward the wagon, leaving between them
and the oncoming wall of flame a large area of burned-over
ground.  This they continued to do until they had
described a complete circle about the wagons.

"Watch out there, Joe, keep your eye to the right
there," yelled Mr. Peniman, black and smoke-begrimed
and beating with all his might at a vicious tongue of
flame that threatened to get beyond him.  "Look out
there, Lige!  Nina, be careful to keep your skirts out
of the fire!  Watch behind you, Sam; better wet your
broom again!  Beat out that fire on your left there,
Hannah!"

With her skirts pinned up about her, her hair blown
down, and her sleeves rolled to her elbows, Mrs. Peniman
wielded broom and sack, beating and firing as she
went backwards, step at a time.

"Oh, Mother, will it get us?" cried Ruth, as a great
gust of wind enveloped them in smoke and increased
the roar and crackle of the flames that rushed toward
them.

"Don't be frightened, Ruthie," she shouted above
the wind.  "Keep your broom going!  Don't stop to
look.  God will take care of us.  Watch your side
there, Nina; beat it out—*beat it out*!  Here, Sam,
come here and work by Nina; she needs help!"

As Sam left his station she ran to where he had
been and with furious strokes of broom and sack beat
out the fire that was creeping away from them.

Back-firing and beating out the flames as they went,
they gradually worked back toward the wagons,
leaving behind them a smoking black ring nearly two
hundred feet in circumference.

Their faces and hands were black and blistered, their
feet scorched, their eyes burning and smarting, and
their lungs wheezed with the effort to breathe through
the suffocating smoke and ashes that filled the air.

The horses, half-wild with terror, were rearing and
plunging, and poor Cherry running madly in circles as
far as her rope permitted.

"Run to the horses, Joe," shouted his father, after
a swift backward glance at the wagons.  "Put wet
sacks over their heads and throw wet blankets over
them!  Lige, here, you take Joe's place!  Watch out
there, Mother, beat out that fire on thy right!"

Joe threw down his sack and ran with all speed to
the horses.  With soothing words and pats he did his
best to quiet them, throwing their blankets over their
backs to protect them from flying sparks, and enveloping
their heads in wet sacks, wrung from the precious
and fast-disappearing kegs of water.

He had difficulty in getting near enough to the
distracted Cherry to do anything for her, but after a wild
struggle, during which he was dragged in a wide circle
by her rope, he succeeded in getting a wet sack over her
head and a blanket on her back.  The chickens were
squawking and the little pigs squealing in their boxes,
and he stopped long enough to throw a bucketful of
water over them, and pitch a tarpaulin over their boxes.
Then he rushed back to the wildly beating family.

As they backed and fired they began to see outside
the ring of fire grey spectral shapes dashing by in the
shadows, running madly, frantically, with the terror of
the crackling flames behind.

All at once the ground under their feet seemed to
tremble, and the horses, crouching and shivering with
terror, began again to rear and plunge.

Dropping his sack Joe ran to the heads of one, Lige
to the other, while Mr. Peniman dashed to the heads of
the third team.

"To the wagons, to the wagons!" he shouted, and
saw his wife and the other children drop their sacks
and dash for the wagons as the quaking of the ground
and a great roar like that of an approaching cyclone
rose above the crackling of the flames.

"What is it?  What is it?" shouted Joe, terror-stricken.

"*Buffaloes!*" yelled his father.  "Stampeded by
the fire!  Get your guns—fire into them as they
come—please God our back-fire may keep us from being
trampled by them!"

There was a moment of awful suspense, while the
ground beneath their feet seemed to rock and tremble
with the impact of the wildly charging herd.  Through
the smoke and dust they could make out a great mass
of enormous reddish-brown bodies being hurled madly
forward before the pursuing flames.  Then the terrified
creatures made a wide circle to avoid the black
ring of burned ground, which they seemed to fear, and
the herd of buffaloes, grim, monstrous shapes in the
dusk of early morning, thundered by and passed out of
sight.

When the circle of back-fire was completed the
nearly exhausted family leaned for a moment on their
wet brooms to breathe.  The last of the water in the
kegs went to wet blankets and tarpaulins to spread over
the canvas covers of the wagons, and as the flames
swept toward them they took their stand about the
wagons, still armed with their wet brooms and sacks,
to make a last struggle against the fire that came
crackling and rushing toward them.





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.. _`A NEBRASKA DUGOUT`:

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   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A NEBRASKA DUGOUT

.. vspace:: 2

With the roar of a tornado the prairie fire
swept down upon them.

The high grass, dry as tinder after the
long hot spell, burned as if covered with turpentine.

The tall rosin-weeds and sunflowers, blazing like
torches, sent up showers of sparks that the wind
carried through the air, setting fresh fires and raining
down upon the travelers, burning their clothes and
singeing their faces and hair.

Once Mrs. Peniman's calico apron caught fire, but
she tore it off and trampled it under her feet.

At times it looked as if the wall of flame must leap
the narrow boundary of burned-over ground and sweep
down upon them, destroying them all in the roaring
furnace that raced toward them.

The heat grew fiercer; the horses screamed and
tugged at their halters, the cow bellowed pitifully, and
the little pigs at the back of the wagon squealed as if
the knife of the executioner were at their throats.

For a moment the flames seemed to fairly tower
over them, hissing and crackling in its wrath.

*Would it leap the back-fire?*

The hearts of the pioneers almost stopped breathing.
An agonized prayer went up from the hearts of the
parents that they and their little ones might be spared.

Then the wall of flame flickered, fell—and swept on
around them.

Their back-fire had saved them.

With cracked and parching lips they uttered prayers
of thanksgiving, and worn out with the struggle let
sacks and brooms drop from their nerveless hands and
stood still.

They realized now for the first time the extent of
their exhaustion.  They felt the pain of their burned
hands, their scorched faces, their parched and burning
throats.

Daylight came before they were able to realize the
fact that they were saved.

The broadening light revealed a sad and dismal
prospect.  If the prairie had seemed monotonous to them
before in its sombre dress of grey, and brown, and
green, it seemed desolate beyond all description now,
covered as far as the eye could see with a pall of
funereal blackness.

Suffering as they were with burns and thirst it was
noon before the ground was cool enough so that they
could drive over the still smoking prairies.

All the afternoon they drove, straining their eyes in
every direction for the sight of a town, a house, a sign
of shade and water.

As fast as possible they veered away from the
burned district, and about sundown got out of the track
of the fire and onto the brown dry prairies.

Back of them and far away to the south and east
they could still see the devastating trail of the fire, but
away to the north and west the wind had turned the
direction of the flames and the prairie remained
untouched by its fury.

It was a tremendous relief to escape from the
scorched and blackened ground, the stifling smell of
burned grass, the acrid smoke that made their eyes
smart and water and their throats sting, and to drive
out on the unscorched prairies, which, hot as they were,
seemed cool in comparison.

It was nearing nightfall when they saw, not far
away, a small column of smoke rising in the air.
Joshua Peniman scanned it with eager eyes.

"It might be an Indian camp," said his wife anxiously.

"White men or red we must have water to-night,"
he said, and drove on.

As they drew nearer they saw a low, squat outline
against a small rise in the ground, and from it rose a
stove-pipe, from which the smoke they had seen was
coming.

"What is it?" called Joe.  "Is it an Indian's hut?"

"No, thank God," cried Joshua Peniman fervently;
"no Indians live there.  It must be a dugout,
and if it is white people are living in it."

He clucked to the horses and drove eagerly forward.

As they approached the low, dark object they saw
that it had a roof, and that the sides were dug back
in the rise of ground behind it.  They could also see
that it had two windows in front, and a door, which
was thrown open as they drew nearer, and a tall,
raw-boned red-haired woman with a good-natured freckled
face stood framed in the opening.

"Wal of all things!" she ejaculated, "if it ain't a
bunch o' emigrants!  Hello, mister, where'd you come
from?"

"From Ohio," called out Joshua Peniman, and made
all possible haste toward the dugout.

As the wagon drew up before the door she looked
at its occupants, then laughed aloud.

"Fer th' land sakes," she cried; "what be ye?  Air
ye niggers or Mexicans or Portuguese, or what?"

"We're Americans—and white," said Mr. Peniman
laughing, as he leaped from the wagon.  "At least we
were white once, and we hope to be again.  We've just
escaped with our lives from a terrible prairie fire, and
are covered with its smoke and grime."

"Lord save us!" ejaculated the woman.  "Was
you in the track o' that fire?  We been watchin' it all
day.  We was skeered it might ketch us, but the
wind wa'n't in th' right direction.  Them prairie fires
is terrible things.  We mighty nigh got burned out
last fall."

"We used all the water we had fighting fire," Mr. Peniman
continued, "and are all suffering from thirst.
I wonder if you could let us have a little drinking
water?"

"*Kin* I?  Wal I should say I could!  Me an' Jim
never turned a thirsty man or woman or horse or dog
away from our place yit!  Git out, git out, all of ye!
We've got a good well and you can have all the water
ye want to drink and wash up, too, and I will say you
sure do need it."

The travelers came scrambling out of the wagon,
and there were tears of relief and gratitude in Hannah
Peniman's eyes.

"Jim," a husky-looking pioneer over six feet tall,
with a good-humored sunburned face and a shock of
tow-colored hair sticking up through a hole in his hat,
came hurrying up at this moment, drawn from his
work in his cornfield near by by the unwonted sight of
a caravan of moving wagons before his door.  As he
came he cast a sharp, inquiring look at the company of
sooty, grimy individuals gathered before his dugout.

"We aren't quite such desperate characters as we
appear," saluted Joshua Peniman with his pleasant
smile.  "We have barely escaped with our lives from
a prairie fire, had to use all the water we had, and have
had no chance to wash.  My name is Peniman—Joshua
Peniman, a Quaker, from the Muskingum Valley in
Ohio, and these are my wife and children."

"Glad t' meet ye, Mr. Peniman," said the pioneer,
extending a hairy, work-worn hand.  "So you was
in the track o' that fire, was ye?  Sa-ay, I wonder ye
ever got out alive.  It was sure a fire, all right.  Me
an' the old woman been watchin' it.  Thought fer a
spell it might come this way, but th' wind favored us.
Glad ye got through all right.  Ye sure have got a
likely-lookin' family.  My name's Ward—Jim Ward.
B'en out here goin' on three years.  Homesteaded a
piece o' land back here that ye can't beat in the hull
nation.  Travelin' across country?  Be'n pretty hot,
ain't it?  But that's what makes good corn.  We're
going to have a hummer of a crop this season.  But
come in, come in!  Ye shore do look all tuckered out.
Wife'll git ye chairs, an' I'll go out an' draw up some
fresh water.  I reckon ye must be dry."

When the thirst of the family had been satisfied they
felt greatly refreshed, and for the first time began to
look about them.  Mrs. Ward saw the curious glances
the young people were casting about the queer-looking
underground house and burst into a good-natured laugh.

"I'll bet you folks ain't never seen a dugout
before," she exclaimed jovially.  "Well it's sure a queer
way to live, but me an' Jim think it's a good way—to
begin with.  We ain't always goin' to live this way,
but a dugout's safe from cyclones and blizzards and
Indians, an' it's warm in winter an' cool in
summer—an' what more does a pioneer want?"

"I see that it has great advantages," said Joshua
Peniman gazing with interest about the dwelling.  "Do
you see how it is done, Hannah?  You see they have
chosen a place where there is a rise in the ground,
and have dug back into the earth so that the house is
protected on every side but the front.  You have had
to build up side walls, of course, where the earth slopes
away, and a front wall, but that was all.  I see how
safe and sheltered it must be, both from weather and
possible enemies."

"Yes, an' a feller has to think a heap about both o'
them out here," said Jim Ward, standing with his
hands in his pockets and his legs wide apart as the
travelers admired his dwelling.

The excavation, which was about twenty by thirty
feet square, was dug back into the bank of a piece of
rolling ground on the prairie, and made into a chamber
about nine feet high.  The entire rear part of the
dwelling was protected by the embankment, and a part
of the sides, while a stout, thick wall of sods was
built up on the sides and in front, in which was let a
door and two windows.  An ivy-vine was trained up
over the window casements, clean white curtains
shaded the spotless panes, which had broad sills, upon
which were placed pots of geraniums in full bloom.

The floor was made of matched flooring, and was as
white as hands could make it, with braided rag rugs
spread before the shining stove and the red-covered
table, upon which were a Bible, a vase of wild-flowers,
and a shining lamp.  In a corner of the room was a
large double bed, made up with a spotless blue-and-white
patchwork counterpane, and "shams," elaborately
worked in red cotton, with "Good Night" on
one pillow and "Good Morning" on the other.  At
the other end of the room was a shining cook-stove,
with a tea-kettle steaming cozily upon it, and a row of
packing cases, which had been placed one on top of
another and cleverly converted into a kitchen cupboard.

"It's wonderfully clean and cozy and comfortable-looking,"
exclaimed Mrs. Peniman.  "I wonder how
you keep it so.  I would not dream that a house just
dug into the ground could be so attractive."

"Lots of 'em ain't," vouchsafed Jim Ward.  "Some
of the folks that come out here is content to live like
pigs.  But me an' Mary ain't.  She always was a good
housekeeper, an' she keeps this place so nice I
sometimes almost forgit we live in a dugout."

"Now you quit talkin', Jim," put in "Mary," "and
go an' draw up a tubful o' fresh water.  I reckon these
folks don't want nothin' so much in this world as a
bath.  I'll set a wash-tub out in th' back yard, an'
when it comes dark ye can all take a bath.  I sh'd
think ye could begin now with th' little fellers."

One after another the Peniman family slipped out
and took their turn in the tub in the back yard, and it
was indeed a cleansed and changed family that
gathered at last on the "front stoop," as Jim Ward
facetiously called the hard, beaten place before the door.

When supper was over they sat on the "stoop" until
the moon rose, listening eagerly to the many curious
and interesting tales the pioneer homesteader and his
wife had to tell.

"Has thee ever been troubled with Indians, friend
Ward?" asked Joshua Peniman, a bit anxiously.

"No," answered the pioneer, "we ain't never had
any trouble with 'em.  A lot of the settlers has, but
I've always figgered it was their own fault.  We've
been livin' out here three years now, an' we've never
had a thing stolen or molested or a bit o' trouble
ourselves."

"But why haven't you?" demanded Joe, "when the
others have?"

"Because I've always figgered on treatin' the
Indians like they was *human*.  Some folks treats 'em
worse'n dogs.  Good land, this is their country, ain't
it?  They was here first!  Us folks that comes in now
is just takin' what they've owned for God knows how
many years.  Ain't it so?"

"Yes," said Joshua Peniman, "it is.  I have always
felt so.  But we have so often been warned of danger——"

"An' there *is* danger; don't ye ever forgit that.
Some o' these here Indians is bad medicine.  They're
mad about havin' white settlers come in, an' they'll
plug ye the fust chance they get.  But I figger that
Indians is jest like other folks.  Some is bad an' some
good—they're all just human.  Me an' Mary has
always thought if we treated them all right they'd treat
us right.  So fur it's worked all right."

During the long talk that Mr. Peniman had with Jim
Ward after the women and children had retired to get
ready for bed, he discussed land and locations, and
when the family set forth the next morning it was with
the firm intention of going to the northwestern part of
Nebraska, where the land along the Niobrara was
particularly recommended, and where there were still
thousands of acres of government land to be
homesteaded upon for the choice.

They bade their kind host and hostess a reluctant
good-bye, and having promised that they would write
them when they had arrived at their destination they
started on, turning to wave their hands again and again
to the last white people they were to see for many a
long day.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MINNE-TO-WAUK-PALA`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MINNE-TO-WAUK-PALA

.. vspace:: 2

It was with the greatest reluctance that the
travelers parted with Jim Ward and his good-natured
wife.  For many days they had seen no other
human beings, and the relief of being with and talking
with them was so great that it took a determined effort
to leave the cheerful dugout and its occupants and turn
their faces once more toward the uninhabited plains.

They had traveled but a few miles in the calm clear
light of morning when they saw not a quarter of a mile
ahead of them thirty or forty beautiful antelope.  They
were cantering across the prairie, their little white
cotton tails shining in the sunshine, the light gleaming
on their pretty dappled sides.  They were playing and
leaping, and their curious antics made the boys shout
with laughter.

"Wonderful chance to get an antelope," said Lige
with shining eyes; but Joe shook his head.  "Could
you shoot one of those beautiful creatures?" he asked.
"I swear I couldn't."

The antelope seemed to have but little fear of them,
and cantered along for some distance, stopping now
and then to crop the grass.  After a time they raced
away toward the south, and were lost to view.

It was now well on in August.  Even at the early
hour at which they had started there was a scorching
wind blowing, and as the day advanced the sun beat
down on the prairies from a cloudless sky with an
intensity that promised a day of intolerable heat.

The family dispensed with every garment possible,
and sat under the canvas covers fairly parching with
heat, while the hot wind seemed fairly to scorch the
prairies, and to burn and shrivel their skins.

Many times during the day they had to stop the
horses, and at last Joe conceived the idea of making
pads for their heads from the prairie grass, which he
kept wet with water, brought from the well of the
hospitable Wards.

It was toward three o'clock in the afternoon, at the
very hottest part of the day, that Mrs. Peniman
looking out of the front of the wagon suddenly exclaimed
aloud.

"Why," she cried, "look, look, Joshua, there is a
lake before us!"

Mr. Peniman, who was half-dozing on his seat,
started wide awake.

"A *lake*?" he cried.  "A lake in this country?  Where?"

"Why, see, over there," pointing ahead of them, "a
beautiful blue lake!  See how the water ripples in the
sunshine?"

The children, roused from the dull stupor into which
they had fallen, were all crowding to the front of the
wagon to look out.  Joe and Lige on the high seats of
the two other wagons craned their necks to see.  They
all set up a great hurrahing, but Mr. Peniman, after
one long look, said nothing.

Suddenly his wife, who had been gazing with
steadfast gaze at the entrancing sight, caught his arm.

"Joshua"—she cried,—"that lake—it looks very
strange to me!  Could it be that—I have read—oh,
could it be that there is no lake—that it is—that it
is——"

He laid his hand over hers with a tender,
sympathetic pressure.

"Yes, dear heart, I hate to dispel thy illusion, but
there is no lake there.  It is a mirage."

"A *mirage*?  What's a mirage, Father?" asked
Sam, his face reflecting his bitter disappointment.

"It is just an air-picture, my son, an optical illusion."

"You mean"—cried Joe, incredulously—"you mean
that there is no lake there?  Why, how can that be,
Father?  We can *see* it; it is right there before our
eyes——"

Mr. Peniman shook his head wearily.

"It is a trick of the plains," he said.  "It almost
seems that its only purpose is to torture and mislead
thirsty travelers like ourselves."

"But if it isn't a lake," propounded Lige, "what is
it?  We see it, it is there before us——"

"But don't you notice, my boy, that the trees that
appear to surround it are upside down?"

The whole family gazed fixedly at the supposed "lake."

Blue as the heavens, ruffled by the breath of early
morning, surrounded by waving trees, it lay tantalizingly
before their eyes.

"I have never seen a mirage before," said Mr. Peniman,
"but I know that they are a common occurrence
on the plains, and in all arid and desert country.  They
are due to a condition existing in the atmosphere,
caused by the reflection of light.  What we see over
there is probably the reflection of the sky, and as the
reflection surface is irregular and constantly varies its
position the reflected image will be constantly varying,
and is what gives it the appearance of a body of water
ruffled by the wind."

For a time the mirage endured, tantalizing them
with its beauty, then suddenly faded, the alluring vision
disappeared, and its place was filled by the parched
grass of the prairies.

It was a bitter disappointment, the more bitter
because of the hope it had aroused in their breasts.

Toward evening they saw, outlined against the
western sky, two emigrant wagons crawling along over the
plains.  But so great was the distance, so wide and
expressionless the plains that they scarcely seemed to
move forward, but to remain stationary against the
brazen sky.

There was no sign of shade or water on all the great
expanse as the sun went down, and having traveled
until twilight had fallen they made their night camp on
the dry, barren prairie, with stars and sky and grass
their only company.

They had now been two months on the road, and
both horses and individuals were feeling the strain.

The horses were stiff, thin and lame, the cow a mere
bag of bones, and the children cross and fretful.

Mrs. Peniman had lost her round curves and pretty
complexion, and her husband's beard had grown long,
and he was so brown and sinewy that his friends in
Ohio would scarcely have known him.

They were all heartily tired of the weary crawling
and jolting of the wagons across the barren prairies,
and rose with aching heads and dragging limbs and
moved wearily about the business of getting under
way again without enthusiasm.

The day came up, as do so many days upon the
western prairies, with a cloudless sky, blue as amethyst,
and a sun that rode triumphant in a blazing chariot
from rim to rim of a blistering world.

At noon the teams were so exhausted that the travelers
were obliged to stop and unhitch them, leading
them into the shade of the wagons to relieve them for
a while from the rays of the broiling sun.

As the hot afternoon sun climbed into the heavens
the very prairies seemed to drowse and sleep.  Over
their heads a few buzzards flapped lazily, and before
them the gauzy heat-waves rose from the ground
shimmering and dancing while the slow, monotonous klop,
klop, klop of the horses' feet was the only sound to be
heard.

Inside the wagons David and Mary had fallen
asleep, Ruth and Nina, with their heads upon their
sun-browned arms, had passed away into dreamland, Sam
read, Lige dozed, Joe was nodding over his book, and
even Mr. Peniman was drowsing.

Only Mrs. Peniman, sitting upon the front seat of
the wagon, with her chin in her hands, and her eyes
fixed on the distant horizon, was awake.

Thoughts were too busy in the aching head under
the faded sunbonnet to let her sleep.

No one—not the husband so close at her side, not
the children about whom the chords of her heart were
knit—knew what this journey into the wilderness was
costing her.

The lonely little mound back there on the prairies
was seldom out of her mind, and the homesick longing
for her home and her mothers and sisters so far away
in the East, was sometimes almost more than she could
bear.

As the thoughts of her lost baby, and all that she had
left behind back there in that sweet and verdant
country crossed her mind, hot tears rushed into her eyes.
She blinked them resolutely away.  She thought at
first as she looked up that it was the tears that blinded
her.  Then as she wiped them away she drew a little
gasping breath and looked—and looked again.  At first
her heart gave a great leap, then sank down drearily as
she thought of the experience of the previous afternoon.

With a determined effort she turned her head away.
Then when the torture of suspense would be no longer
borne, she looked back.

Away on the distant western horizon there was a
bluish haze.

She laid her hand very gently on her husband's arm.

"Joshua," she whispered, "I hate to rouse thee, but—look
off there to the west; what is it we see?  Is it—is
it another mirage?  It looks as if there were trees
there.  I have been looking and looking, but I was
afraid to speak.  I hated to awaken your hopes—it is
so hard——"

The weary man roused himself.  With hands
clasped above his eyes he gazed off over the prairies.

After a long interval he said, '"I think—I believe—it
*does* look like timber!  Of course it is a long way off
yet—but——"

His voice ceased, as he fixed his whole attention on
the horizon.

Presently he spoke again, this time more decidedly.

"I believe there is a patch of timber over there.
There must be a stream of some sort near.  Don't
wake the children, let them sleep; we will make for it
as fast as we can."

Pushing the limping horses forward as fast as they
were able to travel, the prairie schooners rolled on
across the prairie, and the man and woman upon the
wagon seat leaned forward and watched the horizon
with straining eyes.

It was near evening when a breeze, bearing something
fresh and fragrant on its breath, blew into the
wagons and roused their drowsy occupants.

Joe woke with a start.  His team was plodding
along steadily, but his father's wagon was some
distance in advance of it, while the Carroll wagon, with
Lige nodding upon the driver's seat, was far in the rear.

He rubbed his eyes, caught up the lines and puckered
his lips for a whistle.  But the whistle was never
uttered.

Instead there came from his chapped lips a startled
exclamation.

Rubbing his eyes he looked and looked, and looked
again.  Then reaching behind him he grabbed Sam
by one of his bare brown feet and shook it vigorously.

"Say, Sam, wake up here!" he shouted.  "I want
you to tell me if I'm crazy or if my eyes have gone bad
or if I'm seeing another mirage!  If I'm not plumb
crazy there's a river over there, and trees——"

"Who said 'river'—who said 'trees'?" cried Sam,
starting up; then he stopped short, staring ahead with
an incredulous expression.

"Is it—it ain't—it can't be another mirage, can it?"

Joe gave a loud, joyous laugh and cracked his whip
over the backs of the horses.  He had had time to look
again and he was satisfied.

"Mirage nothin'!" he exulted, "nary a mirage this
time!  Can't you smell it?  Can't you taste it?  Can't
you feel the moisture in the air?  You bet your life
this isn't a mirage, it's the real thing, shade, water,
grass, trees!  And it ain't far off either!"

By this time the blur of bluish haze had developed
into a tone of decided green, and there was no more
doubt that trees and water were in sight.  Mr. Peniman
was stooping forward gazing intently.

"I was told that there was a river not far from
here," he said to his wife, "and I think it should be in
just about this location.  It is called by the Indian
name 'Minne-to-wauk-pala,' or Blue Waters."

"I don't care what it is called," said Mrs. Peniman,
laughing joyously, "if it is only *there*.  I don't think
I could stand another shock like that mirage."

"You won't have to, my dear," said Mr. Peniman,
his face lighting, "for, look, we can begin to see the
trees and water now."


.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE NEW HOME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE NEW HOME

.. vspace:: 2

No promised land of Paradise ever looked
fairer to longing eyes than looked the scene
that lay before the parched and weary travelers
as they approached the Minne-to-wauk-pala or
Blue Waters.

Crossing a broad plateau they drove up a gentle incline,
and just as the blazing sun was sinking below the
horizon there opened before their view a beautiful
valley with waving green grass, welcoming trees and
flower-strewn glades, and a blue, sparkling river with
rock-strewn shady banks flowing swiftly over a rocky
bottom, and long lines of timber stretching away to the
north and south.

For a moment the travelers stood transfixed, as if
the very gates of heaven had opened before them.
Then Ruth, with a little gasping breath, cried out:

"Oh, Mother, Mother, isn't it *beautiful*!  It looks
so green, so fresh, so *lovely*—as if God had just
finished it!"

And indeed the fair green land, with no mar of
civilization upon it, with its fresh virginal beauty
untouched and unspoiled by the hand of man, did look as
if newly created.

The tired beasts had sniffed the fragrance of the
water and with pricked ears were pushing eagerly forward.

"*What a camping-place!*" shouted Joe, springing
eagerly down as the wagons were drawn up in the
shade of the trees.  "Come, Mother, jump down and
come take a look at this river!  Cricky, we haven't
seen anything like this since we left Ohio.  This water
isn't red or brown or dirty, it's just what its name calls
it—*blue!*"

It didn't take many moments for the tired, thirsty
party to scramble out of the wagons and race down to
the river, where their thirst was soon quenched by
water that was cold, sweet, and free from the alkali
which had made the water they had been drinking ever
since they entered the Territory almost unbearable to
them.

How welcome after the parching heat of the prairies
was this cool, green, quiet place!  How restful was the
ripple of the water, the rustle of the willow and
cottonwood trees, the caress of the long, soft grass!

While Mr. Peniman, Joe and Lige were getting the
exhausted horses out of their harness and leading them
down to drink, Ruth and Sam untied the cow, that
manifested almost as much joy in the prospect of grass
and shade and water as did the rest of the family.

They all threw themselves down under the trees too
worn out and exhausted from the heat, too grateful for
the blessed relief, to even explore this Paradise in the
desert.

Slowly the fiery globe of the sun sank below the
horizon, slowly a pink and purple splendor spread over
the evening sky.  A hawk flew by, wheeling majestically
through the intensely blue dome.  Joshua Peniman
knelt upon the grass.  "Let us thank God," he said in
a low, reverent voice, "who has led us through the
perils of the day and brought us to this His holy temple
to-night."

That night while the others slept Hannah Peniman
sat long on the banks of the Minne-to-wauk-pala, her
eyes fastened upon its blue waters, her thoughts busy
with many things.

When they arose the next morning she laid her hand
upon her husband's arm.

"Come down to the river with me, Joshua," she
said.  "I want to talk to you."

She led him to the wide flat rock upon which she had
sat and thought the night before, and sitting down
beside him took his hand.

"Isn't it a heavenly place?" she sighed.

"It is indeed.  We could have found no lovelier to
make our camp."

"Our *home*, Joshua."

"Our *home?*"  He turned quickly and looked at her.

"Yes, dear, our home.  I came here last night after
you had all gone to bed and communed long with God.
I feel that it is His hand that led us here.  Why go
farther into the wilderness, dear heart?  Why brave
farther the perils of heat and drought and physical
suffering?  Here we have timber, water, grass for our
cow and horses, shade and protection for ourselves,
good land, apparently everything that we need to make
our new home.  Why go any farther?  Why not call
our journey ended and locate right here?"

Joshua Peniman stared at her in amazement.

"Thee has taken me completely by surprise, Hannah!"
he said after a blank silence.  "I had never
thought of such a thing.  Thee knows that from the
first our plan was to go to the Niobrara——"

"But why go to the Niobrara?  Why not locate
right here on the Blue?" she answered with a little
laugh.  "Isn't it just as good?  There appears to be
land enough around here, heaven knows!"

He sat silent for some moments turning the matter
over in his mind.  The thought of stopping where they
were had never occurred to him.  Weary though they
were, and suffering from heat and long journeying, he
had never once wavered in his purpose of crossing the
Territory to its northwestern side, to the lands which
had been recommended to him between the Elkhorn
and the Niobrara Rivers.

With thoughtful face he cast a slow appraising
glance all about him.

"Ye-es," he said musingly, "that is all true.  There
is plenty of land about here—I do not believe there is a
human creature within twenty or thirty miles of this
place.  The country lies well, and by the looks of the
soil the land should be good.  There is shade, and
wood, and water—three absolute essentials to the
comfort and safety of the settler, and an inestimable
blessing in this barren country.  There is timber along the
creeks—a settler must have timber—and along the
bottom land over there we would have good forage for the
horses.  The land that I was making for on the
Niobrara——"

"—Is probably not a bit better than this," urged
Mrs. Peniman.  "And, Joshua, look at the horses,
look at that poor cow!  Think of the many, many
weary miles we should have to travel over those
desolate burning plains before we got there!  It is now the
middle of August—the hottest part of the summer—does
it not seem like tempting Providence to strike out
across the prairies again with our teams in the
condition they are?"

Joshua Peniman was silent, thinking intently.
Presently he rose and walked up and down the banks of the
river, then out toward the plateau, where he stood for
a long time, his eyes turning in a keen, critical survey
in every direction.

Presently he returned to the rock upon which his
wife was sitting.

"Thee has a long head, Hannah," he said, falling
into the old Quaker form of speech which he often
used when they were alone or when he was deeply
stirred; "and I will not say that thee is not in the right
of it.  But this is a serious matter.  We have gone far
and sacrificed much to make our home in this new
country, and we must not make a mistake now.  Let
us stop here to-day and think it over.  I will go out
and look the land about here over carefully, and I feel
that we should consult with the children.  For you and
me the time in this new land will not be so long, but for
them it is their whole lives and the happiness and
prosperity of their future.  I feel that they should have
their say about our location.  Does thee not agree with me?"

"I do indeed.  That is best.  Let us stay here
to-day, rest, think, pray to God for wisdom, and look the
ground over carefully with a view to our permanent
location.  And let us have a family consultation after
prayers."

When the boys tumbled out of bed for an early swim
before hitching up their teams for the start, they were
astonished to find their father walking thoughtfully up
and down on the bank of the river and none of the
usual active preparations for the day's travel under way.

"We have decided to take a day off to rest, lads,"
he told them gravely.  "This is going to be a very hot
day, and both we and the horses need it.  Will thee
enjoy having a day here by the river?"

"Will we?" shouted Joe, who was beginning to be
sadly weary of the hot, dusty days on the monotonous
prairies.  "I should say we would!  This is such a
lovely place I hate to leave it."

As they all darted off for their swim, followed
nimbly by Ruth and Nina in calico wrappers, Joshua
Peniman looked about him.  Down in the bottoms the
horses, turned out to enjoy their well-earned rest, were
cropping the sweet short grass along the stream, the cow
lying down in a bed of wild clover chewing her cud
and exhaling long sighs of contentment, and under the
shade of the trees Sara and David and Mary were
playing, with the collie lolling with tongue out beside
them, while the two little pigs that had traveled all the
long journey in their box at the back of the wagon had
been turned loose in a pen made of loose boards, and
were tranquilly grunting their appreciation.

The table was spread on the long, soft grass, and
about it moved Mrs. Peniman, humming softly to
herself as she prepared the breakfast.  The scene was a
peaceful and pleasant one, and Joshua Peniman looked
long and earnestly upon it, weighing and judging and
trying to make up his mind.

When the morning chapter had been read and the
silent prayer over, he turned to his family.

"Children," he said, "thy mother and I have been
having a grave discussion this morning.  We have
called thee into our council because we believe that each
of thee should have a voice in a decision that will so
materially affect all thy after lives."

The young people looked at him with startled faces.
What could this decision be that so materially affected
them?  That made father look so grave, and mother
so eager?

"Thy mother thinks," their father continued, "that
perhaps it would be well to change our plans, give up
the idea of going any farther west, and stay here."

"*Stay here?*"  The words were shouted in a chorus.

"What, *locate* here?  Take up land—make this our
home?" cried Joe.

"Exactly.  We have been going over its possibilities
as a future home this morning, and I must admit
that I am much impressed with them.  We have water
here, shade, timber, grass for pasture, the land appears
rich and the soil deep, and of course there is no scarcity
of land about here for homesteading.  Now, as you
will have to live your lives and make your future in
this new country, we want to know what you all think
about it."

The discussion that followed was eager, enthusiastic
and noisy, but the general consensus of opinion was
one of hearty approval of the plan.  The children were
all tired of the journey, and the prospect of having that
journey definitely ended, of remaining here in the
green and pleasant place was one that appealed to them all.

The day was spent in going over the land, laying out
in fancy where the house should stand, where corn and
wheat and oats and potatoes should be put in, where
the barn should be built, and the fruit trees set out, and
the vegetable garden planted.

About half a mile above the point at which their
camp had been made they came upon a piece of ground
that sloped gently down to the river, with a broad, level
expanse to the south of it that appealed to Mr. Peniman's
practical mind as fine farming land.  Nearer the
river was a grove of cottonwood trees, and in a
fern-lined hollow beneath the bank an ice-cold spring of
sweet water.

"Here shall be the place for the house!" cried
Mrs. Peniman, her eyes sparkling.  "What could be
lovelier?  Where could we find anything finer if we
searched the whole Territory of Nebraska?  Here we
would have shade, water, shelter from the wind, a
spring, and a world of good farming land all about us!"

"That field over there has a southern exposure and
would be fine for corn," mused Mr. Peniman.  "We
could sow oats and wheat over there on the plateau,
that point running down to the river would make good
pasture-land——"

"And we could build a little spring-house over the
creek down there in that little bend," cried Mrs. Peniman,
still absorbed in her household plans.

"Yes," said Joshua Peniman, thoughtfully knitting
his heavy brows, "I believe that it would do—I believe
that it would do well.  But to make sure that we are
all accord in this important matter we will take a vote.
Think now, my children, for upon your decision this
morning may rest the beginnings of a colony—a town—a
city—perhaps, the beginning of civilization in this
part of the Territory.  The place where you will probably
all carve out your futures, and where, I hope, you
will leave your mark upon the civilization of the West."

For a moment there was a solemn pause.  Youthful
as they were the young Penimans were impressed with
the thought that upon the decision of that moment the
environment of their whole after lives might depend.

"Are you ready?" asked Joshua Peniman.  Then,
"As many as favor remaining here and locating our
new home upon the Blue River hold up your right hand."

"Am I to vote, too?" queried Nina timidly.

"To be sure, my child.  You are one of us.  We
look upon you now as one of our own children,"
answered Mr. Peniman kindly.

When the vote was put every hand went up.

"It seems to be a unanimous decision," he smiled.
"Then this spot shall be our future home.  Here let
us kneel and ask God's blessing upon it."

On the green grass by the river the little colony knelt
down, and the father's voice went up in earnest
supplication for heavenly protection for the new home.
Overhead the trees whispered softly, and the river
mingled with the earnest voices when they uttered a
fervent "Amen."





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.. _`BUILDING THE SOD HOUSE`:

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   CHAPTER XV


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   BUILDING THE SOD HOUSE

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The Peniman family spent that evening sitting
on the banks of the Minne-to-wauk-pala,
feeling no longer like homeless wanderers, but as
those who after long tribulation have come into their own.

The whole family were in high spirits, and their
camp that night was made with more comfort and
permanence than any camp they had yet had.

Four young saplings were dragged out of the dead
timber along the stream, and cut into lengths of the
proper height for a table, and these were driven firmly
into the ground.  Upon them Joe nailed a few
saplings crosswise, and over these was fastened a strong
piece of canvas.  Upon this canvas the children piled
wet sand from the river bottom, patting it down and
making a firm, level surface.  When it was dry the
oil-cloth was tacked over it, making an excellent substitute
for a "boughten" table.  Stakes were driven into the
ground on either side of the table and more fallen
saplings nailed upon them, and when the family sat down
to their evening meal it was once more at a table with
comfortable seats and a place to enjoy their meal
without the discomfort of cramped legs or the disturbing
inroads of bugs and ants.

In the shade near by they drove stakes in the ground
(always taking care to select only dead and broken
timber, for a tree had become too rare and precious a
thing for them to sacrifice willingly), and over it they
stretched a tarpaulin, making a shelter to serve as a
kitchen.  Joe and Lige constructed a fireplace and
oven near by of small round stones from the bed of the
stream, and fixed a firm and level place on a rock to
set up the stove.  Around it they nailed small boxes
and receptacles for the cooking utensils, and set two
packing-cases on end with a calico curtain before them
to serve as a china-closet, and Mrs. Peniman speedily
emptied a packing-case and set it up in the improvised
kitchen to use as a kitchen table.

"It will take some time to build our house," she said
brightly as she hurried about getting her new cooking-place
in order, "and we might as well be as comfortable
as we can until it is done."

The family, tired enough of living in the cramped
space of the wagons, readily agreed to this, and the
next day was spent unloading the wagons, unpacking
boxes, and making their temporary home as comfortable
and convenient as possible.

When the comfort of the family had been looked
after Mr. Peniman turned his attention to the animals.

The little pigs had grown and thriven so, even under
the hard conditions that had beset the rest of the
travelers, that they were now entirely too big for their box,
and squealed their protest continually.

They had long ago outgrown the necessity of bottle-feeding
and took their sustenance out of a pan like
regular porkers.

Joe and Lige found their father, late in the afternoon,
standing beside the box looking down at the little
squealers with a speculative expression.

"I was thinking," he said as they approached him,
"that we must provide better quarters for Romeo and
Juliet.  They've outgrown their box, and I don't see
that we can spare them another.  They ought to have
more room."

"Couldn't we build them a pen out of logs?" asked Joe.

"Can't spare any of our precious timber for pigs,"
said Mr. Peniman.  Then with a sudden smile breaking
over his face, "Now I have it!  Come along, boys,
get your spades, and I'll soon show you how we can
make Romeo and Juliet a fine home."

The boys had learned long since that the humorous
little twinkle in the corner of their father's eye always
meant fun ahead, so grabbing up their spades they
followed him to a spot some distance back of the spot
they had marked out for their future home on the river
bank.

With a few quick strokes of his boot-heel Mr. Peniman
described a circle on the ground.  Then, throwing
off his coat, he fell to digging.

Somewhat puzzled as to how a pig-pen was to be
constructed with shovels, the boys followed his
example.

"But I can't see," puffed Lige, "how this is going
to make a place for *live* pigs.  If they were dead ones,
and we were going to bury them——"

Suddenly Joe burst out laughing.

"Oh, I know," he cried.  "Why, of course!  It's
a bully idea!  Don't you see that we can *dig* a pen for
them?  A mighty good kind of a pen, too, that they
can't break down or squeeze through or get out of."

Mr. Peniman stopped digging long enough to mop
his face.

"Surely!  We'll make a pit about three feet deep,
and big enough around so that the little fellows will
have a chance to chase around and grow.  This pair,"
he smiled, casting a smiling glance at the little porkers,
"may be the beginning of our stock-farm."  After a
moment he continued, digging busily, "People who
come out to the plains in wagons can't carry much with
them, so they have to use everything they have at hand.
There's not much of anything to work with on the
prairies but dirt and grass, and we not only have to
make them furnish our stock a home but ourselves as well."

Lige stopped and leaned on his spade.

"We aren't going to dig a hole like this for us to
live in, are we?" he demanded in a tone of horror.

The shout of laughter with which his father and
brother received this remark caused him to resume
digging hastily.  Mr. Peniman hastened to reassure him.

"Don't fear, Lige, we won't do that, but I'll show
you a better way, and yet the prairies will have to
furnish the material."

Lige was still unconvinced that the plan for the
pig-pen was a good one, until when it was finished, a fine
round pit of about twelve feet in circumference and
three feet deep, the whole family came in a body to see
Romeo and Juliet established in their new home.

This was accomplished after a good deal of squealing
and struggling on the part of the tenants, but when
they were finally established, with a roof across one
end covered with a thatch of prairie grass to keep off
the sun, they ran about and about in an ecstasy of glee,
nosing the walls, rooting in the dirt, and expressing
their pleasure with skips and grunts of delight.

"Well," admitted Lige a bit reluctantly, "I'll agree
that that's an all-right pig-pen, but I don't see yet how
you're ever going to make a house for us to live in out
of dirt!"

"Wait for a few days and I'll show you," said his
father cheerfully.

It was not even that long before his curiosity was
gratified.  The very next morning they were roused
by their father's voice calling them.

"Come along, my lads," he cried, "we have much to
do, and no time to sleep while there is daylight to work
in these days!  The fall will soon be upon us, and
we must have our house ready before the rains come."

They saw that the plow that had been so long packed
away in the bottom of the wagon had been taken out
and Jim and Charley hitched to it.

"Now, Lige, I'll show you how to build a house out
of dirt," he laughed, as, followed by the whole family,
they set out toward the spot where the site for the
house had been marked off on the grass.

"You don't do it with a *plow*, do you?" asked Lige,
much puzzled.

"Yes,—partly," replied his father laughing.  They
all felt in high spirits this morning.  The long, tedious,
wearisome journey was over, the goal reached, and life
lay before them like a clean new slate, upon which it
was theirs to inscribe what they would.

Mrs. Peniman, much concerned about her new
domicile, was carefully measuring off the ground and
computing the space, while the children danced about as
excitedly as if building a new home in the wilderness,
miles upon miles from any other habitation, was the
greatest joy imaginable.

When the plow was set upon the line and Jim and
Charley started with a cheerful word of command it
cut through the grass and turned over what was
probably the first sod ever turned in that county.

The tough prairie sod was plowed about three inches
thick in long furrows twelve to sixteen feet long.  Joe,
Lige, and Sam were then set to work with their sharp
spades to cut it up into the required blocks.

"What are these for, Father?" asked Sam.

"These are the bricks of which we are going to
build our house, my son," answered his father with a
twinkle in his eye.

"But why don't we build our house of logs,
Father?" asked Joe.  "It seems to me it would be a
lot nicer, and a lot less work.  We have plenty of
timber here.  I think it would be much better."

"Which shows that you don't know anything about
it, my boy.  In the first place, we can't spare the
timber.  There is none too much of it at best, and what
there is we want to save for fuel and shelter.  In the
second place, there is no house that is better for the
hard weather of the prairies than a sod house.  It is
warm in winter, cool in summer, and about the only
thing that will withstand the Nebraska blizzards and
cyclones.  Just wait until it is finished and you'll see.
Don't you remember what a nice home the Wards had?
Now take your spades and cut the sod as I am doing.
Keep your squares even, and the edges of the sod
straight and true.  When we have the sod taken off
this field it will be in fine condition to plow up, and
perhaps we can get in a small crop of sod-corn yet this
year."

The boys seized their spades and set to work
manfully, and before noon had a good-sized pile of
"Nebraska marble" piled up ready for use.  After dinner,
when they all felt somewhat refreshed, Mr. Peniman
began laying the sods, which were about twelve inches
square and three inches thick.  They were piled one
upon another, leaving open spaces for the places where
the doors and windows were to go.  When the walls
were up to about the thickness of a couple of sods above
the frames, lintels were laid across and the sod laid
over them, continuing the walls right through.  The
vacant space above the frames was necessary to
provide for the settling of the walls.  When the walls
were high enough, about seven feet, the gable ends
were built up a few inches or a foot higher, for, to
prevent the earth from washing off the sods by heavy
rains, the roof was made almost flat.  As the sods were
laid Mr. Peniman trimmed down the walls with a
sharp spade, to keep them square and trim.  He shaved
the top surface off each layer with a sharp hoe, and
filled in the chinks between the sods with a kind of a
cement made from the prairie clay and sand from the
bed of the river.

All this, however, was not accomplished in one day.
The work of cutting and laying the sods was hard and
heavy labor, and before the day was over both the boys
and their father were glad to quit for the night and go
to their supper.

Here they found a glad and cheerful surprise awaiting them.

The open space between the semicircle of cottonwood
trees had been cleared, and already was
beginning to assume a homelike aspect.  Mrs. Peniman and
the girls, with Paul and little David to help them, had
put in as busy a day at the camp as the boys and their
father had on the sod house.  When they arrived they
found the table set, looking extremely neat and festive
with its cloth of bright red, its dishes and silver, with
a vase of wild-flowers in the centre of the table, and
a great dish of fried prairie-chicken, mashed potatoes,
gravy and hot biscuits steaming upon it, and Mrs. Peniman
flying about in a big kitchen apron unpacking
cooking utensils, getting out furniture, and making a
cozy resting-place under the trees.

At their exclamations of delight she laughed happily.

"There's no use waiting until the house is finished
before we begin to *live*," she greeted them cheerily;
"we're all tired of hardships, and I, for one, want
some kind of comforts around me again.  Wait till you
come home to-morrow night, you'll see what we have
done then, won't they, girls?"

Ruth and Nina, busy as bees getting the supper on
the table, answered with gleeful and mysterious nods.
The place already seemed so pleasant and inviting that
they were loath to go to bed when the time came, but
pioneer boys and girls, as well as pioneer men and
women, soon found out that it was not what they
*wanted* to do, but what they *had* to do that was to be
considered.

With grim determination Mr. Peniman and the boys
returned to the building of the sod house the next
morning.  They all realized that while gypsying under
the trees might be very delightful now, stormy weather
would materially change its aspect, and that in the
unprotected wilderness in which they were living the
sooner they were sheltered behind thick walls and
barred doors at night the greater would be their safety.

It was hard, slow work, and many days passed, while
the piles of sod grew steadily and the walls went up
higher and higher.  The boys worked manfully, and
Mr. Peniman, like the wise father he was, did not work
them too hard or too long, but often sent them off for
a walk or a swim, sometimes urging them to go and
catch a mess of fish for dinner, sometimes pretending
that he was hungry for meat and sending them off into
the woods or out on the prairies to hunt for game.
They found any number of wild turkeys about the
place, some quail, and plenty of prairie-chickens, and
once in a while a deer or an antelope was killed,
although neither of the boys liked to shoot the pretty,
graceful creatures, that seemed utterly without fear,
and often came up quite close about their camp.

It took a month to build the sod house, during which
time the family lived in the woods, sleeping in their
beds in the wagons as they had done on their journey,
and eating in the open under the spreading cottonwood trees.

The weather continued fine, and the family, in spite
of their isolation, were very happy.  They were busy
all day long, and had always been one of those happy
and united families who find their greatest happiness in
one another.

Nina had come to be quite one of themselves now,
and she and Ruth were seldom apart, while for Joe and
Sam and Lige the girl showed a warm and grateful
affection.  She was devoted to Mrs. Peniman, and
often sat at her feet or on the arm of the old
rocking-chair with her arm about her neck, calling her "Mother
Peniman," and showering upon her the love and
tenderness she had always shown for her own unfortunate
young mother.

When the walls of the sod house were completed the
hardest part of the work was to come, and Joshua
Peniman puzzled long as to how he was going to get
the ridgepole in place without another man to help him.
He felled a strong, straight young tree, about fifteen
inches through, and carefully stripped the bark from it.
To raise the pole the aid of the whole family was
required.  As there were no neighbors within many
miles to call upon, the difficult and dangerous feat must
be performed with what help was at hand.  He first
made skids and rolled the tree upon it.  These skids he
placed with one end resting on the wall, the other on
the ground.  Ropes were then fastened to it, and while
Mrs. Peniman, Ruth, Nina, and Sam stood on the top
of the wall and pulled the ropes, Joe, Lige, and their
father, on the ground, lifted and pushed the pole from
below.

Fortunately for the success of the operation life in
the open air, constant exercise and hard work had
hardened the muscles of all and made them equal to the
exertion.  It was a strenuous piece of work, but with
much puffing and panting and laughter they kept
doggedly at it, and before dusk had come they got the
ridgepole in place, and the most difficult part of
building the house was accomplished.

Next came the rafters, which were poles of young
trees from four to six inches through, placed about
fifteen inches apart.  Over these were laid boughs, cut
from the willow thicket, and these thickly overlaid
with the dry prairie grass.  When a thick, deep covering
of this straw had been laid in place and carefully
packed down, dirt to the depth of about a foot
was piled upon it and beaten down hard with the spade.

Now they were ready for the doors and windows!

The proud architects of this mansion of "Nebraska
marble"—consisting of every member of the family
except little Mary and David—stood about and
surveyed it with admiring eyes.  Even Lige was
converted and was now willing to admit that it was a great
idea.  The walls were even, straight, and true, its
corners square, its whole appearance neat and workman-like.

Greatly to the boys' astonishment they found packed
away on the very bottoms of the two wagons three sets
of window-casings and two stout wooden doors.

"I never knew those were there!" cried Joe, as he
saw his father haul them out.  "How did you ever
come to think of them?"

"It would be a poor sort of a pioneer that did not
think about providing shelter for his family, my lad,"
he answered.  "I knew, of course, that we should
have to build a sod house, and knew also that though
the house might grow out of the prairie itself that glass
windows and wooden doors wouldn't, so I brought
them along."

It was a sharp, snappy morning in September when
the last window was in, the last door screwed to its
hinges, and Joshua Peniman, with a great sigh of
relief, laid down his hammer and turned over the new
house to his wife.

"There!" he ejaculated, "there is thy house, now
thee and the girls can do what thee please with it.  The
boys and I have done our part.  We must get at the
barn now, for if I don't miss my guess there is some
stormy weather coming."

There was not much time for loafing in the little
colony these days.  The whole family felt the impending
change in the weather, and while Mr. Peniman and
the boys, profiting by their experience in building the
house, started on the barn, Mrs. Peniman with Ruth,
Nina, Sam and Paul, plastered the walls of the new
"soddy" with a medium made of one-third clay and
two-thirds sand, which, when dry, they covered with a
neat coat of whitewash.

The "soddy" when completed was eighteen by
twenty-two feet inside, and though it had no partitions,
was divided into three rooms by means of curtains,
which Mrs. Peniman had brought in her trunk.

The last coat of whitewash was applied late in the
evening, and the next morning Mrs. Peniman could
scarcely wait to get breakfast over before she began to
move into her new house.

The boys and their father were off and away early,
for they were straining every nerve to get in a crop of
sod-corn before the coming of the fall rains.  But
with the help of the girls and little Paul, she went at it
with a will, determined to make their home in the
wilderness as pleasant and comfortable as it could be
under the circumstances.

They had brought with them from Ohio a carpet, a
cook-stove, two bedsteads and several cots, some
chairs, among which were two comfortable old-fashioned
rockers, a table, a great roll of matting, and
books, pictures, and knickknacks, and when these were
in place, with packing-cases converted into dressing-tables,
cupboards made out of boxes, and a couple of
roughly constructed benches placed against the walls
covered with bright-colored chintz, the place assumed
a cheery and homelike appearance that one would never
have deemed possible from its exterior.  The window
ledges were wide and deep, and in the windows she
hung pretty white curtains, covered the packing-cases
and boxes with chintz, laid the matting over the dirt
floors and covered it with the carpet, and when the
pictures were hung on the walls, the books and
knick-knacks on the table, with a vase of gorgeous
goldenrod from the prairies, the little "soddy" looked like
a real home.

The front part of the house, into which the door
opened, was the living-room, with cot-beds covered in
the daytime like couches furnished the sleeping
accommodations for the girls.  Curtained off from this
the second part of the interior was divided in two, with
the sleeping quarters of the boys on one side of the
curtain and those of Mr. and Mrs. Peniman on the
other.  The back third, from which the back door
opened out into the outdoor kitchen, contained the
cook-stove, dishes and cooking utensils, provisions, and
a table at which the family took their meals in stormy
weather.

Profiting by his remembrance of the Wards' dugout,
Mr. Peniman had decided to make a dugout for the
shelter of his stock.  He selected a spot where the
steep incline of a ravine made a high embankment; he
set to work digging back into it, and was gratified to
find that the earth sloped downward under a wide
ledge of rock, so that by extending the dugout for
about twenty-five feet back under the ledge he could
take advantage of it and convert it into an excellent
natural roof.  This plan lightened the labors of
building the barn considerably.  When a large square
chamber had been dug they evened it up, built a strong sod
wall in front and at the sides where they met the slope
of the embankment, put in three stalls on each side,
made of dead timber they found along the river bank,
constructed feed-racks out of old boxes, and built in
the back end a sort of attic or loft, for grain and hay.

As no door had been brought for the barn they were
obliged to make one, using small saplings closely nailed
together on a strong pine frame.  This made a heavy
and rather cumbersome door, but an exceedingly
strong one.

"I guess no Indian will break through that to steal
our horses," remarked Joe, regarding it proudly.

"No, I think not.  We'll put a good strong lock on
it, and then I think our horses will be safe.  It
behooves us to keep them so," went on Mr. Peniman,
"for a settler's wealth is in his horses, and we are
better off than most.  Most of the movers we have met
were driving oxen, while we have three good teams."

When the dugout was completed it was indeed a
strong and safe shelter for the stock.  Protected from
above by the ledge of rock, and on both sides by the
stout sod wall and the rocky sides of the embankment,
with the sturdy log door across its entrance, it was a
shelter that would have stood a long siege.

As the family stood about it viewing it with pride
they did not dream how well it would serve them, or
how glad they would be of its protection in the days
to come.





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.. _`IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY

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The house and barn were completed none too
soon.  On the afternoon of the day on which
the door of the barn was hung the clouds
hung heavy and ominous in the northeast.  About four
o'clock it began to thunder.

"Just in time, my lads," cried Mr. Peniman with a
glance at the angry blackness of the sky.  "We're
going to have a big storm.  Thank heaven that both we
and our cattle will have good shelter.  Get up the
horses, Joe.  Lige, you fill up the racks with grain
and hay.  Sam, you'd better bring in the cow.  If it
should be, as I fear, a very bad storm we shall all feel
happier to know that our faithful beasts are under
shelter."

It was nearly five o'clock, and the cow and horses
were comfortably settled in their new quarters, when
the storm broke.  It was the first experience of the
pioneers in a severe electrical storm on the prairies, and
glad indeed were they of the thick walls and substantial
roof above their heads as the lightning flashed and
forked over the prairies, the thunder crashed, and the
wind howled and raged while the rain came down in
torrents.

"Oo-ooh! if we were out in the wagons now!"
cried Ruth, flattening her nose against the window
pane and peering out at the driving storm.

"Yes, or even in a frame house," said Joe.  "No
frame house could last long in a wind like this.
Whee-ee, isn't it a gale!  I'm glad we're in a soddy."

"It *is* comfortable and cozy, isn't it?" sighed Mrs. Peniman,
glancing about her with a little smile of content.

For three days the wind howled and the rain fell,
while the gentle murmur of the river increased to a
sullen roar and it rushed foaming and tumultuous over
its rocky bed.  On the night of the third day it
overflowed its banks, and Mr. Peniman and the boys had
to spend most of the night guarding their wagons,
implements and other property that they might not be
carried away by the flood.  The rain had changed to
hail on this night, and Joe and Lige wore inverted
skillets on their heads to protect them from the pelting
of the hailstones.  On the fourth day the wind died
down, the rain ceased, and the sun came out in an
intensely blue sky, which looked as brilliantly clean and
clear as if newly created.

With the first gleam of sunshine the pioneers left
the shelter of the house and took up the work waiting
them outside.

They found that the stock had weathered the storm
in the greatest comfort.  Dicky and Mother Feathertop,
who had found shelter under the canvas covers of
the prairie schooners, were sadly bedraggled, and
Romeo and Juliet, though exceedingly muddy, and in a
very wet pen, were squealingly protesting their desire
for food.

"Their pen is all wet, Father," cried Ruth in a
grieved tone; "they'll take their deaths of cold."

Lige and Sam burst into roars of laughter.

"*Pigs* don't take cold, you goosie!" chuckled Sam.

"They do, too, don't they, Mother?"

"I never heard of pigs taking cold," said Mrs. Peniman,
"but they certainly do look most uncomfortably
wet.  Couldn't we take them out and put them in
another pen until their house dries?"'

"I think we might.  I believe the pen we made for
them when we first came is around here somewhere."

"I know where it is," cried Joe, and ran to get it.

When the pen of saplings was placed in a comparatively
dry place Joe, Lige and Sam, in high rubber
boots, descended into the pit to capture the young
porkers.  The mud was deep and slippery, the pigs
well coated with the clay, and the boys chased them
round and round the pen, sometimes catching hold of
one by the ear or tail, sometimes grabbing them about
the body, sometimes managing to get hold of a leg,
when with a flirt and a squeal they would wiggle away,
too slippery to hold on to, while the would-be captor
would sprawl face down in the mud.

"Talk about your greased-pig races," panted Sam,
who had just lost his grip on Juliet for the fourth time,
"I never saw one that was a patchin' to this!"

Joe caught Romeo by his tail, which was too short
and curly to make a good handle, and after a violent
struggle, during which Joe slipped and slid all over
the pen, Romeo made his get-away with a shrill squeal
of vengeance, while Joe sprawled on his stomach in
the mud.

The girls, with Paul and their mother were watching
the chase from above with shouts and shrieks of
laughter.  When Lige made a wild dive for Juliet,
who slipped through his hands and dived between his
legs, sending him head-over-heels, Ruth doubled
herself up with shrieks of mirth, in which Nina joined.
Nothing could have injured the feelings of handsome
Lige more.

"Well, *stay* in your slimy old pen then," he growled,
and began to climb out.  Mr. Peniman, shaking with
laughter, stopped him.  He too had been watching
the sport.

"Here's a rope," he called out; "you'll never get
them that way, they're too slippery.  Rope them and
pass them up to me."

This was a new angle to the game, and one that
suited the boys better.  Sam grabbed the rope and
made a lasso at one end.  With a wild cowboy yell
he made for the astonished young porkers.  His first
try failed, when Lige grabbed the rope, and after an
unsuccessful cast or two succeeded in getting the
festive Romeo firmly about his fat middle.  Romeo
protested with shrill squeals, but he was captured, and
was soon hoisted up and dropped inside the other pen.
Juliet, being a bit more spry, and perhaps, being a
lady, a trifle more wary, was harder to catch.  Each
of the boys tried his hand, and it was Joe who at last
made the lucky throw, and got her fast by the leg,
after which it was an easy matter to get hold of her
and hoist her up to their father.

By this time it would have been hard to say which
were the muddier and dirtier, the boys or the pigs, but
a swim in the river soon removed the mud, and the
rubber boots and suits they had worn were washed at
the same time, so that they were soon fresh and clean.

The next day was bright and clear, and soon after
their early breakfast Mr. Peniman, Joe, Lige, and Sam
set off for the far side of their claim to cut the prairie
grass for hay.

Mr. Peniman had staked out his own claim of 160
acres, laying out at the same time a 160 acre tract for
Joe on one side of it and Lige on the other, to be
pre-empted as soon as the boys should be old enough.

They took all three teams, and while Mr. Peniman
and Joe began cutting the long, rich prairie grass Lige
and Sam guided the plows, turning over the sod for
their fall planting.

As this side of the claim was quite a distance from
the house they had taken their lunch with them, and
had just finished eating, and Joe was tipping up the
jug to take a swig of water, when he stopped short, the
jug at his shoulder, staring with fixed gaze across the
plains.

"Indians!" he shouted, "*Indians!*" and dashing
down the jug leaped for the horses.

Joshua Peniman at the same moment had seen the
horsemen dashing across the open plateau to the south
of them.

With a leap he sprang to the other team and began
loosing them from the plow.

Joe and Lige had by this time got Kit and Billy
free and throwing themselves across their backs had
started for home in a mad gallop.

In the minds of all was the same terrible thought.
Mrs. Peniman and the children were there
unprotected and alone.

Joshua Peniman, not so young or active as his sons,
did not dare to ride bareback.  With frantic haste he
hitched his team to the wagon, and shouting to Sam
to jump in, and lead the black team, leaped in and
lashed the horses into a run.

None of them had any weapons.  They had seen no
Indians since coming to the Blue River country, and
their fear of them had gradually subsided as their
minds became filled with other things.  Now as
Joshua Peniman drove madly across the prairies he
cursed his short-sightedness and stupidity.

Nearer and nearer the squat black house on the
banks of the river came the naked, yelping savages.

"My God—will Hannah see them in time—will she
get herself and the children into the house before they
reach her!"  The agonized thought hammered itself
over and over in his brain.

As Joe and Lige dashed on, silent before the stark
horror of the moment, they could see the children
playing down by the river.  It was evident that they
knew nothing of their danger.  Then as the boys
dashed on, lashing their horses cruelly, they saw their
mother come to the door.

For a moment she stood, and they could feel in their
own hearts that terror that came over her.  Then they
saw her make a dash for the river.  Even above
the thudding of the horses' hoofs they could hear her
wild, agonized calls.  The Indians heard it, too, and
answered with derisive whoops and yells.

With dry lips and a frantic unuttered prayer Joe
ground his heels into Kit's sides.

*Would they get there in time?*

Joshua Peniman, standing up in the wagon and
leaning far over the dashboard, lashed his horses and
groaned aloud.

There seemed to be some forty or fifty of the
savages, and as they wheeled and the sun shone full
on their naked bodies Lige gave a loud cry.

"*Sioux!*" he shouted, in tones of horror, and lying
forward over Billy's neck urged him forward with
voice and whip.  Joe had seen, and from his white lips
came a hoarse cry.

Up to this moment he had hoped—even though
faintly—that the band they saw might be a hunting
party of Pawnees or Arapahoes, who seldom harmed
white people unless first molested.  But Sioux——!

He leaned forward over his panting horse and spoke
in her ear.

"Oh, Kit," he half sobbed, "get me there—for
God's sake get me there in time to save them!"

As if she understood the little mare laid back her
ears and sprang forward like an arrow from a bow.

The Indians had reached the sod house by this time.
Yelping and howling they were circling about and
about it on their ponies.

As the eyes of the horror-stricken boys and man
strained toward them a sharp "spat" spoke from one
of the soddy windows, and a naked savage reeled and
fell from his horse.

"Mother—brave, brave little Mother!" Joe sobbed
in a choked, husky whisper.  Then as he saw the band
spring from their horses and make a dash for the
soddy he leaped down from Kit's back, and followed
by Lige dashed through the undergrowth along the
bank of the river toward the house.

Before they could reach it they heard a wild shriek,
and saw their mother dash from the house with David
in her arms, dragging little Mary by the hand, and
followed by Ruth, Sara, and Paul, and make for the
dugout.

Joe's heart thrilled with pride as he saw tender
Ruth, who loved all creatures, evidently covering her
mother's retreat, backing toward the dugout, her face
toward the Indians, a smoking revolver in her hand.

They heard its sharp angry bark, and saw another
Indian fall.  Then they saw that Mrs. Peniman had
reached the dugout, and pushing the children in
before her grabbed for the heavy door.  As she did so
an Indian in a war-dress of skin and feathers, with a
great feathered war-bonnet on his head, made a grab
for her, but Ruth was too quick for him.  Quick as a
flash she took deliberate aim and fired.  Joe, who was
almost behind her by this time, heard the grunt of the
Indian as he fell face downward beside the door.

"*Inside—inside the dugout!*" he shouted, and
grasping Ruth by the shoulders pushed her toward the door.

Ruth turned her white face and gave a quick, terrified
look all about her.

"Nina," she shrieked, "where's Nina?"

With a stab like the thrust of a knife in his heart
Joe heard the cry.

"*Nina?*" he shouted, "where is she?"

A wild, anguished cry was his answer, and whirling
about he saw an Indian dashing past with Nina thrown
across his pony in front of him.

Quick as thought he caught the revolver from Ruth's
hand and fired.  He had feared to aim at the Indian
lest he should strike the child, but had taken aim at
the horse, and saw it fall and roll over.

Joshua Peniman, with Sam, had now reached the
scene, and brandishing a great club that he had caught
up as he ran made for the Indians that were circling
about the dugout, uttering their fiendish yelps and
howls.

Mrs. Peniman and the children were inside now, the
door firmly closed, and all the efforts of the savages
seemed unavailing to move it.

As the horse fell the Indian at whom Joe had shot
leaped with his burden in his arms, and fell free of the
struggling animal.  In an instant he was on his feet
and started to run.

Joe was now past sixteen, tall, muscular, with every
nerve and sinew in his body like thews of steel from
his long life in the open and continual work and
manual exercise, and he rushed after and sprang upon
him like a young panther.  The Indian staggered, and
threw the girl he carried from his arms.  Then with
a snarl like a wild creature he turned and faced him.
Joe had no time to train his revolver upon him.  With
a spring like a tiger the savage was upon him, but Joe,
writhing himself free from the deadly clasp of his
arms, grabbed his revolver by the barrel and with the
butt dealt him a smashing blow on the head.

The Indian tottered, swayed and threw his hand to
his head.  As he did so Joe's horrified gaze saw
under the edge of the war-bonnet a white neck and a *tuft
of red hair*.

The boy leaped forward and tried to raise the
screaming little girl from the grass.  But as he stooped
over her the other leaped upon him and dealt him a
terrific blow on the temple.  With a groan Joe fell
forward and lay still.

As he collapsed upon the ground the Indian who had
red hair caught up the girl, leaped upon the back of a
riderless pony that was galloping by, and dashed away.
As he rode he called out a sharp command in the
Indian tongue.  With a few wild whoops and yells the
Indians who were scattered about the place whirled
about and followed him.

As the Indians that had surrounded the dugout
dashed away Joshua Peniman turned, and seeing Joe
lie motionless upon the ground rushed to him.

"Joe, Joe," he cried in agony, lifting the boy's head.

Joe gasped and opened his eyes.

"Father," he panted, starting up wildly, "Princess—they
got her—where is she——"

His father pushed him gently back upon the ground.

"Are you wounded, Joe?" he asked in anguish;
"did they get you?"

"No, no," the boy sprang to a sitting position.
"I'm not hurt—only stunned—but Princess—Nina—did
they take her?  Did they get away with her?"

Joshua Peniman averted his eyes and his voice was
hoarse and shaken.  "Yes," he answered reluctantly,
"they got her.  You did the best you could to save
her, and I was just too late."

The boy staggered to his feet.

"I must go after her—I must find her," he cried,
then reeled dizzily.

His father half led, half carried him into the house.

"You are hurt—you are not able to go," he said,
pushing him into a chair.  "And besides, you could
never catch them now, Joe.  They have half an hour
the start of you, and they have swift ponies——"

Joe sprang to his feet.  "I *must* go, Father—I
must!  I must find her—I must bring her back—Princess,
Princess!" and collapsing into the chair he
fell over insensible.

His father, who was a good deal of a doctor and
nurse, bathed his wounded head and gave him a simple
stimulant.  Presently he opened his eyes.  He sat up,
gazed wildly about, then sprang up with a white,
determined face.

"I'm going to find Princess, Father," he said in a
tone that was not to be disputed.  "I *must*—we can't
leave her in the hands of that—that scoundrel.  I'm
all right now, I can ride Kit——"

"But Kit is not a riding-horse, Joe; you could never
overtake them.  By this time those Indians are miles
away."

"Father"—Joe leaned forward and spoke low in
his father's ear—"the man that carried Nina off *was
not an Indian*!  When I struck him I knocked his
bonnet to one side, his neck was *white*—and *he had
red hair!*"

Joshua Peniman started violently.

"*Red Snake!*" he muttered.

For a moment he stood lost in thought, then said
rapidly: "This is worse than I feared.  We must go
after her.  We must get her out of his hands.  I don't
see how I can go——"

"You *can't*, Father!  You can't be spared.  Mother
and the children need you here.  But I can go—I'm
all right now—I *must* go—I *must* find her!"

Joshua Peniman had been thinking swiftly.

"The best thing we can do," he broke in, "is to get
to the Missions and Agencies and get word to the
Government about this degenerate white man who
lives with the Indians and is inciting them to raids and
assaults for his own ends.  Of course it's a terrible
risk, it is taking your life in your hands, but the only
hope that I can see of rescuing her is for some one to
go to Bellevue and get Government aid.  If I dared to
leave the family——"

"This has proved that you dare not, Father.  You
must stay here.  It is my place to go."

"But, Joe boy, do you realize the danger?  Do you
remember how far it is—how desolate and barren—what
a lone, wearisome, lonesome trail?"

The boy looked at him bravely.  "I remember," he
said.  "But it can't be helped.  It's *got* to be
done—and I'm going to do it.  I must take food and water.
Get it for me, won't you, Father, while I go get Kit?"

He rushed from the house, and found both teams
standing by the barn, the third tied, as Sam had left
it, to the back of the wagon.

He rapped on the door of the dugout and called
loudly, telling the quaking family inside that the
Indians were gone and the danger over.

When the door was opened and his mother peeped
out he hastened to reassure her.

"But they've carried Nina away and I am going
after her," he cried, dashing into the barn, seizing a
blanket, and throwing it over Kit's back.

"The Indians—they have carried off Princess?"
shrieked Ruth.

He did not stop to answer them; throwing himself
across Kit's back and snatching the revolver, the
ammunition and the bag of food and water that his
father handed up to him, he waved his hand to the
family, and before they could utter a protest he was
gone, riding at a mad gallop across the plains.





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.. _`EAGLE EYE`:

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   CHAPTER XVII


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   EAGLE EYE

.. vspace:: 2

When Joe had gone, riding madly away
across the prairies, Joshua and Hannah
Peniman stood looking after his receding
figure until it faded into a mere speck and was
swallowed up by the immeasurable distance of the plains.

The faces of both were grey and haggard, and in
their eyes was mirrored the fear that they might never
see their eldest son again.

"May the Almighty Father watch over and protect
him," prayed the father.

"And bring him back to us alive and well," breathed
the mother with quivering lips.

"I wish that I could have gone in his place!" were
the words that forced themselves with a groan from
the lips of Joshua Peniman.  "But I dared not
go—in justice to you and the children.  I could not leave
you here without my protection.  But we could not
abandon that poor child without making every effort
to save her, so Joe had to go.  But he is only a
lad—it is a long, long trail—a wild and desperate mission——"

"But we, nor he, could not have done otherwise,
dear."  Hannah Peniman's eyes were dry, her tone
steady.  "It was a duty that was laid upon us.  God
will watch over him.  He will permit no harm to come
to our boy in the discharge of this sacred duty."

Her husband clasped her hand and looked tenderly
into her eyes.  "Thee is ever my inspiration and
comfort, Hannah," he said with quivering voice.  "Thy
vision is ever more clear than mine, thy faith more fast
and true."

She turned her face to him and began to speak, then
stopped abruptly and stood listening.

"Hark!" she cried in a startled whisper, "what was that?"

Both stood motionless with heads raised, the fear of
an unknown danger upon them.

Then there came to them again the sound that had
arrested Hannah Peniman's attention.  A low moan,
scarcely more than a sigh, came from the tall grass
near the side of the dugout.

Mr. Peniman caught up his musket and strode in
the direction from which the sound preceded.  His
wife followed him.

"Be careful," she whispered cautiously, "it might
be some trap!"

As they crept forward through the long, waving
grass they came upon the body of a young Indian lying
on his back, stark and dead.  A little farther along
both stopped abruptly as the moan they had heard
before reached their ears.  Joshua Peniman sprang
forward.  Suddenly he stopped, and with a motion to his
wife to keep back, stooped in the grass.

Face downward in a tangle of weeds they saw an
Indian lying, one arm extended, the other doubled
under his head.  As the white man stooped over him a
shudder ran through his body and again the low,
suppressed moan came from his lips.

Mr. Peniman lifted the body in his arms and turned
it over.  It was that of a young Indian, tall and
powerful, in full war panoply, with a handsome
copper-colored face.  As the white man lifted him he groaned
again and the blood rushed from a wound in his side.
He was quite unconscious, the eyes half-closed, the lips
blue and parted, the lean, keen-featured face ashen
with the pallor of approaching death.

Mrs. Peniman, who had stolen up behind her husband,
uttered a pitying cry, and quickly tearing off her
apron tore it into strips and kneeling by the prostrate
figure began binding up the gaping wound.

"Oh," she cried with a shudder, "oh, Joshua,
perhaps it was I who did that!  Oh, my God, to think of
hurting a fellow-creature so desperately!  But he was
by the door—I was afraid he would get the children——"

"There were many shots fired, Hannah," her husband
assured her, "it was probably not thee that hit
him.  But it is a terrible thing that we seem obliged
to kill our fellow-men to protect ourselves.  We who
do not believe in slaughter——"  He stopped, then went
on quickly, "We must get him up to the house—he is
badly wounded—he may die—and it is our duty to
save his life if we can, even though we know that he is
an enemy."

Between them they bore the unconscious form of the
young Indian to their own home.  Ruth met them at
the door, and as her eyes fell upon the burden they
carried she uttered a loud scream.

"It is the Indian I shot with Mother's revolver!"
she cried, backing away in terror.  Then seeing the
gaping wound in the side she covered her face and
began to cry.

"Oh, I did that, I did it," she moaned.  "I thought
he would kill Mother—I——"

"Hush, Ruth," her father commanded.  "He is
harmless now.  He is badly wounded—perhaps dying.
We must do all that we can to save him.  You know
we are told by the Master to help our enemies and do
good to them who despitefully use us."

They laid the unconscious young brave on Joe's bed,
and Hannah Peniman brought a pan of hot water and
began to bathe and dress the wound in his side.  Her
husband bending down beside her examined the wound.

"I'm afraid it is fatal," he said sadly, "but we will
do the best we can for him."  From his earliest youth
it had been the desire of his heart to be a physician.
Circumstances had made him a farmer, but all through
his life he had retained his love for the art of surgery
and medicine, and by continually practising upon the
stock on his place and on members of his family he
had attained a degree of skill not possessed by many
regularly licensed doctors.  He probed and cleaned
the wound, took the pulse and heart-beat and set about
reducing the temperature.

For several days following the young Indian lay on
Joe's bed burning with fever, delirious and muttering,
sick unto death.  Ruth, who seemed stricken with
horror at the suffering her hand had visited upon a
fellow-creature, devoted herself to his nursing, in
which Mrs. Peniman and Sara shared, and Joshua
Peniman waited upon and watched over him as if he
were a friend or a relative instead of a deadly foe.

One morning as Mr. and Mrs. Peniman were bending
over him irrigating his wound he suddenly opened
his eyes.

For a moment he lay staring at them as if he
believed that his mind was still wandering.  Then he
stirred, grunted, and tried to sit up.

Joshua Peniman pushed him gently back upon the
pillows.

"Heap sick," he said, accompanying the words with
gestures that left no doubt of his meaning.

The Indian stared at him, then turned his head and
looked intently into Hannah Peniman's face.  She
bent over him with soothing words, took his hand, and
stroked her cool, soft hand across his forehead.

"Heap sick," she said, smiling at him and speaking
slowly, as one might to an ailing child.  Then taking
his hand she laid it over the wound, pointed to the
bandages, then to her husband, then to herself.

At this moment Ruth came into the room carrying
a glass of milk.  Seeing the black eyes open and
staring into her mother's face she started back,
half-frightened.  But she was too good and efficient a little
nurse to let fear interfere with her duties, and going
straight up to the bed put the glass to his lips.

He threw back his head, refusing it, then turned the
glare of his fierce black eyes from her mother's face to
hers.  But Ruth was not to be daunted.

"You've got to drink your milk," she said firmly,
"else you'll never get well.  Take it now, this
minute!"  For a moment the young Indian continued to stare at
her, then a grin came creeping over his brown face,
and when she again put the milk to his lips he drank
it obediently.

Mrs. Peniman smiled her approval.  "Now go to
sleep," she told him, and illustrated her meaning by
placing her cheek on her hand and closing her eyes.
The young Indian smiled again, and nodded.  He was
pitifully weak, and soon surrendered to the drowsiness
that overcame him.  When he woke again it was
evening and the sunset was casting long wavering
shadows into the windows.

All the next day he scarcely stirred in the bed, but
the keen black eyes opened frequently and followed
their movements.  When Ruth came to his bed bringing
a glass of milk and a plate of toast he looked up
into her face and smiled.  Later, as she was passing
he put out a feeble hand and caught her dress.
Drawing her nearer he took her hand and patted it
gently.

He pointed to his own breast and in a feeble voice
said: "Me Eagle Eye," then pointing his finger
toward her he gazed at her inquiringly.

Ruth's brown eyes widened and smiled.

"*You* name Eagle Eye?" she asked, and when he
nodded gravely she added delightedly, "My name *Ruth*."

"Woof!" he said, then smiled at her and closed
his eyes.

Ruth ran to her mother in great delight.

"Our Indian isn't fierce or bad a bit, Mother," she
cried, "he patted my hand and smiled at me.  He likes
me.  His name is 'Eagle Eye,' and he wanted to
know my name.  I don't believe he's a bad Indian, I
believe he was trying to tell me he was grateful to us
for taking care of him."

For many days after that he appeared too weak and
ill to pay much attention to them, but gradually the
wound began to heal, and Joshua Peniman saw with
much gratification that his patient was in a fair way to
recover.

One day he indicated to Mrs. Peniman that he would
like to get up.  Pointing to the wound in his side he
then pointed to the outdoors and the sun that was
shining warmly, and by laying his head on his hand and
pointing to the ground outside the window he made
her understand that he wanted to go outside and lie
in the sun.

"Why, to be sure," she cried, smiling at him, "you
know what would be good for you, don't you?  Wait,
I'll call your doctor."

When Mr. Peniman came he repeated the pantomime.
Joshua Peniman nodded.

"Yes, why not?  Probably your instinct is a true
one.  I'll help you up."

While the Indian did not understand the words he
understood the nod and smile that accompanied them,
and with every sign of joy allowed himself to be helped
out of bed and into the warm sun before the door,
where he stretched himself at full length on the warm
earth with a great sigh of contentment.

After that he spent most of every day lying in the
sun, and his progress toward recovery was rapid.  He
could soon sit up, walk about, and at last wander from
place to place by himself.

He had gradually been picking up a few English
words, and during his convalescence Ruth and Sara
became his teachers.  It was no uncommon sight of
an afternoon to see the tall young Indian stretched
out on the grass in front of the sod house, with a little
white girl on either side of him industriously teaching
him English.

It was evident that he already understood much that
was said to him, and remembered words and sentences
that had been repeated in his presence while he was ill.
One day he surprised them greatly by saying in fairly
good English: "Heap good white folks."

Ruth laughed delightedly oven this, and Joshua
Peniman found in the remark sober cause for
congratulation.  In the perilous position in which he and
his family were placed he felt that every Indian who
cherished a friendly feeling toward them was an
immense protection.

No sign or word had come from Joe since they had
seen him ride away over the plains, and his heart was
sore and aching for the boy who had always been such
a help and comfort to him.  As the days went by and
he did not return they almost despaired of ever seeing
him again.

One day in the sorrow of his heart he spoke of him
to Eagle Eye.  He did not know how much of what
he said was understood by the red man, but he looked
at him intently while he spoke, and when Mr. Peniman
finished the sad tale nodded gravely.

The next morning Eagle Eye came to them with his
clothing and moccasins on and his bow and arrow in
his hand.  He solemnly held out his hand, and when
Mr. Peniman accepted it shook it gravely.  Then
walking to Mrs. Peniman he shook her hand also, and
without a word of farewell stalked away across the
prairies.

"He's *gone!*" cried Ruth tragically, gazing after
the receding figure with amazement.

"And without a word of thanks for all we have done
for him!" cried Lige indignantly.

"You know he cannot express himself very well in
our language," said Mrs. Peniman.  "Perhaps he felt
more deeply than he could tell."

"We'll never see him again!" cried Sara on the
point of tears.

"Who can tell!" said Joshua Peniman, gazing after
the tall blanketed figure with a strange light in his
eyes, "who can tell!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A LIFE FOR A LIFE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   A LIFE FOR A LIFE

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile Joe was having a thrilling experience.

While his father and mother stood gazing
after him with prayers on their lips the boy was
leaning forward over Kit's neck, urging her forward with
voice and knees.

A great fear filled him.  A terrible and undefined
horror chilled his blood and knocked heavily at his
heart.

"They've got Nina!  *They've got Nina!*" he said
over and over to himself until the words formed themselves
into a kind of a chant that beat itself out in time
to the thudding hoofs.

He had no consciousness of time or place or distance.
His one frantic impulse was for speed, *speed*!
It was not until he felt the mare heave and stumble
under him that he came to himself and realized that
she was nearly done.

"Poor Kit!" he murmured, checking her up and
stroking the heaving sides and panting neck.  "I
mustn't kill you whatever happens."

He slipped down from her back, rubbed her down
with grass, then cooled her mouth and sponged her
nose with water from the precious flask he carried.

When she had ceased to heave and began to breathe
more naturally he mounted again and tried to curb his
urging spirit to her strength.

Kit had been born on the Ohio farm, and Joe had
loved and tended and petted her from a colt.  She
knew every tone of his voice, and would come to him
at his call.  She was not, as his father had reminded
him, a riding-horse.  Her gait was not suited to the
saddle, and as she had always been used for farm
work, riding her was a painful and difficult matter.
But Joe was not thinking of his own comfort now.
He was thinking of Nina—Nina in the hands of the
Indians!  Nina in the clutches of the renegade with
red hair!

As the sun began to droop low in the west he reined
up and looked about him.  Over the whole vast
expanse of the prairies no living thing was in sight.
Nowhere was there any sign of the Indians, and he
recalled with a sore heart what his father had said, that
with their swift ponies it would be impossible for him
to catch up with them.

He felt weak and faint, and dismounting slipped the
bridle over Kit's head and let her graze while he threw
himself down on the grass and drank from the flask
of water and ate some of the lunch that his father had
put up for him.

Darkness fell swiftly these days.  Before the
son and purple in the western sky had faded the
shadows of night were darkling over the plains.  He
urged Kit forward, determined that he would not
sleep, that neither he nor she should know rest until he
had reached Bellevue and set the Government agencies
at work to rescue Nina.

Darkness was closing in about him when turning to
scan the empty circle of the horizon he saw outlined
against the fading sky a curl of smoke.

His heart gave a great leap.

Could it be the camp of the Indians?

His breath came quick and fast, and whirling Kit
sharply about he dashed madly across the prairies
toward it.

Boy-like, he did not stop to consider what he would
do when he got there.  Whether the encampment was
that of friend or foe, or how, in case it should be the
band who had abducted the little Princess, he should
set about to rescue her.

All he thought about was to *get there*.  The rest
would come when he was on the ground.

Kit had got her second wind now, and traveled
steadily, jolting and shaking the boy on her back
cruelly, but covering the ground at a good gait.

He knew that he could not reach the point from
whence he saw the smoke rising for nearly an hour,
and realized that he must not approach it before
darkness had completely enshrouded the plains and the
camp had settled down for the night.

As he came nearer, his heart was gladdened, and at
the same time shaken, by the sound of the tom-toms
and the rhythmic chant of voices.  Checking up his
horse he rode more slowly, biding his time until the
camp should be shrouded in darkness and sleep.

When darkness came he could make out the red
glare of the camp-fire against the sky, and could see
the silhouette of dusky figures dancing about it He
got down, and muffling Kit's nose in his handkerchief,
lest she should whinny, he walked beside her, ready at
an instant's notice to check her slightest noise.

He could hear the singing plainly now, but did not
know enough of Indian lore to realize that the song
they were chanting was not a war-song, but the hymn
of the buffalo hunt, appealing to the Great Spirit to
bless the chase and give to them meat for their lodges
and covers for their teepees before the coming of the
big snows.

As the boy crept nearer his very heart was in his
throat.

He saw presently that the camp was on a creek, that
there were scrubby trees behind it, and a tangled thicket
ahead.

Afraid to lead Kit any nearer he took her to the
outmost fringe of the thicket and tied her securely,
with the handkerchief still over her nose.  Then he
crept forward through the brush.

He could see the camp plainly now.  The teepees
were set up along the banks of the creek, the great
fire in the centre of the half-circle, and on the ground
was the newly removed hide of a buffalo, while the
savory smell of its roasting flesh still hung in the air.

Creeping up as close to the teepees as he could and
still remain in shelter he looked and listened intently.

*Was Nina in one of those tents?*

Which one?

Would she be alone?  Would it be possible for him
to reach her?

Doubts, questions, and anxieties struggled in his
mind as he lay hidden in the thicket.

At last the feast was over, the music ceased, the fire
died down, and squaws, bucks, and papooses slowly
dispersed.  The lean, cadaverous dogs, that are always
a part of an Indian encampment, prowled about the
fire eating the offal, but at last they too were surfeited
and lay down to sleep.

Joe waited; his heart thumping so hard against his
ribs that he feared the sleeping Indians must hear it.

It seemed to him that hours passed.  Now and then
a baby cried, a pony whinnied, a dog growled or
barked.  Gradually snores came to his ears.  Long,
sonorous snores, short, barking snores, but all of them
snores that he was more than glad to hear.

After a time he moved his cramped limbs and slowly
got to his knees, then to his feet.  With cautious
movements he parted the undergrowth about him and
began to crawl through.

Whenever a bit of brush crackled he threw himself
flat on the ground and tried to burrow himself out of
sight.  But at last, after much toilful and noiseless
wriggling he got clear of the thicket and stood just
within its shadow in the open.

Before him were the teepees.

He knew that if Nina were with this band she must
be in one of them,—*but which*?

Cautiously, noiselessly, he worked his way around
the edge of the thicket nearer to the teepees.  Then on
his hands and knees, crawling so close to the ground
that he scarcely made a shadow, he wormed his way
across the open space.

He knew that his life was not worth an instant's
purchase if he was discovered.  He felt positive that
detection meant death.  But Nina was there—in the
hands of her enemies—he must get her!

At last he reached the teepees.  Crawled nearer to
their openings.  Was listening before their doors.

From the nearest one came loud, deep snores.  It
was a man's snore—she could not be there.  He crept
on.  From the next came the whimpering sound of a
baby's cry.  Something told him that she would not
be there.  With redoubled caution he wormed his way
along to the next.  Listening intently he thought he
heard a stifled sob.  His pulses leaped.  Waiting and
listening with bated breath he crept nearer.  It came
again.  Some one inside the teepee was crying.

*Some one was crying!*

It was not a child—it could not be a squaw—-squaws
did not cry—*it must be Nina*!

How should he call her?  How let her know that
he was there?

Cautiously he raised himself, cautiously with slow,
noiseless movement he raised the flap of hide that
covered the opening of the teepee.

It was so dark inside that at first he could see
nothing; then gradually as his eyes became accustomed
to the blackness he made out a heap of leaves and
branches at one side of the teepee, on which lay a
grey-haired squaw, and his heart gave a great leap that
almost made him cry aloud as he saw on the blanket
beside her the white face and golden hair of the little
Princess.

It was all he could do to stifle the cry that rose to
his lips, but he knew that the least sound would be
fatal now, so locking his teeth hard he slid forward
like a great serpent and bent his face close to the
sobbing little girl.  Slipping his hand over her mouth
he whispered rapidly, "Nina, it is I, Joe; be quiet, I've
come to save you!"

Quietly as he had entered, soft, almost noiseless as
was his whisper, it woke the squaw, who set up a great
outcry and darted past him out of the tent.  Before
the boy could move or the startled girl rise from her
couch of branches, a man in a long grey shirt rushed
through the opening.  As he came Joe thrust his foot
between the long legs and tripped him, and as he fell
headlong caught up the Princess in his arms and
leaped over the prostrate body.

The teepees were placed on the bank above the creek,
and back of them ran the line of scrubby timber and
the tangle of thick undergrowth through which Joe
had worked his way.  The instant he found himself
outside the teepee with Nina in his arms he darted back
of it and into the brush.

Instantly the man in the long flapping grey shirt was
on his feet and following them.  Joe stopped long
enough to catch his silhouette against the sky-line, and
fire.  He saw him fall, rise, press his hand to his knee
with a groan of pain, then sink down into the brush.

Dragging Nina behind him he ducked between the
legs of an Indian who was rushing toward him, bowled
him over, and dodged behind a tree.  He knew that he
had not an instant to lose.  Seizing Nina by the hand
he dragged her behind the tree, then whispered
rapidly:

"They're after us!  They may get me, but Kit is
just outside the edge of the thicket over that way," he
pointed; "try to get to her and go on to Bellevue.  It
can't be very far now.  We'll stick together if we can,
but if you see me fall don't wait, make a dash for
Kit——" a great whoop from the teepees above
interrupted his broken whisper, and pushing Nina before
him he rushed on through the thicket.  "Through
there—through there," he panted, "wiggle your way
through the brush!"  He leaned forward to push the
undergrowth aside for her when a bullet whizzed
through the air and his arm dropped to his side, while
a stinging, burning pain shot through his chest.

"I'm hit!" he gasped.  "Go on, *hurry*—whistle to
Kit—you know my whistle—she'll hear and answer you!"

Nina cast a horrified look upon him, but he waved
his arm impatiently, then staggered back and fell,
slipping and sliding down the bank and into the water.

With a cry of horror she scrambled after him, but
he was nowhere to be seen.  The water at the foot of
the embankment was ruffled, and she knew that he
must have sunk to the bottom.

For a moment she stood with hands locked in agony
gazing down into the muddy depths, then as a wild
yelp sounded above her gave vent to a great sobbing
cry and darted through the undergrowth, taking the
direction Joe had pointed out to her.

.. vspace:: 2

Joe, badly wounded, probably owed his life to his
plunge into the muddy waters of the creek.  It brought
him sharply back to his failing senses, and instinct
made him crawl close to the bank, where, under a
heavy growth of coarse reed-like grass and rushes he
was entirely concealed from the bank above.  He
heard the rush of feet above him, the yelp and howl of
voices, the loud, angry cursing of a man in the English
tongue, then knew no more.

When he came to himself it was morning.  There
was no sound to be heard, and he was bitterly cold,
shivering as if with an ague.  He drew himself
slowly and painfully out of the water and sat down on
the bank.  His left arm hung limp and useless at his
side, and his shirt was stained and draggled with
blood.

How long he sat there he could not tell.  He was
weak and dizzy, and his head was going around so fast
that he could make no note of time.  He stooped
presently and drank a little from the stream, bathed
his aching head, and shook the water from his clothes.
Then he got to his feet, and weakly, warily, began
making his way through the brush.

He wondered, with a sinking heart, what had
become of Nina.  Whether she had got away or whether
she had been captured again by Red Snake.  He could
not go far at a time but, stopping every little way to
rest and ease the agony in his chest, crept on.  The sun
was up and shining hot in the heavens when he reached
the edge of the thicket.  He called and whistled, but
there was no answer.  Kit was not there.

Suddenly he shrank back into the shelter of the
undergrowth with a sickening heart.  Across the flat
surface of the plain he saw a troop of horsemen riding,
and from the way they rode he knew they were Indians.

A groan burst from his lips.  He supposed they
were hunting him, and cowering back in the shelter of
the scrubby undergrowth he gave himself up for lost.
He thought that of course they had captured Nina, and
the horror and agony of the thought, combined with
the pain in his arm and chest, rendered him almost
unconscious.  Dropping down upon the ground he
gradually drifted away into a blank, then into a wild,
fevered dream, where all was confusion.

There was a great noise in the dream, a rushing and
thundering of hoofs, a shaking of the ground, as if
with an earthquake, whoops, yells, the crashing and
smashing of timber, and a great crowd about him.

He cried out, and started up in terror.  Outside on
the plains a party of horsemen were thundering by,
and not far away a great red animal lay struggling in
its death-agonies, with a group of Indians about it.

Joe raised himself painfully, and creeping to an
opening in the thicket looked out.  Then suddenly he
cried aloud.

*These were not Sioux!*

With all the blood in his body roaring in his ears
he listened to the guttural tones of the Indians bent
over the buffalo on the grass, quickly ending its
struggles.

He had picked up a few words of the Indian
language, and by the dress of these men, by the words
that he could catch here and there he knew that they
were Omahas and Pawnees.

With no further hesitation he crawled from his
hiding-place and raising his hand above his head gave a
weak call.  The Indians whirled about swiftly and
looked at him.  One of them detached himself from
the rest and came toward him.

He had but strength enough to point to his wound,
to say "Heap sick," then stumbled forward and fell at
the Indian's feet.

When he came to himself he was in an Indian wig-wam.

At first terror took possession of him, thinking that
he had again fallen into the hands of the Sioux.  But
his first stir brought an Indian woman to his side, who,
seeing his eyes open, uttered a guttural exclamation
and ran from the wigwam.  Immediately the opening
was thrown back and a young buck entered.

Joe, half-expecting to see Red Snake, cowered down
on the bed of boughs and skins.  But the Indian who
hurried to his side came with outstretched hand and a
smile on his face.  There was something strangely
familiar about him, and as the boy gazed up at him he
was struggling in his sick mind to place the face.

The Indian bent over him, smiled, then thrust his
hand inside his shirt and brought out a bright red
necktie.  Joe's heart gave a great jump of joy.

"*Pashepaho!*" he cried, and grabbed the slim brown
hand.  Then gazing about him, "Where am I—how
did I happen to get here?"

Pashepaho grinned at him and patted his hand.

"You with my people.  Pawnee village on Platte
River.  Heap sick boy.  Been here many sleeps."

"I *have*?"  Joe rubbed his head confusedly.
"How did I get here?  I don't remember—oh!"—as
memory began to come back to him—"oh, I was
shot—and some Indian came——"

"My young men hunt buffalo.  Fin' you heap sick.
Bring you back Big Chief.  Big Chief my favver."

"Oh, and I am in your wigwam?  This is your camp?"

Pashepaho nodded.

"And you have been taking care of me, Pashepaho?
I was hurt pretty bad, I guess.  I believe I would
have died there if your young men had not found me."

"Sure.  Heap sick.  Medicine man make you well."

Joe grinned weakly.  He had not much faith in
medicine men, but he cared little who saved him as
long as he was getting well.

"I'm all right now, ain't I?" he asked anxiously,
beginning to realize his great weakness and languor.

"Yep.  Get li'l stronger.  Eat heap meat."

Joe suddenly remembered his arm and lifted it
gingerly.

Pashepaho saw the movement and grinned.  "All
ri' now."  Then laying his hand on the boy's chest,
"Here worse.  Heap much hole.  Bleed.  Cough.
Heap sick."

Joe put his hand to his chest.  A rough poultice of
leaves and herbs covered it.  He could feel that it was
still sore, but the burning, stabbing pain that he
remembered the last thing before he became unconscious
was gone.

He turned and grasped the hand of the young Indian
tightly, and his gratitude shone in his sunken grey
eyes.

"You're a true friend, Pashepaho, I guess you
saved my life," he said fervently.  Then, stopping
now and then to rest when his breath gave out or a
coughing spell came on, he told the story of the
assault of the Sioux, Nina's capture, his own pursuit, his
discovery of Nina in the teepee, and his shooting and
escape.

"I don't know whether they got Nina again or not,"
he concluded sorrowfully.  "I did the best I could,
but when I got plugged in the chest I didn't know much
afterward.  I told her to get through the thicket if
she could and find Kit, but I don't know whether she
made it, and even if she did they might have got her
afterward.  To think of that poor little girl in the
hands of that brute——"

His voice shook, and he stopped abruptly.

Pashepaho patted his shoulder.  "No worry," he
said.  "She get home all ri'."  Then, "Who get?
Indian carry off girl?"

Joe's face flushed and his eyes blazed.  "No, I
don't believe there's any Indian mean enough.  It was
a white man.  He lives with the Sioux——"

"Squaw-man?"

"I guess that's what they call him.  He's got some
kind of a grudge against Nina or her folks.  This is
the third time he has attacked her.  He killed her
father.  Sometimes I have wondered if——"

"What kind man?"

"Oh, he's a *big* brute, tall and terribly strong, but
thin, and he's got red hair and a"—then as a sudden
flash of memory came over him—"why, say, you
know him!  That's the man that was trying to trade
you out of that otter skin the first time I saw you!"

"Ai-ee, ai-ee!  Big white man, red hair, live with
Santee Sioux!  Drink heap fire-water!  Name Red Snake."

"Yes—yes—that's the man—Red Snake.  Who is
he, Pashepaho?  What is he doing living with red
men?  What is his real name?"

Pashepaho shook his head.  "*Red Snake* all name I
know.  Heap bad man.  Make heap trouble."

Joe lay back on his blanket depressed and troubled.
While he knew that he was now safe his heart was
rent with anxiety for Nina and his parents.  He had
been gone "many sleeps"!  He knew that by this time
they must think him dead.  And Nina—poor little
Princess—what of her?  Where was she, and what
had she suffered while he lay unconscious in
Pashepaho's wigwam!

He would have risen and tried to start forth at once,
but Pashepaho and Petale-sharu, his father, the Great
Chief, would not allow it.

"Me take you when you can ride," assured Pashepaho,
and with that assurance Joe was forced to be
content.

He found that he was in an Indian settlement on
Buffalo Creek, where he was left alone day after day
with the old men and squaws and papooses while the
men of the tribe were away on the big fall hunt.

It was tedious business waiting for his wound to
heal with so anxious a heart in his breast, and it took
all the patience and fortitude he possessed.  He played
with the dogs and children, and talked with the squaws,
whom he found to be kind and gentle, and who seemed
glad to teach him their own language, learning,
meanwhile, amid great laughter, a little of the English
tongue.  They had funny times making themselves
understood by one another, and while his wound
healed and his strength came back day by day Joe
acquired a knowledge of the language and customs of
the Pawnees which stood him in good stead at a later day.

The Pawnees lived in large circular houses called
"earth lodges," with walls of dirt and a roof supported
by trunks of trees set upright inside of the walls, the
whole covered with poles, grass and sod.  On the east
side was a covered entrance, and on the west were the
sacred bundle and buffalo skull.  There was a hole
in the centre of the roof to let the smoke out, and the
people slept around the edge of the circle made by the
walls, and gathered about the lodge-fire in the centre
of the enclosure to eat and talk.

The women raised crops of corn, beans, pumpkins,
squashes, and melons, and gathered the wild fruits and
roots from the prairie and dried them for winter.  As
they were now busy with the drying process Joe often
helped them, telling them in his boyish way how they
could better their farming, and even taking a hand,
when he grew strong enough, in showing them how to
harvest their crops in an easier and more scientific
manner.

He found them to be a very religious people, and as
they came to know him better and to grow fond of
him, he was sometimes allowed to attend their sacred
rites.  They believed in a Great Spirit, whom they
called "Tirawa," the Father, who made the people, and
who sent the corn, the rain, the buffalo, the sunshine,
and all good things, and he was permitted to witness
some of the dances and ceremonials held by the tribe
for the purpose of gaining the favor of Tirawa.

In spite of his terrible anxiety about Nina and the
burning desire he had to get back to his parents and
relieve their worry about him the days went by not
unhappily.  He found the Pawnees to be a quiet, gentle
people, friendly to the whites, and with high ideas of
honor and honesty which surprised as well as delighted
him.  The women were very kind to him, gave him
the best the lodges afforded to eat, and nursed and
tended him until he was able to wait upon himself.

He had no means of knowing how time had gone by.
To the best of his knowledge he must have been gone
nearly a month, when Pashepaho, seeing his continual
anxiety, told him one morning that they would set out
upon his journey homeward the next day.

Joe could not sleep that night, and was awake and
ready before even the first prowling dog of the
encampment was astir.

After a good breakfast he bade them all good-bye,
thanked the kind people over and over again for their
care and hospitality, and mounting the shaggy Indian
pony that Pashepaho had provided for him, and well
equipped with food and water, they set forth toward
home.

Joe could never have found his way alone.  They
wound along creek bottoms and by devious paths and
trails which a white man would never have discovered,
and as they rode they talked.  Joe found that his
friend Pashepaho was not only an exceedingly intelligent
young Indian, but a man of courage and principle as well.

He told the boy that his people had lived in what
was then called the Territory of Nebraska for more
than two hundred years.  That they had always been
friendly to the white man, but that the white brothers
who had come among them had robbed and deceived
them and were taking from them all that they had
possessed as their own for so many centuries.  He
talked sorrowfully of the condition of his people, and
said in a tragic voice that he knew that their day was
past.  Standing upon a little rise and sweeping his
arm in a slow circle all about him he said, "All once
belong to my people.  But white man come, and now
my people are as the leaves on the trees in the winter,
yours as the grass in the fields.  If we rebel we get
kill.  If twenty your people fall, hundreds of mine
must pay.  No hope.  The Indian must go.  His day
is ended."

The second day out they saw a great herd of buffalo
feeding on the plains.  Joe could see that it was hard
for Pashepaho to pass them by unmolested.

"Can't we try to get a shot at them?" cried Joe,
willing, boy-like, to risk anything for the sake of a
stirring chase.

Pashepaho shook his head.

"No shoot," he grunted.  "Bring trouble.  We no
want Sioux come now."  Then glancing at the boy,
who was still pale from his recent illness, "You no
hunt now.  Bime-by when you strong me take you
big hunt some day."

"Oh, will you, Pashepaho?" cried Joe eagerly.
"Hurray!  And may Lige come, too?  Jeminy, that'd
be great.  Don't forget, will you?"

"Me no forget," remarked Pashepaho, with a smile
that showed how fond he had grown of his young
white friend.

On the third day, or as Pashepaho expressed it,
"three sleeps from the Pawnee settlement," Joe began
to recognize the landscape.

"Oh, I know this road," he cried out excitedly, "we
traveled over it when we were coming out!  We made
our noon camp right over there!  Yes, sir, there's the
signs of our fire yet!  We go straight west from here,
don't we?"

Pashepaho looked into the flushed, excited face of
his young friend.  "We no far from Blue Water
now," he said with a smile.

Joe's heart beat hard and high as they came nearer
and nearer to the homestead.  What should he find
when he got there?  What might have happened while
he had been away?





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.. _`HOW JOE CAME HOME`:

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   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center medium bold

   HOW JOE CAME HOME

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When Nina saw Joe fall and heard him slide
down the bank and into the water she
thought he was dead.

When she could see nothing of him, and heard the
Indians rushing through the trees and grass above her
she fled like a startled rabbit through the undergrowth.

She saw an Indian dash down the bank and look up
and down the creek, then she heard his footsteps recede
and words called out in a language she did not
understand.  Twice while she hid and cowered in the
undergrowth she saw Indians come down to the creek and
look along its banks, then she heard them ride away.

Many times in her flight she stopped and listened.
It was pitch-dark in the thicket, and the little girl,
creeping forward through the underbrush, was
half-crazed with fear.  But she knew that her best
protection from capture by the savages was in the tangled
brush, and she fought her way gallantly through it, and
just at dawn found herself at the edge of the thicket,
with the broad, open prairies before her.

Remembering Joe's directions she gave the whistle
he had always used in calling Kit, and to her
unbounded joy heard a low, smothered whinny in answer.

In her terror and loneliness it sounded to the little
Princess like the voice of an old friend.  Guiding her
direction by the sound she stole along in the shadow
of the thicket and not long after came to where Kit,
still tied as Joe had left her, turned her slender head
and intelligent eyes toward her, pawing the ground
with an impatient hoof.

Nina had never ridden horseback, but she was too
terrified, too weary now to remember that.  Clasping
her arms about Kit's neck she managed to scramble on
her back and started off, not knowing which way to go,
but eager to put distance in any direction between
herself and the horrors with which she had been surrounded.

She had to cling tight to Kit's mane to keep from
falling off, and was afraid to let her go much faster
than a walk, so that her progress was slow and difficult.
Sunrise found her plodding on, a forlorn little
figure on a big bay mare, tears running down her face,
and muffled sobs shaking her.

.. _`SUNRISE FOUND HER PLODDING ON, A FORLORN LITTLE FIGURE ON A BIG BAY MARE`:

.. figure:: images/img-222.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: SUNRISE FOUND HER PLODDING ON, A FORLORN LITTLE FIGURE ON A BIG BAY MARE.

   SUNRISE FOUND HER PLODDING ON, A FORLORN LITTLE FIGURE ON A BIG BAY MARE.

Shortly after sunrise she was overtaken by a band of
Winnebago Indians laden with elk hides and buffalo
skins, returning to their camp from a week's hunt in
the Blackbird Hills.

The surprise of the Indians may be imagined when
seeing a solitary rider ambling slowly and apparently
aimlessly over the prairies, they overtook it and saw
that the rider was a beautiful little white girl, who cried
bitterly when they spoke to her and would not tell who
she was, where she had come from or where she was going.

None of the band could speak English, and as Nina
knew no Indian there was little chance of her being
able to inform them.  It was quite evident, however,
that the child was wild with terror when they
approached her, and when they took her and her horse in
tow she shrieked and fought, utterly unaware that they
were doing their utmost to assure her that they were
"good Indians," that they never hurt children and
would take her back to her home and family if she
could make them understand where she lived.

After much perplexed discussion among themselves
the Winnebagoes decided to take her back with them
to their encampment, where they would find some of
their tribe who spoke English, and find out who the
young stranger might be.

They tried to be kind and gentle to her, and the
squaws did their best to comfort her, but the child was
in a perfect panic of terror, and at the approach of
every new person shrank and shuddered, looking with
great agonized violet eyes into the faces of the Indians,
and shaking and trembling with fear.  To her all
Indians were alike, and momentarily she expected the
hated Red Snake to come and claim her.

As days passed, however, and Red Snake did not
appear, when day followed day and no dreadful thing
happened to her, and she saw the boys and men ride
away leaving her behind with the squaws, old men and
children, she began to be less afraid.  Little by little
the haunted look of terror left her eyes, and after a
time she began to scrape acquaintance with the children
that hung fascinated about her.  The bright-eyed little
papooses strapped to their rigid back-boards appealed
to her wonderfully, and when she sat down before
them and played with them, chucking them under their
fat little chins and playing "peek-a-boo" with her
apron, they squealed with laughter, and she too could
begin to smile.  After a while she began to play with
the little Indian girls and boys, and little by little to
learn their language and teach them hers.

Twice the camp was moved, and Nina was moved
with it, helping the squaws with the babies, and feeling
tremendous interest in the bustle of preparation, when
the teepees were taken down, folded and tied with
cords made of deer and buffalo hide, and fastened to
the ponies, strong shaggy little beasts which dragged
them after them in long traces, while the women
carried the bundles, and the braves walked along smoking
their pipes ahead of the procession, or nonchalantly
rode their ponies, leaving the squaws and children to
bear all the burdens and shoulder all the responsibilities
of moving.

At first Nina could not understand these moves, but
gradually came to know that the Indians were engaged
in their fall hunt, and that while the men scoured the
plains for the animals that provided them with food,
clothing, and shelter for the winter, the women and
children moved slowly along behind them with the
equipment, so that the camp to which the hunters
belonged was never far away.

The Indians were all kind to her, the women gentle
and even motherly to the little paleface that had been
thrust so unceremoniously among them, the men quiet
and grave, but never cross nor severe.

Gradually as the days passed by she became fond of
her little playfellows, and though she was desperately
unhappy, and longed with a sick, yearning heartache
for her adopted home, she did not suffer as she might
have suffered if she had fallen among less quiet and
gentle people.

One day when she had been romping over the prairie
with the children and dogs they came back to find a
great band of hunters just riding in, laden with the
fruits of the chase.  Some of them bore long poles on
their shoulders from which were suspended the
carcases of elk and deer, others carried great willow
baskets, which the Indian women made, containing the
meat of deer, antelope, and buffaloes which had been
stripped from the bones to save carrying the huge
bodies; others carried great baskets of grouse,
prairie-chicken, and quail, and the whole camp was full of
rejoicing.

Among the hunters was one tall, powerful Indian,
who stopped short as the group of children came
running toward them, and stared at Nina with an
expression of utter astonishment on his face.

Pointing his finger at her he asked in the Winnebago
dialect how she came to be there.  A babel of tongues
broke out among the children and squaws, each trying
to tell her version of the story.

Nina, seeing him staring at her, was filled with fear.
Her face paled, her great violet eyes widened with
terror, and her bosom began to heave.  But the red man
walked straight up to her and put out a big brown hand.

"How, Nee-ah-nah," he said, and smiled down upon her.

Nina, with a trembling hand at her bosom, drew back.

The big Indian smiled, and putting his hand in his
bosom, brought forth a little chain of blue beads which
he held up before her.

The child looked, gasped, then looked again, then
with a joyful cry ran to him.

"*Neowage, Neowage!*" she cried.

The big Indian grinned down at her and held her hand.

"How come here?" he asked gently.

Nina burst into tears.  "I was captured by the
Sioux," she cried.  "They made an assault on the
house—they got me—and Joe—Joe came after me to
rescue me—and he was killed, Neowage, he was
*killed*!  Red Snake shot him."

Neowage threw up his hands.  "Ai-ee, ai-ee!
Keel?  *Sho* keel?  Ai-ee, that too bad.  Tell."

Between her heartbroken sobs Nina told of the
assault upon the sod house, of her capture, and of Joe's
attempted rescue and what followed.  When she had
finished she clung to Neowage's hand sobbing bitterly.

"Take me home, Neowage," she begged, "oh, *take
me home*!  They've been good and kind to me here,
but oh, I want to go back to Mother Peniman, and
Ruth and Sara and Lige and Sam and little Da-da!  I
want to go back to them and try to comfort them, for
if it were not for me dear Joe would not now be gone."

The big Indian stroked the golden hair with his
great brown hands and patted and comforted her.

"Me take you home, Nee-ah-nah," he said, "me
take you home."

The next morning Nina bade farewell to the squaws
and papooses, the boys and girls that had been so kind
to her, and mounted upon Kit's back, rode away by
the side of Neowage in the direction of the homestead
on the Blue River.

It was a soft golden day in early October, and the
prairies were yellow with goldenrod and spangled
gayly with sunflowers and St. Michaelmas daisies.  As
they rode the sun cast long shadows on the grass that
looked like brown velvet in the distance, and the sky
arched over them with a blue that is all Nebraska's own.

They talked little on the way.  Neowage seemed to
have fallen into a fit of deep musing, and Nina's heart
was too sore with grief to feel like attempting conversation.

They rested that night at an Indian camp on the
prairies, and started at daylight the next morning.  It
was almost evening when familiar landmarks began to
come in sight, and quite dark when they rode up to the
sod house.

The lamps were lighted inside, and creeping up to
the windows Nina looked in, with a heart that was like
to burst with mingled grief and joy.

The children had gone to bed, and on either side of
the table sat Joshua and Hannah Peniman.  The Bible
was open on the table between them, and Joshua
Peniman's head was bent forward on his hands while
Hannah sat with hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the
fire, with an expression of heartbreak in their depths
that made Nina sob aloud.

Somewhere in that land of broken dreams in which
her thoughts were wandering Hannah Peniman heard
the sound.  She started, looked up, saw the face at the
window, and with a sharp, gasping breath sprang to
her feet, her hand pressed against her breast.

Nina dashed to the door, threw it open, and sprang
into her arms.

"Mother Peniman, Mother Peniman!" she sobbed
over and over, unable to speak any other word.

"*Nina*!  Nina!  My lamb!  My child!  Where did
you come from?"

Joshua Peniman had sprung to his feet and stood
staring like a man in a dream.

Before he could speak Mrs. Peniman had loosed
Nina's arms from her neck and peered into her face.

"Nina"—she gasped, "Joe—*where is he?*"

Nina buried her head in Mrs. Peniman's bosom.
"Oh, Mother Peniman, Mother Peniman," she wailed
over and over as if she could not speak the words that
must be spoken.

Joshua Peniman came to her, raised her head, and
with his haggard eyes gazed into her face.

"What is it, Nina?" he said, with the gentle tone
of authority she knew so well in his shaking voice.
"Tell us.  Anything is better than suspense."

It was some minutes before she could control herself
enough to speak.  Then, as gently as she could, she
told her story.  When it was finished there was no
sound in the room.  Joshua Peniman stood as if
turned to stone, while Hannah Peniman's face turned
from white to livid grey and looked as if stricken with
death.

The sound of the talking had wakened the children,
and they now came rushing out into the room; there
was a wild shout of joy, which was changed to bitter
tears as they heard the news she had brought them.

Suddenly Joshua Peniman raised his head.

"I have not thought to ask how you got here,
Nina?" he said, in a voice she would scarcely have
recognized.  "Surely you did not come alone?"

"No, Neowage brought me."

"*Neowage*?  Where is he?"

They found him squatted in the grass outside, with
too much delicacy of feeling to obtrude himself upon
the family in their grief.

Joshua Peniman grasped his hand in silence,
unable to speak.  In silence the Indian returned the
pressure.

When he had greeted the family with his impassive
"How," and had eaten the meal which the weeping
Ruth provided for him, he lay down before the fire and
gazed thoughtfully into its depths.  Hannah Peniman
had gone away into the night alone, Ruth had taken
Nina away to bed, and Joshua Peniman sat with his
arms on the table and his head bowed upon them, a
prey to the agony and despair of losing an eldest and
best-beloved son.

Suddenly Neowage looked up.

"Nee-ah-nah no *see* him die!"

Mr. Peniman raised his head, and his gentle face
was seamed and seared as if a dozen years had gone
over it.

"No, but I fear it is as she said.  Joe would have
been home before this if he was alive."

"Sho no dead!"

Again Neowage relapsed into silence, smoking his
pipe and gazing steadily into the fire.  Presently he
rose, gathered his blanket about him, and shaking his
host's hand solemnly strode forth into the night.

For three days the Peniman family mourned Joe as dead.

Mr. Peniman said little, but his hair turned white,
almost in a night, and into Hannah Peniman's eyes had
come a look of silent, patient suffering that none of the
family could look upon without tears.

To Lige and Sam the blow had come with a shock
that left them stunned for a while, then overcome with
uncontrollable grief.  Ruth and Nina clung to one
another in a sorrow too sharp and keen for words, and
the little ones wept without ceasing for the brother who
did not come home.

On the morning of the fourth day the Chapter had
been read, the silent prayer was over, and the family
set mournfully about the work that had to be done, no
matter how heavy the heart.

Going down to the spring for water Lige passed the
dugout, and hearing the step outside Kit put her head
out and whinnied.

The sound fairly unmanned him.

Kit had always known Joe's step, and had greeted
him with that glad little whinny every morning.

"He can't come to you this morning, Kit," he whispered
huskily, going to her and putting his arms about
her neck, "he can't come to you—or to us—ever
again."  And leaning against the smooth brown neck
he burst into a passion of tears.

To none of the family perhaps, except his mother,
had Joe's absence brought more poignant grief.
Always together, from their very babyhood, and dependent
largely upon one another for companionship, there
had grown up between the lads a comradeship so close,
an affection so sweet and strong, that life seemed
scarcely to be endured apart from one another.

Lige had striven nobly to fill Joe's place, hoping
daily, almost hourly, to see him come riding home.
But as the days and weeks passed that hope had grown
gradually fainter and fainter, until the news that he
had just heard was merely a confirmation of the fear
that was in his heart.

So deeply was he plunged in grief that when he
chanced to glance out and see two riders dashing across
the prairies he took no interest in them.  He glanced
at them idly, then turned away as the blur of hot, bitter
tears dimmed his eyes.

Brushing them hastily aside he took up his pail and
went on to the spring.

Thus it was that Sam was the first to herald the
approach of the strangers.

"Father," he said, in a sad, subdued voice, utterly
unlike Sam's usual cheerful bellow, "here come two
men on horseback.  One of 'em looks like an Indian."

Mr. Peniman rose quickly and went to the door.  He
had no hope, yet something in the words of Neowage
the night before had clung in his memory and said
themselves over and over in his brain all night.

"Nee-ah-nah no *see* him die."

*No one had seen him die*!  Perhaps—perhaps God
in His infinite mercy——

As he stood in the doorway with his hand shading
his eyes, his silvery hair glistening in the
morning light, there was a strange tumult in his
breast.

He shaded his eyes and gazed intently.  Presently
when the riders had come nearer he saw one of them
lean forward and wave his hat about his head.

"*Hannah!*" he called in a queer, choked voice,
"Hannah!"

Something in his tone brought her hurrying to the door.

The riders were now galloping madly.  One of
them, far in advance of the other, leaned forward on
his horse's neck, and waved and waved, riding as if
the horse could not carry him fast enough.

With a gasping breath Hannah Peniman clutched
her husband's hand.  Neither spoke.  Both ashen pale,
silent, tense, they strained forward, their eyes set on
the riders galloping toward them.

Suddenly from Hannah Peniman's lips came a
hoarse, "Merciful God!"

At the same moment Sam leaped through the door
and began racing toward the riders with Paul at his
heels, shouting frantically, "Joe, Joe, *Joe*!"

The riders were close now, and the foremost, with
tears streaming down his pale cheeks, was lashing the
little Indian pony with one hand, while with the other
he waved and waved his hat about his head, shouting,
"Home, home, home!"

None of them ever knew who reached him first, how
or when or where he got off his horse, or how they all
got back to the sod house, laughing and crying and
clinging to one another, and saying over and over again
as if they would never tire, "Joe's home, Joe's alive,
*Joe's home again!*"

Down at the spring Lige had heard nothing of the
excitement.  He had splashed water over his face and
eyes to remove the traces of tears, and close by the
running water had sat down to get control of himself
before he should go back to his mother and the house.
As he came slowly up the incline carrying the pail he
saw a crowd about the door.  For an instant he stood
motionless, then dropped his pail and ran swiftly
toward the house.

Was it—-could it be—news of—of *Joe*?

When he was nearly to the house one of the children
leaping and capering about stepped aside, and he saw a
tall, slender boyish figure clasped in his mother's arms.
Lige, tall young pioneer that he was, almost fainted.
When the world righted itself he gave a hoarse,
hysterical shout and dashing forward precipitated himself
into Joe's arms.

Perhaps it was his shout of "*Joe*, Joe, Joe!"
perhaps the general hubbub, that awoke Nina, who,
exhausted by the trials through which she had passed, had
been charged to remain in bed.

Startled by the noise she woke in a panic, leaped out
of bed and ran to the window.  What she saw outside
held her there paralyzed, believing that she had lost her
senses.

Joe glancing up saw here there, her eyes wide and
fixed, her face white as a snowdrop, her head framed
in a nimbus of golden hair.

Never while life lasted did he forget the picture.

"*Nina!*" he shouted, joy, amazement, incredulity in
his voice.

The girl meanwhile was staring at him as if he were
a ghost.

"J—J—*Jo-oe*!" her lips framed the word rather
than spoke it.  Then again, as if she could not believe
the evidence of her senses—"*Joe!*"

Ruth ran to her and caught her in her arms.  "Yes,
Nina, yes, darling, don't look so scared.  It isn't his
ghost, it's just *himself*, our own darling, blessed,
precious Joesy home again, alive and well, and not dead
at all!"

Joe broke from his mother's arms.

"Nina, Nina," he cried stretching his arms toward
the window, "oh, Nina, how did you get here?  How
did you escape?  Oh, I've worried and worried and
worried about you!  Oh, thank God, you got home!
I thought that the Sioux or Red Snake had got you again!"

Nina leaned from the window gasping and panting.

"But you, Joe—*you*—I thought you were dead!  I
saw you fall—I saw you slide into the water—and
when I went to look for you you were gone.  Oh, Joe,
where did you go?  I thought you were dead——"

She burst into a fit of hysterical weeping, and Ruth
drew her back into the bedroom.  A few minutes later,
dressed, and a bit more calm, she burst from the door
and ran into Joe's waiting arms.

It took a vast amount of talking, of telling and
explaining and exclaiming, and tears and chills and
thrills, before the whole story was complete, its two
parts pieced together and all the events that had caused
so much suffering and anxiety made plain.

It was a long time before Joe, with his hand clasped
in his father's, his mother's arm about his neck, Ruth
and Sara on either knee, Nina at his feet, and Lige and
Sam and Paul and David crowded close up to him, had
time to remember Pashepaho.

When he did remember him he ran to the door and
called him.  The handsome young chief was standing
outside, his face wreathed in smiles.

Joe called to him joyously.

"Come on in here, Pashepaho," he shouted, "I want
you to come in and join in the jamboree, and see all
these blessed people I've been talking to you so much
about."  Then clasping Pashepaho's hand, "Listen,
folks, I wouldn't be here now having you all make such
a fuss over me if it wasn't for this fellow.  If
Pashepaho hadn't nursed me and tended me and doctored
me like a brother I'd have been a dead one long ago."

You may be sure that Pashepaho received a warm
and cordial welcome from the family.  When Mr. and
Mrs. Peniman shook his hand and thanked him with
deep emotion for all he had done for their son tears
sprang to his eyes.  But when the children gathered
about him and pulled the feathers on his dress and
tugged at the beads and laid timid fingers upon his
tomahawk he smiled, gave Sam his war-bonnet to look
at, took little David upon his knee, and was soon happy
and at home amongst them.





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.. _`EAGLE EYE REMEMBERS`:

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   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center medium bold

   EAGLE EYE REMEMBERS

.. vspace:: 2

When Eagle Eye left the Peniman family,
striding away across the plains without a
word of gratitude or farewell, Mrs. Peniman
and the girls felt grieved and disappointed.

It would have comforted them perhaps if they could
have seen his face; if they could have detected the
surreptitious glances he threw backward, or if they could
have beheld the moisture that blurred his eyes, which
he hurriedly wiped away as if ashamed of his weakness.

He was not yet strong, and could not make rapid
progress, and as he sat down in the grass now and then
to rest his eyes turned ever backward to the homestead,
while he turned over and over in his mind the story
Joshua Peniman had told him.

Of that story he knew more than the white man suspected.

He was a Sioux, and had seen Red Snake among his people.

When, after many days' travel, he at last reached
the Sioux village on the Missouri River, near the
mouth of the Niobrara, he went at once to the head
chief of the tribe.

"Where Red Snake?" he asked in his own language.

"I know not," answered the chief in the same
language, "I have not seen him for many sleeps."

"Red Snake bad man," continued Eagle Eye, and
proceeded to tell the chief the story that Joshua
Peniman had told him, adding to it much that he had
learned about the family while being nursed back to
health among them.

When he had finished the tale the old chief looked
thoughtful.

"Red Snake has a bad heart to the white brother,"
he said after a long pause.  "He has done much harm
to my people.  He leads my young men into much
trouble.  He has brought fire-water among us, he has
taught our young men to drink.  And when my young
men are drunk he takes them on raids on the white
people.  He make me much trouble with the white
man's government.  I wish he would come to my
teepees no more."

Eagle Eye fervently echoed the wish.

"Where is the boy—the young maiden—he captured?"
he continued.

Eagle Eye shook his head.  "Gone!" he said laconically.

Both Indians puffed their pipes solemnly for a while.
Then Eagle Eye asked the question he had been making
ready to ask from the beginning.

"Does the Great Chief know what is Red Snake's name?"

The old chief shook his head slowly.

"I know nothing.  One time when the big fire burn
the grass of the prairies Black Bear brought a white
man to our camps.  He was drunk and had been
caught in the great fire.  He was heap sick, sleep two,
three, many days.  He gave Black Bear much presents,
gun, knife, beads, many things.  He gave other young
men of my camp presents.  At last he gave them
firewater, and my young men were pleased.  They gave
the paleface a place in the lodge of my people.  They
called him 'Red Snake' because he moved so still and
the Great Spirit had given him red hair.  After a while
he married Wahahnesha.  He has been with my people
ever since."

"And you never heard the true name of the white man?"

"No.  He never told his name."

For some minutes they smoked in silence.  Then
rising slowly the old chief went to the back of the lodge
and returned with a pouch made of deerskin in his
hand.  From it he drew a small red morocco-covered
book, which he held out to Eagle Eye.

"He lose.  Me find.  Me keep."

Eagle Eye took the book and turned it over and over
in his hands.  As he turned its pages he could make
out a lot of queer-looking marks and signs, which
meant nothing to him.  After scrutinizing it carefully
but uselessly for a while he handed it back to the chief.
The chief waved his hand.

"You keep," he said laconically, "give white man
some day."

After another silence he burst forth: "He no red
snake, he *black* snake.  Heap bad man.  Some day he
make heap trouble for Sioux.  Bring white soldier—shoot
my young men.  Wish he killed—wish he come
back to my people no more."

Eagle Eye sat smoking silently for a time, then rose
and left the lodge.

He heard the sound of voices, and following it came
to a great camp-fire, about which a number of young
men of the tribe were sitting cross-legged on the
ground.  He greeted, then joined them, listening idly
to the talk that went on among them.

He learned after a time that they were talking about
a great hunt that was to take place the next day, and
that Red Snake, who had been suffering from a wound
in the knee and had gone to Bellevue to see a white
man's doctor, had returned the day before and was to
accompany them.  There was much joking about the
presents he had brought them and the fire-water that
was to be taken with them on the hunt, and which was
to enliven their night camps.

"And where is the hunt to be?" asked Eagle Eye, a
quick alarming thought running through his head.

"To the Minne-to-wauk-pala.  He say heap much
antelope, elk, buffalo out that way."

The eyes which had given the young Indian his name
blazed hotly.  In an instant he saw the plan.  He
knew as well as if he had heard the details that the
drunken degenerate white man was planning to take
these young men on a hunting expedition, and when
they were crazed with fire-water lead them on a raid
on the Peniman homestead, for which, if trouble arose,
they would be blamed, and he would escape free, and
yet would be enabled to work out his fiendish designs
upon the family.

Without a moment's hesitation he resolved to join
the hunt.

Long before the sun rose the next morning the
young Indians were on their way.  Red Snake, attired
in his usual fashion, with his face stained red and
great warlike emblems of red and blue and yellow
painted on his face and breast, led the way.

He was not intoxicated this day, Eagle Eye observed
with some interest, and the fire-water was kept
carefully secreted until they made their night camp, when
a demijohn was passed around and around among
them until the Indians were all wild or stupid.  He
drank nothing.  Eagle Eye, while making a great pretense
of roisterous drinking, took little, but pretending
to be stupefied lay down beside the fire with his blanket
over his head and watched and listened until all was still.

The camp had sunk to silence, the whoops and yelps
of the drunken Indians had gradually sunk to grunts
and snores, when Eagle Eye saw Red Snake creep
from his blanket and signal to Black Bear, a wild young
buck who had already been in considerable trouble, and
draw him away from the camp.

Eagle Eye lay still for a few moments, then rolling
over and grunting, as if in a bad dream, edged himself
away from the firelight until he reached the shadows
beyond, then on hands and knees crept noiselessly
through the grass until he was within earshot of Red
Snake and Black Bear.  They were talking in low,
guttural tones, fortunately in the Sioux dialect.

After a jumble of talk, of which he could make
nothing, he heard at last the thing for which he had
been waiting; Red Snake and Black Bear were planning
a raid upon the Peniman homestead, and to Black
Bear was confided the details of leading the raid, while
Red Snake himself would be free to carry out whatever
nefarious designs on the persons or property of
the settlers he might have in mind without danger of
detection.

Eagle Eye's blood boiled hotly.  Not only was his
indignation aroused against the renegade by the feeling
of gratitude for the white family who had nursed and
tended him, but because of his loyalty and devotion to
his own people.

He had been one of those who had been betrayed
into making the assault upon the Peniman place before,
and his life had nearly paid the penalty of his folly.
Then, as now, the young Indians had known nothing
of his plans, but maddened with fire-water, incited by
wild tales of loot and treasure, they had followed him,
ignorant of the fact that they were being made the
cat's-paw to cover his crimes, and that should detection
and punishment follow it was the Sioux who would be
blamed and punished by the white man's law, while the
white man who was responsible for it would escape, his
villainy covered by the blanket and war-paint of an
Indian.

All the next day the party hunted, bringing down
many elk, deer, and antelope, cheered and enlivened by
the prospect of the evening's carousal and the tales of
the great herds of buffalo they would overtake the
next day.

There was little sleep for any one in the camp that
night.  When darkness fell the camp-fire was lighted,
and the supply of fire-water with which Red Snake had
liberally provided himself while he was in Bellevue was
sent around.  No limit was put upon it, and after a
time the prairies rung and the night was made hideous
by the yelps and howls and wild orgies of the Indians,
who, unaccustomed to the poisonous stuff, were made
fairly mad and frantic by it.

When the start was made in the morning they were
still drunk.  Many of them were like mad men, while
others were stupefied and logy, scarcely able to sit their
ponies and utterly unfitted for the chase.  Whether
the tales of Red Snake in regard to the great herds
of buffalo between them and the Minne-to-wauk-pala
were intended as fiction or not they turned out to be
true, and shortly after daylight they spied a vast herd
feeding to the north of them, for which the Indians
started with wild whoops of delight.

Red Snake followed, cursing.  His plan was not
working out exactly as he intended.

Riding like maniacs the crazed young warriors soon
came close enough to the herd to fire, and a volley of
arrows whizzed through the air, stinging and maddening
the animals, and while not wounding severely making
them ready to fight.

Instead of fleeing in terror, as they did from gunfire,
they turned about and made a dash into the ranks of
the drunken Indians, who, utterly unprepared for such
action, became panic-stricken and many of those who
sat their ponies unsteadily were thrown and trampled
in the wild stampede that followed, while others fired
wildly and recklessly, their arrows stinging and
maddening the beasts, which gored and trampled the
hunters that fell at their feet.

With wild shouts Eagle Eye urged his pony in
among them, trying with all the might that was in
him to rescue his friends, who, maddened and
stupefied by the deadly effects of the liquor they had
drunk the night before, were unable to help themselves.

As he stood with his bow curved, his arrow poised
for flight, his eye chanced to fall upon Red Snake, the
baleful and malign influence that had brought this and
other troubles upon his people.  Eagle Eye was a
hereditary chief, and loved his people with the love of
a father.  Suddenly as he gazed upon the renegade
white man a fierce anger burned in his breast.  He saw
red.  His blood surged madly through his veins.  And
changing the aim of his arrow with the quickness of
lightning he bent his bow strongly and let it fly,
carrying his vengeance with it.

He saw Red Snake throw up his hands, heard above
the uproar his yell of rage and pain, and saw him fall
and the buffaloes charge on and over him, galloping
away over the plains.

When they had gone the survivors of the disaster,
sobered by their peril, drew close together and looked
about them.  On the ground were strewn the carcasses
of a number of buffaloes, and among them, mangled
and crushed out of all human semblance, were many of
the young Indians who had set out that morning so
recklessly.

Black Bear, who remained unhurt, went among them
turning over those that lay face downward, lifting
those that were alive, passing by those that were dead
with a grunt.  Suddenly he uttered an exclamation
and stooped over a prostrate figure.  Eagle Eye moved
nearer.  As Black Bear lifted the trampled and mangled
form he saw that it was Red Snake.

"Is he dead?" he asked in his own language.

Black Bear put his ear to the chest of the wounded man.

"No, he is breathing," he answered in the same language.

"Then put him on your horse and take him home,"
thundered Eagle Eye.  "He is your friend.  You
brought him among us to bring death and trouble and
disgrace to your own people.  Now look out for him.
And you"—he pointed his finger in the face of Black
Bear with a look that made him cringe, "go to the
chief when you get there.  I know what you were
going to do.  I heard your plan.  The chief will settle
with you for it."

Without a word the Indian stooped and picking up
the body of Red Snake threw it across his horse,
mounted behind it, and rode away.  Eagle Eye stayed
behind to bury the dead, look after the wounded, and
see that the Indians who were too drunken to take care
of themselves were mounted and started back toward
their village.

When he arrived Black Bear was there.

"Does Red Snake still live?" he asked.

"He still lives," replied Black Bear.

"So much the worse for you," Eagle Eye told him,
and driving Black Bear before him went straight to the
lodge of the chief, where he told him the whole
story.

When it was finished the old man turned to Black Bear.

"Have you no love for your people," he asked,
"that you are willing to lead them to death and
destruction?  Well are you named 'Black Bear,' who
sees not the danger when his nose is tickled by the
honey-pots of strangers.  You would have betrayed
your people.  You would have led your own kindred
into the snare laid for you by the white man who has
a bad heart toward Indians.  You have caused the
death of our young men.  You are not worthy to live
in the lodge of your people.  Go; from this day forth
you are no longer one of us.  We cast you out.
Now go!"

He slunk away, and at the same moment a young
squaw entered the lodge of the chief in search of Eagle Eye.

"You speak the tongue of the white man," she said.  "Come!"

Leading him to a teepee not far away she pushed
aside the skin that hung over the door.  He entered
and saw Red Snake lying on a pile of skins and
blankets in a corner, crushed and bleeding, the seal of
approaching death upon his face.

As Eagle Eye approached him he opened his eyes.

"You die," said the Indian, looking down upon him
sternly, his arms folded across his breast.

Red Snake looked up, the dew of death upon his
forehead.

"Yes," he sneered.  "It's all over.  The game's
up—and I'm glad of it."

"Who are you?  What you name?" asked Eagle Eye.

"No matter who I am.  I've sacrificed all claim to
the name I was born with.  I'll die as I have lived, as
'*Red Snake,*' a squaw-man, a renegade, a drunkard,
an all-around bad egg."

As the words left his lips a shudder ran through his
body, his eyes flew wide, and he clutched wildly at his
breast; then with a gasping breath fell backward, the
blood gushing from his lips.

Eagle Eye bent over him.  The Indian head-dress
had been lost or cast aside and his thick mane of red
hair fell loose about his face.  Beneath the buckskin
shirt which he had thrust aside in his agony his skin
was smooth and white, and, as if in immutable justice
for the deed that he had done, a feathered arrow
protruded from his breast.

The Indian stood looking down at the dead body for
a moment, then spurned it with his foot.

He turned presently and cast his keen eyes about the
wigwam.  With a step as soft as that of a panther he
skirted its walls, and from under a heap of hides,
blankets and rubbish in a corner drew forth a battered tin
box.

For a moment he stood holding it in his hands and
gazing at it curiously.  Then he tucked it under his
arm under his blanket, and with a backward glance at
the body and a muttered "Ugh!" lifted the flap and
passed out into the night.





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.. _`THE BLIZZARD`:

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   CHAPTER XXI


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   THE BLIZZARD

.. vspace:: 2

With the coming of November, bitter winds
and cold rains began to beat across the
prairies, and the thoughts of the pioneers
were turned with deep concern toward providing for
the winter.

On an expedition up the river one day Joe and Lige
came upon a quantity of wild grapes and plums, and
directly after the first frost the whole family made a
day's excursion to the place and returned laden with
bushels of fruit, a most precious commodity on the
prairies, where other fruits were not to be had.
Mrs. Peniman set to work the next day and made it up into
jelly, jam, and preserves, which constituted a most
welcome addition to their meals throughout the winter.

The pressing work at hand kept the whole family
busy from daylight until dark, and December was upon
them before they were aware.

Early in the month there came a break in the bad
weather, followed by a series of mild, warm days.

Joshua Peniman, who had been carefully going
through his stores and feeling some uneasiness in
regard to the condition of their winter supplies, hailed
this weather with joy, and determined to take
advantage of it to make a trip to Omaha, then the nearest
point at which they could obtain the needed commodities.

When Mrs. Peniman was told of the project she
looked much troubled.  "It has to be done, Hannah,"
he said, answering her look.  "When the winter
storms set in we are liable to be blockaded here for
months, and we must be provided with sufficient
supplies for our needs.  Besides," he added with a smile,
"you know Christmas is coming.  Santa Claus must
not fail to visit us this year—even if we are away out
on the prairies."

"Dear man," she replied, patting his arm, "thee
never fails to think of everything, does thee?  Of
course Santa Claus must come this year.  But it chills
my heart to think of thee crossing those dreadful
prairies.  Of course Joe must go with thee——"

"No, Joe and Lige must stay here to guard you and
the little ones.  But I will take Sam.  He is a bright
boy, and will be great help and company for me.
Come now, let us make out our lists, for I would like to
start this morning while the weather is bright and clear."

Before ten o'clock he was on his way, a long list of
necessities in his pocket and Sam by his side, driving
Jim and Charley, now sleek and fat and in fine
condition from grazing on the rich grass of the prairies.

Joe and Lige were somewhat disappointed when
they learned that they were to be left behind, but when
their father told them that he was leaving them to take
his place and act as the head of the house during his
absence the pride they felt in the trust he reposed in
them almost made up for the disappointment.

Sam, however, was jubilant.  The prospect of the
trip across the prairies with his father, of again seeing
a town, thrilled him, and he chattered away gleefully
as tucked cozily under the buffalo robes (made from
the hides of the animals Joe and Lige had killed in a
great buffalo hunt they had gone upon with Pashepaho),
as they clattered away over the prairies.

The first night they put up at Lancaster, the little
settlement on Salt Creek at which they had stopped on
their way out, and the third day reached Omaha, after
a rather wearisome and uneventful journey.

They put up at the American House, and his father
gave him three dollars, and suggested that he might
like to buy some things to bring to the folks at home,
and also to purchase some Christmas presents for the
family.

This was the first time that the thought of Christmas
had come to him, and it brought with it something of a
shock.

*Christmas!*

This would be a queer Christmas, away out there on
the plains all by themselves!

He thought of the Christmases at home, of the
comfortable old house wreathed with greens and holly, of
the great Christmas tree in the parlor, the Christmas
dinner, the stacks of presents, and the jolly crowd of
aunts and uncles and grandmother and cousins and
other relatives gathered about the board.

A wave of homesickness went over him, then the
exciting thought of three whole dollars to spend took
possession of him and he forgot his homesick feelings
in planning what he should buy.

When his father set forth in the morning to make
his purchases Sam, with his three dollars locked firmly
in his hand, ran from store to store.

He bought candy and peanuts and apples and popcorn,
a lace scarf for his mother, ties for Joe and Lige,
ribbons for Nina, Ruth and Sara, a top for Paul, a doll
for Mary, and a hobby-horse and a large candy cane
for little David.

The candy cane took his last penny, and, in fact, he
was obliged, greatly to his embarrassment, to change
his order from a larger to a smaller candy cane,
because the one he had selected cost three cents more than
he possessed.

Well satisfied with his purchases he returned to the
American House, where he found his father with the
wagon loaded waiting for him, a fine new heating-stove
for the living-room standing up grandly behind
the seat.

"Jump in, son," he said quickly, "I have been waiting
for thee.  I want to get on the way.  I'm afraid
from the looks of the sky we are going to have a
change in the weather."

They drove fast, and reached Lancaster by about six
o'clock in the evening, by which time it had grown
much colder.  They awoke the next morning to find a
grey sky and a high northwest wind blowing.

His father had bought an ear-cap and a pair of
warm mittens for him in Omaha, and these he was glad
to put on, and he noticed when he took his place in the
wagon that hot bricks had been tucked away in the
bottom under the buffalo robes.

As they drove he noticed that his father was
unusually quiet and kept casting glances at the sky.  He
urged the team forward as fast as they could go, even
using the whip, a thing he would never do except in
extremities.

By ten o'clock the wind had risen and scattering
snowflakes had begun to fall.  By noon the sky had
changed to a deeper grey and the wind had increased
to a biting gale.

It was shortly after one o'clock, and they were
clattering fast across the prairies, when a sudden
blackness, almost as of night, seemed to fall upon them.
For a moment the wind died down and a hush fell
over all the earth that was like the hush of death.  All
about them over the vast, lonesome prairies came a
tense, ominous silence, as if all nature were holding its
breath.  Then, with a whoop and a shriek that was
like all the demons of the Inferno let loose, the blizzard
was down upon them.

Its onslaught was so fierce and sudden that it
staggered the horses and almost upset the wagon.  The
snow that came on the breath of the terrific gale
did not fall in flakes, but in solid whirling *sheets*,
which blinded, smothered, and utterly bewildered
them.  It stopped their breath, it stung their eyes,
it slashed and beat in their faces like the beating of
nettles.

All about them was a blackness almost like that of
midnight, and the eddying wall of swirling, blinding
snow, driven by a ninety-mile gale, caught them in its
embrace, drove the breath from their lungs, froze on
their mouths and nostrils, and buffeted them with a
fury that almost left them senseless.

The horses, covered with snow almost as solidly as
if it had been spread over them with a trowel, stood
with drooped tails and heads, dazed and shivering, not
knowing which way to go.

Through the demoniac shrieking of the wind Sam
heard his father's voice.

"Get down in the bottom of the wagon under the
robes," Joshua Peniman shouted, and tried to urge the
terrified horses forward against the blast.

He knew that he dared not let them stop now.  He
knew that come what would he must keep them going
as long as they could stand.  He could not see a step
before him.  All about them was a maze, a stinging,
dazzling, whirling wall of white, that blown on the
breath of the fierce northwest wind pelted and
buffeted the very breath from his body.

In a shorter time than would have been believed
possible the prairies were covered with snow, all traces of
the wagon-trail blotted out, and no indication
anywhere which way to go.

The horses seemed utterly bewildered.  Finding it
impossible to keep them headed against the blast, and
fearing that if they once swerved from the direction in
which they had been traveling that he would lose his
sense of direction and become lost on the prairies, he
leaped out of the wagon, and grasping the terrified
team by the bits led them forward, resolutely keeping
his face toward the west.  He knew that the wind was
blowing from the northwest.  If he kept it on his right
cheek he knew that he was keeping in the right direction.

The breath of the horses froze on their mouths and
noses, and walking beside them he had to continually
wipe it away so that they could breathe.  Stumbling
along, now protecting his own face and ears, now the
faces of the horses, he prayed continually for guidance
and help.

Down in the bottom of the wagon against the hot
bricks and under the buffalo robes Sam gradually
recovered his breath and began getting warm.  But fear
and anxiety for his father made it impossible for him
to keep still.

He wiggled out of the robes and suddenly appeared
at his father's elbow.

"You get in and get warm now, Father," he shouted
above the shrieking of the blizzard.  "I'm warm now;
let me walk by the team."

The temperature had fallen to thirty degrees below
zero by this time, and warning prickings of his face,
ears and feet told Joshua Peniman that he must take
every precaution against freezing.

"Can you stand it for a few minutes?" he yelled,
with his mouth close to Sam's ear.  "I'm afraid my
feet are freezing.  I'll get on some more clothes and
warm up a little, then I'll take them again.  Keep the
wind on your right cheek all the time.  The horses
don't seem to know which way to go."

Sam took the bits and his father climbed into the
wagon.  He rubbed his face and ears with snow, took
off his boots and rubbed his feet, then warmed them
against the hot bricks, put on his boots and wrapped his
feet in pieces torn from the blanket.  With another
strip of the blanket he wrapped his head about, leaving
only his eyes exposed.  He knew that the one hope of
their getting through this storm alive was for him to
keep from freezing and able to direct their movements.
When he had protected himself as well as he was able
he again sprang to the heads of the floundering horses
and sent Sam back into the wagon to rest and get warm.

In this way they kept their blood circulating, and
relieved one another.  He thanked his precaution of
bringing the hot bricks many times.  Under the
buffalo robes in the straw in the bottom of the wagon they
could escape the fury of the freezing gale, and by
taking refuge there at short intervals they were able to
keep from freezing.

Every moment the blizzard seemed to increase.
They could scarcely see the struggling horses from the
wagon now, and the snow, drifting on the biting wind,
was growing deeper and deeper all about them.

Sam, protected like his father with strips of the
blanket tied around his feet and wound about his head
up to his eyes, was struggling at the horses' heads when
suddenly the wagon gave a lurch, tilted perilously, then
stopped.

The horses, up to their middles in snow, plunged and
struggled, and Joshua Peniman leaped out, looked, and
uttered a deep groan.  One of the front wheels was
broken at the hub.

For a single terrible moment the father and son
stood gazing at the damage, and hope almost vanished
from their breasts.  Then Joshua Peniman set to work
to liberate the plunging horses.

"We'll have to leave it," he shouted, struggling with
his half-frozen fingers at the traces.  "We'll have to
trust to the horses."

"But our wagon—the supplies—our Christmas
presents——" Sam shouted back, trying to raise his
voice above the howling and shrieking of the storm.

"Can't think of them now," gasped Joshua Peniman;
"we'll be lucky if we save ourselves!"  And
having got poor Charley loose from the disabled wagon
he lifted Sam up on his back, and wrapped him about
with blankets and one of the buffalo robes.  Then
taking the other robe from the wagon he mounted Jim,
and wrapping himself up as best he could led the way
straight into the teeth of the roaring, stinging vortex,
that hissed and shrieked like ten thousand demons
about their heads.

"Keep close!" he shouted to the boy, "keep Charley's
head right up against Jim's tail!  Don't lag, don't
get out of my tracks or we're lost!"

The drifts were now up to the bellies of the horses,
and growing deeper every moment.  The wind had
increased to a degree against which they could scarcely
stand, and the snow came down in such solid sheets of
blinding, dazzling white that they could not see a foot
before them, could not keep their eyes open against its
pelting fury, might almost as well have been stone
blind, as they beat their way, struggling, stumbling,
floundering, against the storm.

After a few moments of frantic struggling the horses
stood still, shaking and trembling, instinct urging them
to turn tail to the storm, yet kept facing its cruel
onslaught by the firm hand upon the reins.  Again and
again one or the other of them stumbled and fell, and
each time they got to their feet with greater difficulty.

Joshua Peniman had given up trying to ride, and
was again walking at their heads, urging them on,
patting, encouraging, helping them all he could.  He
knew that none of them could last long.  He knew
that the horses must soon fall and perish, and that no
human creature could hold out long against the cold
that seemed to grow more intense with every passing hour.

With all the strength, all the faith that was in him
he prayed for help.





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.. _`TO THE RESCUE`:

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   CHAPTER XXII


.. class:: center medium bold

   TO THE RESCUE

.. vspace:: 2

In the sod house on the prairies meanwhile there
was fearful suspense and anxiety.

From the moment of the departure of her
husband and son Hannah Peniman had watched the
weather with an anxious eye.  When the wind rose
and the snow began to fall fear took hold upon her.
With eyes scanning the horizon she went from door to
window and window to door, hoping every moment to
see the wagon approaching over the prairie.

But the hours passed on and they did not come.  As
the temperature fell and the wind rose her fears
increased; and when the pall of darkness fell, and with a
whoop and shriek and roar that she could never forget
the blizzard swept down upon them, her heart almost
died in her breast.

"A blizzard, a *blizzard*!" she moaned.  "Oh, God,
help them; God have mercy on them out there on those
plains in this storm!"

The children, terrified at the blackness, almost like
that of night, that had fallen over the prairies, and at
the shrieking and howling of the wind, gathered close
about her.  She concealed her own fears to comfort
them.

At the first approach of the storm the boys had put
the cow and horses in the dugout and closed the doors.
At five o'clock when they started out to feed them the
door of the dugout was drifted half-way up to its top
with snow, and the wind was so terrific and the whirl
of the wall of snow so blinding and bewildering that
they were unable to make their way from the house to
the dugout.

Lige, who had started out ahead of Joe, became lost
almost before he had left the shelter of the house, and
were Joe not close behind him he might have wandered
away and perished on the plains.

Battling their way back to the house, holding to one
another, they sought the shelter of the kitchen, beaten,
breathless, even in those few moments almost frozen.
When they made another attempt to get to the dugout
they were obliged to tie a rope to the handle of the
door and clinging to it grope their way to the dugout,
where they made the line fast, and when they had fed
and attended to the stock were able to guide themselves
by it back to the house.

As the hours passed on and the travelers did not
return the anxiety of the family became almost
unbearable.  At last Joe drew his mother aside.  "I can't
stay still any longer, Mother," he said.  "It is getting
dark.  Father and Sam ought to have been here long
ago; they must have lost their way in this blizzard.
Let Lige and me go out to meet them."

Hannah Peniman turned her white face upon him.

"What good would that do?" she asked.  "You
could not find them—perhaps you too would get
lost—perhaps none of you would ever come home.  Oh,
God, have I not given enough, enough!"

Joe took her hands.  "But, Mother," he said firmly,
"we can't stay here and let Father and Sam perish in
this storm without trying to save them!  Lige and I
are strong—we can take ropes—we'll tie ourselves to
the house so we can always get back.  We must go,
Mother!  They must have got nearly home before the
blizzard struck them.  They may be out there—not
far away—lost and fighting their way through this
storm——"

Hannah Peniman cried out and covered her face
with her hands.  A moment later she turned to the
boy and said quickly, "Yes, you must go.  It is thy
duty—I would not keep thee from it.  Go—go quickly!
Thy father may be needing thee!"

It was bitterly hard for Hannah Peniman to send
her two oldest boys—all that she and the little ones had
to depend upon now—out into the howling blizzard.
As she gazed out into the whirling, blinding, shrieking
tempest it seemed to her almost like giving them up to
inevitable destruction.  But her husband, another
child, were out there somewhere on those prairies in
the blizzard.  It was the duty of these boys to go to
their rescue.  All her life Duty had been her guide.
So with prayers upon her lips and in her heart she
wrapped them up and let them go, fighting their
way into the storm inch by inch, unwinding as they
went a great coil of rope that had been provided for a
well-rope, but which, fortunately, had not been put in
use.

As the two lads emerged from the shelter of the sod
house the storm caught them in its icy embrace and
almost drove the breath from their bodies.  They had
the wind to their backs, so fortunately were not obliged
to head their way into it, but the cold was so intense
that it froze the breath in their nostrils, the lashes of
their eyes, and the wind so fierce that it fairly lifted
them off their feet, causing them to stagger and stumble
in the great drifts of snow.

They were warmly clad and well protected, but they
had not gone many yards from the house when they
began to realize how slight were the chances that their
father and brother, caught out upon the prairies in this
storm, could ever reach home.  In twenty minutes
their feet were like chunks of lead, their hands numb
and aching, their faces, in the small space left exposed,
tingling and freezing.  Their breath was gone, their
limbs numb and lifeless, and an exhaustion so great
upon them that they were scarcely able to forge ahead
and keep firm hold upon the rope.

As they stumbled and staggered forward, Joe, far in
advance of his brother, stopped abruptly, while a
muffled cry came from his numb lips.  Spotty, whom they
had taken with them, gave vent to a sharp, yelping bark
and leaped forward in the snow.  Under a drift, with
something black protruding from its edges, lay a
humped-up form.

Joe sprang to it with an agonized cry.

He bent and with his hands began to scrape away
the snow, while Spotty, whimpering loudly, aided him
by digging at the drift with his sharp claws.  A body,
lying face downward, was soon uncovered.  Joe turned
it over quickly, then gave a choked, quivering sob of
relief.  The body was that of an Indian.

Lige, fighting his way through the drifts with head
bent almost to his knees, heard Spotty's whining bark
and stopped.

"What's the matter?" he called out.  Then seeing
the body, "My Lord, *what is that*?"

"It's an Indian."  Joe rose from his inspection
shaking and trembling in every limb.  "It scared me
almost to death.  I—I thought at first it might
be—be—Father—or Sam."

"Who is it?  Anybody we know?" Lige shouted
above the howling of the blizzard.

"No, never saw him before.  Poor fellow, I
suppose he lost his way in the storm."

"I don't wonder," panted Lige; "I never saw
such a storm.  Lord, I wish we knew where Father
and Sam were!  They can't live long in a storm like
this."

As they started forward there was a new fear, a new
horror in their hearts.  The sight of the Indian, young,
strong, inured to the hardships of the plains, yet stark
and dead in the drift, brought to them a hideous
picture of what at that very moment might be happening
to their father, older and not so agile and strong—and
to Sam—their chum, playmate and brother—little
more than a child!

Lige had not approached the Indian, but with a
shuddering glance had pushed on.  As Joe started
forward his foot struck something imbedded in the snow.
At another time he would have stopped to see what it
was, but all his thoughts, all his fears were with his
father out there in that whirling, blinding, shrieking
blizzard, and his one thought to reach him if that was
possible.

At the metallic click Lige turned and looked back.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I dunno, a tin can, I guess," answered Joe, and
could not guess as he plunged forward through the
blizzard that the solution of the mystery about which
he had puzzled so much lay close at his feet.

When the two boys reached the utmost length of
their rope they stood still, not knowing what to do
next.  They knew to abandon it and go forward
would probably mean death, that they would soon
become lost in the tempest, in which they could tell
neither location nor direction, and probably perish in
the storm.

They stood side by side, holding on to the rope and
one another, their backs to the wind, gasping, panting,
exhausted, half-frozen from the stinging blast that
beat about them, half blinded by the snow that was
almost waist-deep where they stood, and which covered
them from head to foot while they stood still.

Spotty, crouched up close against them, whined and
looked up in their faces as if trying to ask why they
should be out in that storm.

"Do you suppose we'd have any chance of finding
them out there, Joe?" Lige asked between chattering
teeth.

"Not much," Joe answered huskily.  "I don't believe
anybody could live long in this."

"I wonder if we shouted——"

"They'd never hear us through this blizzard."

"Let's try it anyhow.  The wind is blowing that
way.  They might hear—and if they were lost——"

Presently the two young voices were joined in a
shout as loud as they could force from their aching
chests.  Spotty hearing it seemed to get some inkling
that there was trouble and set up a loud barking.  He
ran round and round them in circles, nosing in the
snow, and when Joe pointed off ahead into the reeling
wall of the blizzard and cried "Go get Sam, Spotty, go
get Father!" he looked up in his face, whined, barked,
ran forward into the snow, then back to leap and bark
about them.

Again and again they shouted, calling upon their
father's name, upon Sam's, with all the strength that
was in them.

After each shout they listened, straining their ears
for a reply.  But all that came to them was the wild
roaring of the blizzard, the shrieking of the wind as it
whipped up the snow and tossed it in blinding clouds
over the plains.

For long they stood, the cold eating into their very
vitals.

At last Lige spoke.  "I can't stand it any longer,
Joe, I'm freezing to death.  Let's go on.  They can't
be very far——"

"If we ever get away from the rope we'll never get
back home," answered Joe.  "And you know we've
got to think of Mother and the girls.  If Father never
comes back——"

His voice faltered and stopped.

"We'll have to go back then," gasped Lige; "we
can't stand here any longer.  We'll both freeze to
death."

They stood, the two young, strained faces turned toward
the cruel storm, their eyes trying to penetrate the
reeling, swirling wall of white that eddied and whirled
about them.

At this moment, when all hope was dead in their
hearts, when they had both abandoned the last expectation
of ever seeing their father and brother alive again,
there came to their ears a far, faint cry.

They clutched each other.

"What was that?" whispered Lige, trembling like
an aspen leaf.

Joe's only answer was to draw in his breath and send
forth a shout so strong, so thrilling with the hope that
awoke in his breast that even the tempest seemed to
heed it.  For a second the wind seemed to ease, and in
that second they both called and shouted at the top of
their lungs again and again.

Spotty too had heard the call.  He seemed to know
now what the trouble was, and what was expected of
him.  Barking loudly he plunged forward through
the drifts, constantly looking back and stopping
to bark and whine, as if begging the boys to follow him.

Only for a moment was he visible, then the storm
closed about him and he passed out of their sight.

Presently the call came again.

"It's them—it's Father—it's Sam!" the boys
shouted in chorus.

"It's them, it's them!  They're alive!  They're out
there somewhere.  Oh, Joe, let's go after them!"
panted Lige.

For a moment Joe hesitated.  All his heart was
urging him to rush on into the blinding tempest toward
the point from whence the faint calls came.  But the
judgment with which nature had gifted him, that
judgment that was to mean so much to so many people in
his after life, restrained him.

"No, we'd better stay here," he answered.  "If we
get away from the rope we might get lost ourselves,
and make things worse.  We'll do them more good by
staying right here and shouting to them so we will
guide them to us.  I believe by the sound they're
coming nearer.  Listen!"

Again they sent forth a great shout.

For a moment there was no sound other than the
roaring of the blizzard, then more distinctly than
before came the answer.

"There!" shouted Joe, "it is nearer!  They are
coming this way.  Listen!  That's Spotty barking!
I believe he sees them!  All we've got to do now is to
keep shouting."

With hope renewed they redoubled their shouts and
yells.  Nearer, and yet nearer came the answer, and at
last, staggering out of the wall of white they could
make out two huge shapeless bulks, which as they came
nearer gradually developed into two floundering,
staggering horses, with heads down and nostrils clogged
and caked with ice and snow, and on their backs two
shapeless creatures, which they at last saw, with a joy
too great for expression, were their father and Sam,
wrapped up in the buffalo robes and blankets.

Behind them, before them, around and about them
leaped Spotty, barking and leaping upon them as if he
could not express his joy.  He it was who had reached
them in their bewilderment and guided them back to
the rope.  They were hopelessly lost, had neither sense
of location nor direction left, and had been wandering
about for hours in circles when they heard, faint and
far away, the sound of shouts.  They answered, with
all the strength that was left in them, but even then so
paralyzed and bewildered had they become by cold and
exhaustion that they should never have been able to
follow it, but that Spotty came bursting through the
storm like a guiding angel and barking and leaping
about them had guided them on.

With the blizzard at its height the worn and
weakened party would never have reached home but for the
rope that anchored them to safety.  Holding tight to
it and leading the way Joe and Lige beat their way
forward leading the almost dying horses, whose knees
were fairly giving way beneath them from exhaustion,
while the man and boy upon their backs were almost
insensible from numbness and cold.

It seemed an endless fight against the tempest, but
the rope held, and step by step they fought their way
back by its aid, until suddenly out of the impalpable
shroud that wrapped them in its icy embrace they
fairly bunted into the walls of the dugout.

"*The dugout!*" gasped Joe, "thank God, oh, thank
God!  I began to fear we would none of us live to get
home!"

Seizing Jim's bridle he led him up to the wall and
lifted his father down in his strong young arms.  Lige
was already lifting Sam from Charley's back, so weak,
so numb and exhausted that he could neither move nor
speak.

As Joe was staggering toward the house with his
father in his arms the door was burst open and
Mrs. Peniman rushed out into the storm.

"Thank God, thank God!" she sobbed over and
over, as together they lifted the wayfarers into the
house, rubbed snow on their frozen faces and ears, got
them into hot blankets, poured hot drinks and nourishment
into them, and worked over them until life began
to revive.  Then they got them into bed with hot irons
about them, and with a gratitude and thankfulness too
great for words saw them gradually fall into a natural
and healthy sleep.

Sam had a badly frozen ear, two frost-bitten toes,
and a frosted finger, and Mr. Peniman's left foot was
so badly frozen that it was many weeks before he could
walk again.  But these injuries were as nothing
compared to the fact that they had come out of the most
terrible blizzard ever known in the territory alive, and
the thought that the lost was found, the dear ones
given up as dead restored to life again, was joy enough
to overbalance any amount of pain.





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.. _`CHRISTMAS ON THE PRAIRIES`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII


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   CHRISTMAS ON THE PRAIRIES

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The blizzard which so nearly cost Joshua
Peniman and Sam their lives raged unabated for
three days.  When it was over the prairies
lay a vast wilderness of unbroken white from horizon
to horizon, the snow lying five feet deep on the level.

For several days Mr. Peniman was compelled to
remain in bed, completely prostrated by the experience he
had been through.  But Sam, though somewhat frost-bitten
in places, awoke the next morning as well as
ever, and greatly exalted by the sense of being a hero.

The blizzard was followed by a spell of bitterly cold
weather, the thermometer going down to thirty-six
below.  While the family all felt great anxiety
about the abandoned wagon and its precious
contents it was impossible to go after it until the weather
moderated.  In the meantime they employed the hours
of the long cold days by making runners, one pair of
which they affixed to Joe's wagon, carrying the other
pair with them when a day at last came when the
weather had so far moderated that they dared face it
without danger of freezing.

They set out with all six horses, Jim and Charley
drawing the wagon on runners, in which Mr. Peniman,
Joe, Sam, and Lige rode, Joe leading his own team and
Lige the Carroll horses, which had been rechristened
Major and Nellie.

There was a hard, solid crust over the deep drifts,
that carried them safely, and the sun sparkled like
diamonds over the vast unbroken expanse of spotless
white.  On their way they saw three grey wolves and
ten elk, which came within two hundred yards of them,
driven to forget fear by hunger.

As the improvised sledge glided smoothly over the
snow the thoughts of the whole party were busy with
the dangers and terrors of the blizzard.

"It was just about here that we found that poor old
Indian, Lige," said Joe, scanning the snow-covered
prairies about them.

"Yes; I don't see any sign of him now though," replied Lige.

"What Indian?" asked Mr. Peniman.

"When we were coming out to meet you we came
upon the body of an Indian, dead and half-covered by
snow," answered Joe.  "I thought after we'd got you
safe home we'd come back and bury him; but I guess
the snow has done that better than we could, poor
fellow!"

"Did you know him?"

"No, I never saw him before."

"Did you see any signs of any other Indians about?"

"No, he seemed to be all alone.  And the funny
thing to me was that we didn't see any signs of his
pony.  It seemed queer that an Indian should be way
off here alone, on foot."

"If you'd looked far enough you would probably
have found his pony in some draw or ravine.  The
poor fellow probably got lost in the blizzard, and
feeling himself freezing to death deserted his horse in a
drift somewhere, perhaps, and was making for some
place of shelter when cold and exhaustion overcame him."

"Golly, it sure gave us a shock when we found him,"
broke in Lige; "I didn't see him, but Joe thought at
first it was you or Sam."

"Thank God it was not," said Joshua Peniman
fervently.  "I know what the poor fellow must have
suffered.  I thought at one time his fate would surely
be ours."

They found the wagon exactly where they had left
it, completely covered over by a drift, its contents
undisturbed, and practically uninjured by the storm.

When it was unloaded they removed the wheels and
affixed to the bottom the extra pair of runners.  They
then replaced the contents, harnessed Kit, Billy, and
black Major to it, while Jim, Charley, and Nellie were
put to the other wagon.  It was well for them that
they had six powerful horses to pull the load, for
weighted as the wagons now were they continually
broke through the crust, and the journey back to the
homestead required constant use of picks and shovels,
and all the strength, initiative, and energy of both
drivers and horses.

They reached home at last, and as soon as they had
warmed, eaten, and rested a little immediately set to
work to install the new heating-stove.

That night the family did not shiver about the stove
in the kitchen, but clustered about in the warm glow
of the new heater, cozy and comfortable, and thankful
from the bottoms of their hearts, they enjoyed with
the relish of appetites long denied the candy and
popcorn and peanuts that Sam had brought to them.

That winter—the winter of 1856-7—will long be
remembered on the prairies.  From December until
March storm followed storm, blizzard followed blizzard,
the time between filled in with the coldest weather
ever known in the west.

The young Penimans, who had run as free as wild
antelopes over the plains ever since their arrival, were
now compelled to stay in the house, which, small and
circumscribed as it was, was sometimes almost too
small to hold them.

One morning when the snow drove against the
windows and a bitter wind howled across the prairies
Mrs. Peniman looked across the breakfast table at her
husband with a smile.

"Father," she said, "does thee not think that the
time has come for us to begin our school?"

"I certainly do, my dear," replied Joshua Peniman.
"I was thinking of suggesting it this morning.  The
children have been out of school too long now, but with
all the work we had to do to make living conditions
possible for the winter we have not had time to get our
school started before.  But now is the time to do it.
They cannot be outdoors, there is little work about the
place that can be done in this weather, and it will
occupy their time and attention."

"But we haven't any school to go to, Father," cried
Ruth, "nor any books or teachers!"

Mrs. Peniman laughed.  "Just wait and see," she
said.  "Your school is going to be right here, and
Father and I will be the teachers.  Didn't you know
that Father used to be a teacher in the Friends' School
at home?  And the books are right in the trunk over
there."

"I don't want to go to school," grumbled Sam,
"I want to play outdoors."

"I do," cried Joe.  "I want to study.  Can you
teach us history and language and algebra, Father?"

Mr. Peniman smiled.  "I have taught older and
wiser boys than you, Joe, and I think I can teach you
any branches that you will need to take up now."

"All right then, I'm all for it," declared Lige; "let's
get our school started this morning."

It was quite a game after all, and they all entered
gaily into the spirit of it, everybody helping to push
the furniture about and arrange boxes and tables and
chairs for the "school."

Mrs. Peniman took Sara, Paul, Mary, and David
into the rear part of the sod house and drew the
curtains between, and Mr. Peniman got out the
school-books they had brought with them from Ohio and set
Joe, Lige, Sam, Nina, and Ruth at work.

The program was so arranged that while some of
the more advanced pupils, as Joe and Lige, were
studying, the less advanced, as Sam and Ruth, were
reciting.  As Sam and Ruth had always kept pretty well
together in their classes they were a great help to one
another, but Nina was a problem.  While far in
advance of Sam and Ruth in English, geography,
reading, and spelling, she was hopelessly behind them in
grammar and mathematics.  Indeed her whole curriculum
of studies had been so superficially and sketchily
acquired that Mr. Peniman scarcely knew what to do
with her.

"I think I'll have to put you up a grade, Nina," he
told her jokingly.  "You are far and away beyond
Ruth and Sam, yet I hardly think that on account of
your arithmetic you could keep up with Lige and Joe."

"Oh, please do put me up with Lige and Joe, Father
Peniman," begged Nina; "I have never really studied
in my life, but I believe that I could keep up if I
studied with Joe."

At first she made sad work of her lessons.  Her
work was brilliant but superficial, and Mr. Peniman,
who insisted on thoroughness, was completely
discouraged with her.  On one occasion when she had
signally failed in a recitation and had retired to her
seat in tears Joe came to her side to comfort her.

"You don't know how to study, that's what's the
matter with you, Princess," he told her.  "Let me
help you.  We'll get our lessons together this evening."

Nina smiled up at him through her tears.  "Oh,
thank you, thank you, Joesy," she whispered.  "I
know I don't know how to study.  I never really went
to school, I always had governesses and tutors and
never had to.  But I can learn—I know I can—if you
will teach me."  And after that Joe and Nina always
studied together, Joe's thorough, methodical mind
acting as a balance as well as an incentive to the more
brilliant but less logical mind of Nina.

Mrs. Peniman meanwhile with her little flock
gathered about her knees had various and sundry
milestones on the road of knowledge to start from.  While
Paul read and spelled well, wrote a fine large hand and
had been initiated into the mysteries of addition,
subtraction, multiplication, and division, Sara was only
staggering through simple addition, stumbled sadly in
reading, and was still scrawling huge hieroglyphics
that only by the greatest courtesy could be called
writing, Mary knew her letters and was in the c-a-t, cat,
and r-a-t, rat, stage of development, and little David
was still at sea in an ocean of letters, from which he
could pick out a round O or a crooked S on occasion.

It was not easy teaching, but the parents had given
up their home and friends and all the comforts of life
to obtain for these young people greater and better
opportunities, and were not to be balked by small
difficulties.  Day after day while the snow fell and the
wind howled across the prairies the little school went
on, and soon began to grow accustomed to the
conditions, and the pupils to make rapid strides.

They rose early, and while Mr. Peniman and the
older boys went outside to do the necessary work,
Mrs. Peniman with Ruth, Nina, and Mary got the
breakfast, washed up the dishes, made the beds, put
the house in order, and arranged the two rooms for
the "school" by nine o'clock, when the father and
boys came in to begin the morning session.

At noon Mrs. Peniman dismissed her little pupils,
with orders to play quietly and not disturb the students
in the front part of the house, while she prepared
dinner.  At twelve-thirty Mr. Peniman closed the
morning session, and they all ran out for a tussle with
the wind or a frolic in the snow before dinner.  When
the meal had been eaten and cleared away the
afternoon session was begun, and until four o'clock the
little sod house was a very hive of activity, after which
time they were all free, and while Mr. Peniman and
the boys went out to do the evening chores and other
outside work the younger children romped about
until supper time, soon after which they all went to bed.

On the morning of December 24th Mr. Peniman
announced at the breakfast table that they were to
have a half holiday.

"As this is the day before Christmas," he continued,
"I think we will have to go out and see if we
can't find some mistletoe and greens of some kind, and
a tree that might serve for a Christmas tree."

"*A Christmas tree?*" the children all shouted in a
breath.  "Are we going to have a *Christmas tree?*"

"Why, of course," smiled Mrs. Peniman.  "Santa
Claus has never failed to visit us yet, has he, Ruthie?
And I don't believe he'll forget us this year, even if
we are away off out here on the prairies."

Nina looked up with beaming eyes.  "Oh, I'm so
glad!  I thought maybe we weren't going to have any
Christmas.  I've been thinking and thinking about it,
but I didn't like to say anything, 'fraid it would make
you feel badly."

"We'll have some kind of a Christmas, my dear,"
said Mr. Peniman.  "It may not be the kind of a
Christmas that you have always been accustomed to,
but we will celebrate the dear day in some way."

Directly after dinner they all set off down the river
bank, the boys in high boots, ear-caps, big coats, and
mittens, the girls muffled to the eyes in coats, furs,
scarfs, big Alaska overshoes, and leggings, and
Mrs. Peniman looking very fat and pudgy in a pair of
Mr. Peniman's trousers, over which she wore a huge woolly
coat and hood, with scarf and mittens, and was
bundled up so she looked like the Little Old Woman
Who Lived in the Shoe.

They all set out in high spirits, and slid, slipped,
coasted, snowballed and indulged in wild frolics over
the snow, while Mr. and Mrs. Peniman took turns
riding on the sled, which their wild young chargers
took delight in upsetting as often as possible.

After long search they at last found a young pine
tree which came to a fine apex at the height of about
five feet, and in the woods they found bright red
berries, mistletoe in the tops of some trees, which Lige
and Sam were only too pleased to climb, and deep
under the snow some kinnikinick, which with its
dainty green leaves and red berries made wonderful
decorations.

They returned home with the sled laden and in high glee.

The tree was set up in a corner of the soddy that
evening after supper, and when pop-corn was strung
from limb to limb, apples and oranges hung from the
branches, small sacks of candy tied on, and the candles,
which Mr. Peniman had thoughtfully provided on his
almost fatal trip to Omaha, carefully disposed among
the branches and lighted, it was a gorgeous sight.
Beneath it on the floor were a great heap of queer-looking
bumpy bundles, to which each one brought his or her
contribution with great secrecy, and which were not
one of them opened until the next morning.

It was scarcely light on Christmas morning when a
great jingling outside (which *of course* no one
recognized as the notes of the dinner-bell) announced the
arrival of Santa Claus.

There was a great hemming and hawing, a great
stamping of feet in the snow, and then the door
opened, and Santa Claus, in a marvelous wig and
whiskers (made out of the wool of a pair of old grey
woolen stockings) and a wonderful costume (which
of course no one recognized as a suit of red flannel
underwear elegantly trimmed in strips of white cotton
flannel), came prancing in with a sack on his back and
began dispensing presents with a generous hand.

There were dolls for Mary and Sara, writing paper
and ribbons and pretty handkerchiefs for Nina and
Ruth, books and neckties for Joe, ties, handkerchiefs
and a handsome muffler for Lige, balls and bats and
tops and gloves for Sam and Paul, and a great lot of
toys, including the remarkable hobby-horse that Sam
had bought him, for little David.

But if the children had been remembered well neither
Mr. nor Mrs. Peniman had been forgotten.  Mrs. Peniman's
heart was deeply touched by the gift of a
beautiful white apron, made from one of her own
pretty white dresses with infinite pains and secrecy
by Nina, who gave Ruth a beautiful sash-ribbon with
hair ribbons to match out of her own little store, Sara
ribbons, a sash ribbon and a pretty white dress, and
Lige and Sam her own gold pencil and a box of drawing
crayons.  But to Joe she gave her dearest treasure,
a pretty red morocco book of verses, which her father
had given to her on her last birthday, with an inscription
written on the inside which deeply touched Joe's
heart.  For Mr. Peniman she had made a penwiper
out of one of her own little felt shoes.

Joe and Lige had nothing to give their father and
mother but their kisses and love, but for each of the
children they had made or contrived in secret some
little toy that added to the merriment of the day, and
fully as welcome and as much appreciated as if they
had come from a city store.  Mrs. Peniman delighted
her husband by bringing forth from one of the knobby
bundles under the tree three fine new shirts, made at
night and in secret with the labor of her own tired
hands, and Mr. Peniman handed to her a bundle from
beneath the tree, that had come all the way from
Omaha the day of the blizzard, and had lain out in the
wagon under the snow for more than a week.  It
contained a handsome new dress, which everybody praised
and admired tremendously, and was as delighted over
as if it had been given to themselves.

Altogether it was a most wonderful Christmas.

The dinner, at which a wild turkey took the place
of the usual tame one, and at which the wild grape
jelly and the plum preserves and a real plum pudding
(made weeks before and hidden away for the
occasion), was pronounced a grand success.

The afternoon was spent in games, winding up with
a great snow-frolic, and snow-cream for supper.  But
when the evening came and the younger children had
gone to bed the others gathered close about the fire and
quiet gradually settled down upon them.

It had been a happy day, but now as the evening
shadows gathered memories of other Christmases came
out of the dusk and lingered about them.

To Mr. and Mrs. Peniman the memory of the little
one they had lost, the tiny grave left behind there on
the desolate loneliness of the prairies, was seldom out
of their thoughts.  And now as their thoughts traveled
back over the past, bringing up to them the memories
of Christmas at the old home, and the dear ones they
were perhaps never to see again, there came a deep
sadness that neither of them would permit themselves
to express.

To Joe and Lige and Sam and Ruth this Christmas
evening was also bringing memories.  They could
never forget the old home they had loved so well in
the Muskingum Valley, nor the dear grandmother, the
aunts and cousins and friends whom they had left behind.

But to Nina, sitting with her chin cupped in her hand
and her lovely violet eyes gazing into the fire, came
the saddest memories.  She thought of her last
Christmas, and of that dear father and mother whom she had
so loved and who had always done so much to make
her life a happy one, and the tears brimmed her eyes.
She thought of her father's illness, the strange cloud
that always seemed to be hanging over them, of their
journey westward, and of the tragic death of both her
parents on the plains.  She remembered as if she had
seen it yesterday the two long graves, side by side,
with the wooden cross at the head and the morning
sunlight shining down upon the fresh earth and
newly-turned sod.  Then her thoughts went forward over
the months since, with all the mystery and terror that
had surrounded her, and a great wonder and terror
grew in her mind.  Wonder of that mystery that hung
about her; terror of that menace that seemed to so
darkly pursue her; fear of what the years might have
in store for her, who knew so little of who she was or
where she belonged.

As the recollection of her lonely state came over her
she heaved a deep, quivering sigh.  The room was in
darkness except for the firelight that threw its flickering
light upon their faces, and as tears welled into her
eyes she felt a hand slipped into her own and turned
to see Joe sitting on a box at her feet and looking up
at her with an expression of such deep tenderness and
sympathy in his eyes that she knew he understood
what was passing in her mind.

"It's all right, Joesy," she whispered, blinking the
tear-drops from her lashes; "I was only thinking—and
you know——"

"I know, Princess," he said, pressing her hand tenderly,
"I know."

That was all.  But it was enough for Nina.  The
pressure of that warm, strong young hand in hers, the
sympathy in those honest grey eyes, banished the
shadows that had been creeping round her as if by
magic.  Somehow the knowledge that Joe was near,
that Joe understood, chased away the feeling of
loneliness and mystery, and made her feel safe and happy
again.





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.. _`RUTH MAKES A DISCOVERY`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV


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   RUTH MAKES A DISCOVERY

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The winter passed swiftly.  With the school
to take up their time and attention in the
daytime and games and talk and popping corn
and telling stories in the evening the time crept by, and
almost before they knew it it was spring.

March brought sunny days, thawing weather and
big rains, with blue skies and balmy winds that soon
melted the snow and sent it scurrying in foaming
torrents down the beds of all the creeks and streams.

Very soon after the snows began to go a wonderful
thing happened.

They woke one morning to see a train of emigrant
wagons coming across the plains, and that day a new
settler came to the Blue River, bringing with him a
wife, two sons and a daughter.

They came directly to the Penimans' homestead for
advice and directions, and the original settlers on the
river were delighted beyond measure to find them
refined and intelligent people, who, like themselves, had
desired to better their condition and had dared the
dangers of the frontier life to provide themselves with
wider opportunities and a better home.

The name of the family was James, and they came
from Iowa.  The two sons, Herbert and Arthur, were
seventeen and fifteen, while the daughter, Beatrice, was
nearly the same age as Ruth, a pretty, fair-haired,
slender girl, with soft brown eyes that looked like the
heart of a pansy.

They remained with the Peniman family that day,
and the two families fraternized immediately.  It was
a great joy to those who had been living in such lonely
conditions to meet and talk with people from the
outside world.  Mrs. James and Mrs. Peniman exchanged
confidences in regard to heating and housing and
obtaining fuel and provisions, the men talked farm-land
and crops and sod houses and dugouts, while the young
people explored the river and became friends from the
very beginning.

Few papers or news of any kind had reached the
homestead during the winter, and Joshua Peniman
heard with a sinking heart of the slavery agitation that
seemed to be continually increasing and growing daily
a greater menace to the security of the nation.  Joe,
too, was listening to the news from the outside world
with great interest.  Herbert James, a tall, fine-looking,
manly young fellow of seventeen, who had been
attending school in the East, was full of the threatening
conditions of the country.  He talked of the issue with
keen, intelligent interest, and Joe listened with a
strange thrill passing through his breast.  The two
boys soon became fast friends, while Lige and Arthur,
who was past fifteen, also struck up a great friendship.
Ruth, usually shy and quiet with strangers, expanded
sunnily in the company of Beatrice, and she and Nina
soon became fast friends with her, a friendship that
endured to the very end of their lives.

Nothing else could have brought the satisfaction
and joy to the Peniman family as did the coming of this
pleasant, intelligent family.  It brought to them
companionship, added protection from the dangers that
always surround the pioneer, and the added incentive of
a new element in the making of their home on the
prairies.  The whole Peniman family went with them to
select their location, which they had all decided should
be very near, planned with them the site of their house,
helped them in building it, assisted them in every way
through those first hard months that are the lot of
the pioneer in a new country, and gave them the benefit
of their valuable experience.  The James family settled
on a tract of land about half a mile to the west of them,
and it was a relief to each family to know that the
other was within call.

The Jameses had brought with them a pony that
Beatrice had always ridden and was exceedingly fond
of, and one of the joys of the girls' early acquaintance
was in taking turns riding on the back of gentle Flora.

Ruth took to riding as a duck to water.  In a few
days she could ride as well as her instructor, and was
never so happy as when cantering over the prairies on
Flora's back.

One day toward the first of April, when the sun
was shining brightly and a pleasant breeze blowing,
she asked her mother if she might not take a little ride.

Mrs. James remarked that it would be perfectly safe,
as Flora was most gentle and reliable, and Mrs. Peniman
gave her consent, cautioning her not to go too far away.

Ruth had always been a passionate lover of animals,
and the feel of the horse under her, the curve of the
soft neck under her hand, the swift, smooth pace,
exhilarated her as nothing had ever done before.

The snow was going fast, only in places now were
there remains of the great drifts that had covered the
plains throughout the winter.  As she cantered on she
looked at them, wishing that they were all gone and
that the beautiful wild-flowers which adorn the prairies
in the spring would soon come to gladden their hearts
and eyes.

Suddenly as she rode Flora started and swerved, and
it was well for Ruth that she had a tight hold on the
saddle or she would have gone off over her head.

"Why, Flora," she cried in surprise, "what's the
matter?" then started violently herself, as she looked
down and saw, partially concealed by the remains of
a great drift, the legs and feet of a man.

She checked the pony abruptly and sat still, not
knowing what to do.  Then, being a brave girl and a
true little pioneer, she scrambled down from the pony's
back, slipped the bridle over her arm, and going to the
body kneeled down and scraped away the snow that
covered it.

It was still in good condition, the bitter cold of the
winter and the snow packed about it having preserved
it perfectly.  As Ruth pushed aside the snow that
concealed the face she screamed aloud.

"*Eagle Eye*!  Oh, poor, poor Eagle Eye!" and being
a real little woman she sat down beside the body
and began to cry.

For a long time she kneeled beside the body of the
young Indian whom she had so tenderly nursed back
to health.  The face looked just as she had seen it
often, keen, thin, silent, the eyes closed, the grave lips
motionless, the bronze-hued features set in the dignified
mold of death.

"Eagle Eye, Eagle Eye," she called to him softly,
placing her hands on his and bending nearer.  "Oh,
poor Eagle Eye, where have you been; how, *how*, did
this terrible thing happen to you?"

The cold, immovable face remained impassive, the
grave set lips made no reply.

She rose presently, and stood for a time looking
down upon him.  She knew that the body must not be
left lying exposed on the prairie; that wolves, vultures,
coyotes, the hideous carrion-crows would soon find
it.

"I'll come back, Eagle Eye," she said as she left
him, "even if you were not grateful to us for what we
did for you, we will see that you have a proper burial."
She mounted the pony and had started to ride away
when a little distance farther on she saw a black object
in the snow.  Curious as to what it might be she rode
to it.  As she slipped from the pony's back and
stooped over it she saw that it was a black tin box,
which had once had a lock, which had been broken
and torn away.

She examined it curiously, then tucking it under her
arm rode home as fast as Flora could carry her.

"Mother, oh, Mother," she shouted as she burst
into the house, "I found Eagle Eye—our Eagle Eye—lying
out there on the prairie—*dead*—under a snowdrift!"

"*Eagle Eye*?  You mean our Eagle Eye?  The
young Indian we took care of after he was shot?"
cried Mrs. Peniman, running to her.

"Yes, yes," the tears were running down Ruth's
cheeks now; "oh, yes, Mother, our own Eagle Eye;
and oh, Mother, he was lying right under a drift, and
I saw his feet, and when I uncovered his face I saw
that it was Eagle Eye.  He must have got lost in the
blizzard——"

"What's this?  Who was lost in the blizzard?"
asked Mr. Peniman, who had entered the house in time
to hear the last words.

Mrs. Peniman explained to him.

"*Eagle Eye?*" he ejaculated; "he must have been
trying to come to us!  He must have got lost in the
storm!  Perhaps he had some message to bring to
us—perhaps he was not so ungrateful, so careless as
he seemed——"

He stopped short, his eyes fixed with a strange stare
upon the box that Ruth had entirely forgotten, and
which she still clutched under her arm.

"*Ruth!*" he shouted, "*where did you get that box*?
Where did it come from?  How in the name of
heaven——"

Ruth, startled half out of her wits at his face and
voice, held out the box she had found on the prairies.

"I found it, Father—out there on the prairies—just
a little way from where Eagle Eye was lying.  Why,
Father, what is the matter?  What makes you look
so—so——"

Her words died away as her father leaped forward
and snatched the box from her hands.  She saw him
stoop and examine it, saw him stare into her mother's
face, and saw her mother turn pale, as she murmured
in a shaking voice, "The dispatch-box—the dispatch-box!"

Ruth had heard of the dispatch-box, although she
had no remembrance of having ever seen it.

"*The dispatch-box*?  Nina's dispatch-box—that we
lost—that was stolen from us by the Indians?"

But neither Father nor Mother heard her.  Tears
had sprung to Mrs. Peniman's eyes and were rolling
down her cheeks, as she murmured over and over,
"Poor Eagle Eye, poor loyal, grateful friend, how
unjust, how unjust we have been to you!"

Joshua Peniman was examining the box.  The lock
was gone, but the box had been roughly wrapped about
and tied with a piece of deer-hide, and appeared to
have remained undisturbed while it lay on the prairies.

"He was bringing it to us," he said in a low voice.
"You remember, Hannah, that I told him the whole
story.  I did not know then how much he understood.
But he must have understood it all.  He went back to
his own people and got the papers, and was bringing
them to us when the blizzard overtook him.  Poor
Eagle Eye, poor loyal friend, he gave his life in our
service."  After a moment's thought he went on: "I
wonder how he got it?  I wonder what became of Red
Snake?  If he knows that this box has been taken
from him he will never rest until he has his revenge
and gets it back again."

"God protect us," whispered Mrs. Peniman, turning pale.

Joshua Peniman handed her the box quickly.  "Put
it away carefully," he said.  "We will examine it
more carefully when I come back.  Just now our first
duty is to Eagle Eye.  Call the boys, Ruth.  We must
go after the body at once.  I could not sleep this night
knowing that the body of our faithful friend was lying
uncovered on the plains."

When they reached the spot where the body was
lying Joe uttered a surprised exclamation.

"Why, that's the Indian Lige and I found the night
you were lost in the blizzard!  I remember him
perfectly.  But I had never seen him before.  You know
I was away all the time Eagle Eye was at our house.
Lige never looked at him at all, we were both so cold,
and so scared and anxious about you.  How do you
suppose he came to be here?"

"He was coming to us, Joe," Mr. Peniman answered
solemnly.  "He was bringing to us a thing that we—all
of us—would have been willing to pay any price to
receive.  And he gave his life in our service."

Joe stared.  "What, Father?  What was he bringing?"

"He was bringing Nina's dispatch-box.  The box
that was stolen from the wagon the night of the Indian
raid."

Joe started, and a strange startled expression passed
over his face.

"Where was it?" he asked.

"On the prairie, very near his body.  Ruth found
it there."

"Great heavens!  I kicked it with my foot the night
of the blizzard!  I thought it was a tin can.  *Nina's
dispatch-box*!  And it has lain all these months on the
prairies!"

"God is good," murmured Mr. Peniman.  But Joe
answered nothing, but stared at his father with
distended eyes.





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.. _`THE DISPATCH-BOX`:

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   CHAPTER XXV


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   THE DISPATCH-BOX

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When they had brought Eagle Eye home and
buried him under the willow trees on the
river bank Joe went directly to his mother.

He was seventeen now, and the dangers and hardships
he had been through and the responsibilities that
had been thrust upon him made him appear much older
than his years.

"Mother," he said in a low trembling voice, "have
you told Nina—does she know?"

"Not yet, dear.  There has not been time.  It will
of course be something of a shock to her, and I want
to tell her when we are quiet and alone and I can
prepare her for it."

For a moment the boy stood silent, his head bent
forward on his breast.  Then he burst out impetuously:

"Do you think we'd better tell her at all, Mother?
She is contented and happy here, why should we tell
her something that—that—might take her away from
us forever?  I have always known that she
was—was—different, somehow, and this box probably
contains the information about her own people and all
that.  If she gets it why—why she will probably go
back to them—and—and——"

The troubled voice ceased, and his mother bent
forward and putting her hand under his chin raised his
face to hers.

"Why, Joe!" she exclaimed, "why, *Joe*!  Is that
my own boy speaking like this?  You would keep the
knowledge that must be of such inestimable value to
Nina away from her because, perchance, we should
lose her, lest she should leave us—to further her own
happiness and prosperity in life?"

Joe bent his head and his face crimsoned.

"I know I'm selfish, Mother," he blurted out; "I
know I shouldn't even allow myself to think of such a
thing.  But when I think of her leaving us—of—of
going off to live with some one else—I—I just can't
stand it."  Then raising his head and fixing his deep
grey eyes upon his mother's face, "I'd rather die than
live without Nina."

When she had at last sent him away to bed Hannah
Peniman sat for a long time before the dying fire.

Joe—her Joe—her son—her baby—was not a boy
any more—he was a man!

The eyes that had looked into hers this night, the
voice that had spoken out of a heart yet unknown to
itself, were not the eyes, the voice of a child.  And the
knowledge left pain in her heart, and wonder.

She rose presently and going to the door called Nina.

As the girl came bounding into the room Hannah
Peniman looked at her with new eyes.  The little
Princess was now a slender, graceful, beautiful girl of
fourteen, with a head of rippling gold, eyes like
wood-violets, and a face so entrancingly lovely that
Mrs. Peniman's heart sank as she looked at it.

She drew the girl gently down on a chair beside her.

"Listen, dear," her voice was low, almost sad, as she
spoke, "you never knew the Indian that Ruth found
on the prairies to-day and that Father and the boys
buried this evening, but he has done you a great, an
inestimable service.  You have heard us speak of him,
and how we took care of Eagle Eye when he was
wounded.  That was at the time that both you and
Joe were away, after you were kidnapped by the
Indians.  Father Peniman trusted Eagle Eye, and told
him your story.  He went away without a word, but
in some way he got possession of the box containing
your papers——"

Nina started up from her chair.

"The box—*the dispatch-box*—that Mother left me?"

"Yes, Nina.  He got it, and he was bringing it back
to us when he became lost in the blizzard.  He gave
his life in the effort to restore it."

"But the box—the box—Mother's box?" cried
Nina, her hands clasped, her face white, her eyes wide
and pleading.

"That was the box that Ruth found this afternoon
lying on the prairie beside Eagle Eye's body."

"And you have it—you got it—it—it——" her
agitation was too great for words.

Mrs. Peniman laid her hand over the little shaking
hands that were clasped against Nina's breast.

"Yes, dear, we have it."  She rose and going to
her trunk brought forth the box and put it into Nina's
hands.

The girl clasped it, bent over it, pressed it to her
bosom, and burst into a flood of tears.

"It is all I have of them," she whispered, "all that
I have to remember either of them.  Oh, I hope there
is a picture of Mother in the box, some letters,
something to make me know more about my dear, dear
father and mother!"

At this moment Mr. Peniman entered the room.  He
crossed silently to the table and stood beside it while
Nina with shaking fingers unfastened the thongs that
were wound about the box and raised the lid.  On the
top were two long folded papers.  She opened these
and glanced at them hastily, then threw them on the
table.  They were deeds, executed many years before,
to Lee C. Carroll, by his father, Edgar M. Carroll,
conveying to him and his heirs forever sole title to
certain properties in St. Louis and New York.

There was a tray in the box, and with trembling
hands Nina raised this eagerly, hoping to find the
treasures she had coveted in the space below.

*There was nothing in it but a heap of ashes.*

The base, vindictive nature of the renegade, while
leaving in the box the deeds to a property he dared not
claim, incited him with devilish malice to destroy all
the personal papers, all data, every scrap of information
that could lead to the restoration of the child to
her friends and relatives, or her place in society.

When the full realization of what had been done
came upon her Nina uttered a heartbroken cry and cast
herself into Mrs. Peniman's arms.

With eyes that could scarce credit the evidence
of their senses the man and woman gazed into the box.

Nothing there but ashes.

Nothing to pay for the life that had been given.
Nothing to bring to the helpless young girl the
knowledge without which she was cut off from all family
relation, or connection with the life from which she
came.  Nothing to help her to establish her identity,
or enable her to claim the property, the deeds of which
had been so sardonically left in the box.

The utter maliciousness of it, the cold, cruel,
calculating vindictiveness of the deed left them stunned.

"Don't grieve so, darling," Hannah Peniman murmured,
stroking the golden head and pressing it to her
breast, "you have the deeds, and they mean a great
deal.  Property in those two big cities must be worth
a great deal of money now."

"But I don't want money," sobbed Nina broken-heartedly.
"I don't care anything about the deeds, he
might as well have burned them, too.  What do I want
of property in New York or St. Louis?  I'll probably
never go there.  I don't want to go there.  I want to
stay here with you.  But what I wanted—what I hoped
we would find in the box—were pictures of Papa and
Mama, letters from them—things about them and
me—so that I would know something about them—about
myself, so that I wouldn't feel myself a poor
forsaken, friendless waif, dependent upon your charity
for all I have and am."

Joshua Peniman crossed the room and laid his hand
upon her head.

"You are not a friendless waif, Princess," he said
in his low, gentle voice, "you are our daughter,
beloved, cherished, as much as Sara or Ruth."  Then
taking up the deeds from the table he examined them
carefully.

"This is very strange," he mused; "I can't
understand it.  Why should he have left the deeds and
destroyed everything else in the box?  There is a
considerable quantity of ashes here.  The box must have
been full of papers.  Why should that villain have
destroyed them all and left these deeds?  I cannot
understand it."

He puzzled over it long after Nina had sobbed
herself to sleep in Ruth's loving arms.

Where was Red Snake?

Why had he burned the contents of this box?

How had the box come to be in the possession of
Eagle Eye?

What had they to expect from this new complication
in a mystery he was unable to unravel?

Little could he guess, as he went abstractedly about
his work the next day, how those questions were to be
answered, or how closely that mystery was to affect
the lives of himself and those who were dear to him.





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.. _`TROUBLE BREWING`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI


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   TROUBLE BREWING

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The spring of 1857 was a time of promise for
the Nebraska settlers.  Timely rains had
fallen.  The few little fields of wheat and
corn promised good harvests.  Elk, deer, antelope,
grouse, and wild turkey were abundant.  Buffaloes
came close to their settlement and they were fortunate
enough to get many hides and much meat.  The Sioux
had fought a great battle with the whites at Ash
Hollow and been badly beaten and wanted nothing so much
as peace.  Fifty thousand dollars had been voted by
Congress to build a capitol at Omaha, and fifty
thousand more to build roads through the Territory.

With the advance of spring more settlers began to
come in.  There was now a little settlement at Beaver
Creek, some five miles away, and during the summer
several families located along the Blue, and a
thriving settlement started up on the Little Blue, some
three or four miles away, which was called "Milford."

Meanwhile the friendship of the Peniman family
and their new neighbors, the Jameses, was growing apace.

To Mr. Peniman the presence of a neighbor, a man
who was concerned with the same problems, the same
dangers, and the same experiments as himself, was a
great boon.  He now had another man to talk to, to
plan with, to rely upon in case the danger of which he
was in continual fear should come upon them.

To Mrs. Peniman the companionship of another
woman was a blessing almost beyond expression, and
to the girls the presence of another young girl in the
neighborhood brought a new interest in life.

But it was to Lige and Joe that the coming of the
new homesteaders brought the greatest significance.

The James boys had always lived in towns and had
a knowledge and sophistication of which the country-raised
Peniman lads were entirely lacking.  They had
also had much better educational facilities, and there
was much that Joe and Lige could learn from them.
The four boys became staunch friends, and in talking
with Herbert, Joe again felt his ambitions stimulated
to study law.

When the snow had gone and the bright spring sunshine
had dried up the prairies sufficiently to allow
of travel Joshua Peniman proposed to Joe that he
should go to Omaha in his place, have the wagon
mended and bring back some spring supplies.

"There is so much work to be done this spring that
I don't feel that I can go," he said.  "I would not like
to have you make the trip alone, but the Jameses are
needing some things, too, and you and Herbert can
make the trip together."

So it was arranged, and on a brilliant spring morning,
when the sky arched like a bowl of sapphire above
their heads, when the meadow-larks sang in the grass
and the wind whispered softly over the prairies that
here and there were already showing a touch of green,
the two lads set off together.

It was a long drive, and on the way they talked of
many things.  Herbert, who was a fine, quiet,
serious-minded boy, was thinking much of the political
situation of the country, which this spring was showing
signs of much bitterness and agitation.

"I tell you things are in a serious condition," he
said.  "We are going on indifferently living over a
volcano.  And it's going to burst out some day when
people are least expecting it.  Slavery is a curse that
no civilized country can exist under.  Are we going to
keep quiet and let Kansas come into the Union as a
slave State?"

Joe's eyes blazed.  "Of course we're not.  That
would be a terrible thing," he cried.

"Then what are we going to do about it?  Are men
like Douglas going to blind the eyes and muffle the ears
of the American people until we get all tied up in
legislation that will give a preponderance of the
Western States to slavery?"

When they reached Omaha they found the entire
community asking the same question.  On street corners,
in stores, in halls, churches, meeting-places of all
kinds the question of slavery was being discussed, not
calmly and dispassionately, but with a bitterness that
was disturbing business, separating families, setting
father and sons, brother and brother apart.

Joe listened to it all with a growing feeling of
anxiety.  In spite of himself he found himself
constantly being drawn into arguments, contending hotly
on a question that he felt keenly that he knew too
little about.

In a store where the two lads went to buy their
provisions they ran into a group of a dozen men or more
who were hotly debating the slavery question.  They
intended to do their trading and get out as soon as
possible, but the proprietor of the store was one of the
principal arguers, so leaning his back against the
counter while he waited to have his order filled, Joe listened
to the discussion.

Before he was aware of what he was doing he had
answered a tall, gangling Missourian with a tuft of
whiskers on his chin, who was arguing for State
rights, and the first thing he knew he was in the midst
of a fiery controversy, in which all the bystanders took
violent sides.

Among them was a man whose appearance had
drawn his attention from the first moment he entered
the store.  At his first glance it had startled him with
a strange sense of familiarity.  Then the argument
had claimed all his attention and he noticed the man
no more, until, having abruptly terminated his part in
it he gathered up his provisions and was leaving the
store when the gentleman stepped up to him.

"I congratulate you, young man," he said, holding
out his hand.  "You are a born orator.  It does my
heart good to hear the young fellows of our country
take the stand that you just did.  You are what I
should call a real American.  I'm afraid we have some
tough times ahead of us before this thing is over, and
it is to the young fellows like you that we may have to
look for its settlement."

"Do you mean that you think it will come to war?"

"I begin to fear so.  There is too much of a pull
being made by the slave-owners and slave States,—and,
I regret to say, by men in Congress, who ought
to have a stronger sense of humanity and the country's
danger."

"I agree with you," answered Joe eagerly, and
before he knew it he was speaking out his thoughts to
this stranger, the long, silent thoughts that had been
forming themselves in his mind in the silence of the
prairies, when he had brooded by himself about the
subject of slavery and the danger of secession.

When they had remained talking for some time the
gentleman laid his hand on Joe's arm.

"I like you, my young friend," he said; "you are
a boy of much promise.  Come up to my office with
me.  I am a lawyer.  I'd like to talk with you further."

Joe hesitated.  He had much to do, but something
in the man's face and manner, some strange, haunting
sense of familiarity, the fascination of his presence,
his smooth and elegant manner of speech, made an
appeal to him that he could not resist.  They went
together to the lawyer's office, and Joe saw for the first
time a real law office and a law library.

When he saw the rows of shelves his eyes brightened.

"Oh," he cried, "what a library!  How splendid!
How I should like to read them all!"

The lawyer laughed.  "I'm afraid you would find
some of those books rather dry reading.  They are all
law books.  A good many of them are reports."

"I know.  That is what interests me so much.  All
my life my greatest ambition has been to be a lawyer."

"Is that possible!" cried the gentleman, evidently
much pleased.  "Well, well!  So you would like to
be a lawyer, would you?  Why don't you, then?  I
am sure you would make a good one."

Joe's face flushed with pleasure.

"There is nothing in the world I want so much," he
answered.  "But we have a big family, my father is
not a rich man, and we have recently homesteaded on
the Blue.  There is an awful lot of work to be done by
pioneers, and I don't get much chance to read."  Then,
after a pause, "And besides I haven't any books."

"Would you read them if you had?"

"Yes, sir, I would, indeed," Joe answered so
promptly that the gentleman smiled.

He rose presently and went to a case.

"Here," he said, taking down two volumes; "here's
a copy of Blackstone, and one of Kent's Commentaries.
I'll lend them to you.  Take them home with you, and
after you have read and digested them come back to
me, and if I find that you have understood what you
have read I'll lend you some more."

Joe's face crimsoned with joy.  He stammered his
thanks, and after shaking hands with his new acquaintance
and promising to call upon him the next time he
came to Omaha, he left the office and joined Herbert,
who was waiting for him at the store.

When he told him of his experience and showed
him the books Herbert whistled.  "Looks to me as if
that was a lucky strike," he said.  "Do you know who
that man is?  I saw that he had taken a notion to you
and asked about him.  He is Judge North, one of the
leading men of the Territory and the most prominent
lawyer in the West."

Joe was not surprised to hear that the man at whose
office he had called and whose books he carried under
his arm was one of the leading men of the Territory.
There was that in his manner and appearance that
proclaimed him a leader of men.  Absently he opened
one of the books.  On the fly-leaf was written in a
bold flowing hand, "John M. North, Attorney at Law."

Joe pointed to the last words.  "I hope to write
that after my name some day," he said musingly.

"I'll be your first client," laughed Herbert.

"There's no telling but that you might," grinned
Joe; "I might have to get you out of jail some day."

As they hurried back to the place where they had
left the wagon Joe was overjoyed to find Pashepaho
standing beside it.

He greeted them with a broad grin.

"Me wait," he said, "me know horses."

Joe grasped his hand and shook it with the cordiality
of an old friend.  Then he introduced Herbert,
who looked with some astonishment upon this manner
of greeting the red man of the plains.

"Pashepaho is one of my best friends," Joe
assured him; "he saved my life once, and probably the
lives of the family.  What are you doing here, Pashepaho?"

"Come trade skin.  What you do?"

"We came in to get some provisions and get the
wagon mended.  It broke down in a blizzard last
winter."

"Heap cold."

"It was an awful winter.  Father and Sam almost
got lost in the big blizzard."  Then suddenly
remembering, "Did you know that Eagle Eye is dead?  He
was coming to us—-bringing Nina's dispatch-box—when
the blizzard overtook him.  We found him dead
not far from our house this spring."

"Ai-ee!  Eagle Eye dead?"  The Indian's sharp
face clouded.  "Heap good man."  Then suddenly,
"You know 'bout Red Snake?"

"No," Joe turned on him sharply.  "What about
him?  We have been awful uneasy ever since we
knew that Eagle Eye got the box.  We have been
afraid he would come to take vengeance on us for it."

"He no come now," said Pashepaho gravely.  Then
with a tone of surprise, "You no hear?"

"No, we have heard nothing.  We have been shut
off there at the homestead with big snows all winter.
What do you mean?"

"Red Snake dead."

Joe started, and leaned forward staring into his face.

"*Dead*?  Red Snake dead?  How?  When?  Where?"

"Eagle Eye keel heem."

"Eagle Eye killed him?  When?"

"Many sleep ago.  Shoot heem with arrow."

Joe stood as if transfixed, staring into his face.

"Eagle Eye heap white man friend," Pashepaho went on.

"I know he was, I know he was, he was our friend,
our good, loyal friend; we felt awfully bad when we
found him.  But—how did it happen?  How did he
get the box, I wonder?"

In his halting, broken English Pashepaho told him
the story as he had heard it from the men of his own
tribe.  Joe was deeply affected.

"Then he must have got the dispatch-box after Red
Snake was dead, and was bringing it to us when the
blizzard overtook him.  Good, faithful Eagle Eye!
We thought he was not grateful for all the folks had
done in nursing him back to life, but look how
mistaken we were!  He was a faithful friend."

As Pashepaho shook his hand and rode away Joe
stood still in a profound reverie.  A relief so great
that it was almost like the falling of a great load from
his shoulders, came over him.

*Red Snake was dead!*

The danger that had hung so darkly and fearsomely
over them was now removed, the menacing figure that
had shadowed all their days and filled their nights with
terror was gone forever!

He could scarcely wait to get back home and tell the
glad news to the family.  As he hurriedly began to
load the provisions into the wagon two men in earnest
conversation passed him.

"We shall have war," one of them was saying,
"there is no escaping it.  The South is bound to
secede."

The South is bound to secede!

The two lads turned and looked at one another, and
into the consciousness of both some strange prescience
seemed to fall.

"War!" said Herbert in an awed tone.

"*War!*" repeated Joe; "I wonder what it would mean to me?"





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.. _`WAR`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII


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   WAR

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The news that Joe brought back from his trip
to Omaha that Red Snake was dead and the
dark menace so long hanging over them was
removed forever, brought great relief to the whole
Peniman family.  To Nina especially did it seem to
bring a sense of security she had never known since the
day she had been kidnapped.  She had recovered in a
measure from the bitter disappointment of the violated
dispatch-box, though many nights, and often when
she was alone she felt deeply unhappy over her
situation, and the unsolved mystery that seemed to cut her
off from her own.

As the summer advanced the young people of the
two families were much together, and Hannah
Peniman noticed with a smile—and yet a sigh—that the
boys no longer went off by themselves on hunting or
fishing or exploring expeditions, but that wherever
they went the girls were usually with them, and that
as the party came home, strolling across the prairies or
along the river bank in the moonlight, that Nina and
Joe were always together, that Herbert walked with
Ruth, and that Lige larked and sang and frolicked with
pretty, gay little Beatrice.

Joe found little time for reading during the summer,
but the law books which Judge North had lent him
were his constant companions in the evening, and while
he plowed and harrowed the fields in which their first
crops were to be planted he propped the Blackstone up
at one end of the furrow, and while he traveled its
length he recited over and over again a paragraph he
had read at the start.  When he reached the end of
the furrow that paragraph was usually committed to
memory, and he took another, reciting it over and
over all down the long black furrow and back.  In this
way he read Blackstone through, acquiring so perfect
a knowledge of its contents that he knew it almost by
heart, and could quote from it verbatim to the very
end of his life.

His mind and thoughts were much occupied with the
ominous news that continually reached them.  Everywhere
trouble seemed to be in the air.  The violence
and disorder in Kansas, where a state of civil war
practically existed, as the result of the pro-slavery
demonstration at Lawrence, communicated itself across
the border to the sister territory of Nebraska, and
bitter arguments and controversy were heard
wherever two or three people were gathered together.

Such papers as they were able to obtain were full
of menace.  A seething current of excitement and
unrest seemed permeating the whole nation.  The
North bitterly accusing the South of trying by trickery
and treachery to force slavery upon the nation, the
South maintaining that the North was fostering abolition,
and that the real intent and purpose of the abolitionists
was to arouse a slave insurrection and bring
devastation to the whole South.

The decision in the Dred Scott case and the
framing of the Lecompton Constitution in Kansas
increased the agitation of the slavery question to a
burning issue; and Joe and Herbert, sometimes
accompanied by Arthur and Lige, fell into the habit of
riding over to the little cross-road store at Milford
evenings, to hear the latest news and listen to the
discussion they always found going on there.

Joshua Peniman made few comments on the situation,
but he seized upon the papers with an eagerness
that showed his interest, and read them with set lips
and frowning brow.

In October that year the little settlement of which
the Peniman family had been the pioneers was
increased by six families, who homesteaded upon the
West Blue and Middle Creek.

A demand soon rose among them for a school which
the children of the community could attend during the
cold weather, and as there were no funds to provide
such a school or pay a teacher the settlers all came
together at the Peniman homestead to discuss the matter
and see what could be done.

After much discussion it was agreed that they should
build a little sod schoolhouse, large enough to
accommodate the children of the neighborhood, and as
Joshua Peniman was a natural leader among them
and the best equipped for the purpose, that the men
of the settlement should take upon themselves his work
for certain hours of each day, while he in exchange
should teach the school.

He was the more willing to accede to this proposal
because he had never entirely recovered from the
effects of the exposure he had suffered in the blizzard,
and was subject to rheumatism and bronchitis, and was
not sorry to have the heavy outdoor work done by
some of the younger and stronger men during the
severity of the winter.

A location was chosen on the prairies about midway
between the different homesteads, and on a cold, bright
morning in October the sod was broken for the schoolhouse.

There were men and teams enough to accomplish
its construction quickly, and within a few days a
solid little structure, about thirty feet square, was
erected.

The question of heating and seating had arisen at
the meeting, and it had been decided that each settler
should furnish one desk or chair, and that each settler
who had timber should cut a load of cord wood and
those who had no timber should contribute their share
by hauling it to the nearest market and selling it,
buying a stove with the proceeds.

This program was carried out, two of the settlers
who had no timber driving forty miles to Nebraska
City, where they bought a good second-hand stove,
which was set up in the schoolhouse.

The new schoolhouse was ready for occupation the
first of November, and from that time on throughout
the long, cold winter the little sod schoolhouse
accommodated about twenty children, of all grades and sizes,
of whom Joshua Peniman was the teacher.

Within a short time after the opening of the school
a general feeling arose in the settlement that the
Sabbath should be observed, and at the general request of
the settlers Joshua Peniman consented to act as leader,
holding services every Sunday in the sod schoolhouse.
As the settlers were of all creeds and denominations
the services were necessarily non-sectarian.  The
services were very simple, consisting of the reading of the
Bible, prayers by members of the congregation,
responsive reading from the Psalms, and hymns led by
the clear, sweet voice of Hannah Peniman.

In the fall of that year another great boon came to
the pioneers.  A stage-coach line was established, the
terminal of which was the Big Sandy station on the
Little Blue.  This line carried mail and passengers,
thus doing away with the long, lonely, dangerous ride
across the prairies to get mail, and bringing a
postoffice, with mail and newspapers within about six miles
of the Peniman homestead.  After that it was possible
to get papers not more than a day or two old, and
to send and receive letters without the perilous
journey hitherto necessary.

Joshua Peniman had proved up on his claim, and
was holding fast to the claims he had staked out next
his own for Joe and Lige, with two other 160-acre
tracts which he hoped to hold for Ruth and Nina as
soon as they should be old enough to take them.  The
harvest of that year was rich and plentiful, and the
winter of 1858-9 saw the family comfortably
established in a home that was beginning to have the
appearance of a real farm, with hay, grain and corn stored
in their granaries, a cow-house and chicken-house
added to the buildings, and many substantial
improvements added to their dwelling.

During the winter whenever Joe could snatch time
from his other duties he and Herbert James trapped
beaver, mink, and otter in the river.  In Beaver
Creek, where a beautiful little town was springing up,
they got many fine beavers, the skins of which sold for
from two to three dollars a pound, many of the beavers
weighing from two to three pounds apiece.  With the
money he made by the sale of the skins he bought law
books, adding one at a time to his precious collection,
and studying them so industriously that when he went
to Omaha to return the books he had borrowed from
Judge North he rendered to the lawyer so good an
account of his reading that the Judge called him a
prodigy.

"You are the kind of a boy I like," he said genially,
patting Joe on the shoulder.  "I'd like to take you
into my office to study law.  You are highly gifted,
and I believe will make a great success of the profession."

Joe glowed under his praise.  Nothing would have
given him greater happiness than to enter Judge
North's fine offices as a student.  It was a great
temptation.  But there was much work to be done at
home, his father was no longer strong, and his work
much interrupted by his teaching and ministerial
duties, and much of the responsibility of the farm
work had fallen upon him and Lige, who was now a
tall, handsome, well-set-up lad of seventeen, while Joe
had grown to the full stature of a man, and was
approaching his nineteenth birthday.

"I can't come into your office now, Judge North,"
he answered regretfully, "but I would like to come
and talk with you whenever I can, and have you
advise and help me.  I want to be a lawyer, and even
though I cannot be spared from home now I can go on
preparing myself until the younger boys get old enough
to take my place on the farm."

"Good lad," said Judge North; "I like you none
the less for your faithfulness to your duty."

As he smiled at him again that strange sense of
familiarity came over the boy.  Where had he seen
that man before?  Who was it of whom he so reminded him?

There was something about him that was not like a
stranger, that carried a subtle sense of warmth,
affection, to his heart.  In the gleam of his deep blue eyes
there came and went an expression that eluded him
like an evanescent perfume.  For some reason that he
could not account for to himself the lad's heart warmed
to him strangely.  In the long, friendly talk that
followed Joe told him of his ambitions, and of how that
ambition had been roused in his breast by hearing a
lawyer, a man by the name of Lincoln, make a Fourth
of July speech in Illinois.

"Lincoln?" said Judge North, much interested.
"Do you mean Abraham Lincoln?  Well, well!  So
you heard one of those great speeches, did you?  I
wish it had been my privilege.  Have you followed his
debates with Douglas?  He has a grip on this slavery
question that no other man in the country can equal.
Did you know that he is being talked of as a candidate
of the new Republican party to succeed Buchanan as
President?"

"No," cried Joe, much astonished.  "*That* Mr. Lincoln?
Why, he was only a country lawyer, a member
of the legislature from Sangamon County, when I
heard him!"

"He is the greatest man in this country to-day.  A
great lawyer.  A great statesman.  I hope that he
may be elected."

Joe went home more eager and encouraged in his
study of the law than ever before.  He felt that if in
so short a time a country lawyer like Mr. Lincoln
should have become the nominee for President that
there was hope for him in the years that lay before him.

A few evenings after his return there was a citizens'
meeting at Milford, and he and Herbert rode over.
His father, who had automatically become the leader
of the settlement, had been asked to preside.  Joe
had had no intention of speaking, his purpose was to
attend the meeting simply as a spectator.  But before
he was aware of it his blood was up and he was on his
feet making a fiery anti-slavery speech.

He scarcely knew what he was saying.  But with
the first words he uttered all the long, deep thoughts
that had been growing up within him while he worked
in the fields in the vast silence of the prairies burst
forth in a torrent, and he only came to himself when
the little hall rocked with shouts and applause.

After that he was often asked to speak at meetings,
and no one was more astonished than he when he was
asked to accept the presidency of the Young Men's
Republican Club, that was being organized in the
county.

Feeling was running hot and high everywhere.  And
in the fall (1859) the torch was set to the smouldering
powder of public opinion by John Brown's seizure of
the national arsenal at Harper's Ferry.

Instantly the war-spirit of the country sprang to life.

Troops were hurried to the spot and the little band
of hot-headed abolitionists seized.  But though they
paid the penalty of their well-meant but misdirected
enthusiasm with their lives, the blaze was started.
Nothing could stop it now.

War was inevitable.

The song,

   |  "John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave,
   |  But his soul goes marching on,"

was born in a night and swept the country like wildfire,
old men and young singing and cheering it.

The Republican party, born of the slavery agitation,
grew apace, and "denied the authority of Congress, of
a Territorial Legislature, or any individual to give
existence to slavery in the Territories."  It repudiated
the doctrine of State sovereignty and the Dred Scott
decision, and nominated Abraham Lincoln for President.

The nomination of the man whose anti-slavery
speeches were read and quoted from ocean to ocean
was a challenge thrown down to the slave-holding
States, which responded to it with haughty defiance
and the nomination of John C. Breckinridge, of
Kentucky.  The Northern Democrats, unable to endorse
the attitude of their Southern brothers, split from their
own party and nominated Stephen A. Douglas.

The nomination of Lincoln—his inspiration and
guide—left no doubt in Joe's mind as to his course of
action.  He accepted the nomination of president of
the Young Men's Republican Club, stripped off his
coat and plunged into the campaign with the same
energy, the same efficiency, the same unbounded
enthusiasm that he had always brought to every task
before him.

He spoke in sod houses, dugouts, schoolhouses,
stores, churches, and halls, extolling the Republican
candidate for President, and praising the man who
seemed to him the very embodiment of the spirit of the
freedom and democracy of America.

At many of these meetings Joshua Peniman presided.
And as he heard the fiery utterances of his son
his heart grew cold within his breast.

The campaign was a fierce and bitter one, but
Lincoln was elected.

The South, angry, defiant, outraged by the election
of a "nigger-lover," a plebeian, a country lawyer and
rail-splitter, and the defeat of their own aristocratic
candidate, Mr. Breckinridge, was incensed to fury.
Many times they had threatened that the Southern
States would no longer remain in the Union if the
Republican party was successful, and on December 20,
1860, they made good their threat.  A popular
convention at Charleston passed an order of secession.

Throughout the intense excitement that followed Joe
and his father had many discussions, in some of which
Lige joined.

That war was inevitable they now knew.  But how
it was to be met by them—Quakers—was a thing upon
which they could come to no agreement.

"We cannot take up arms," Joshua Peniman said
firmly.  "We are Quakers.  Our religion, the Bible,
the Word of God Himself forbids it."

"But it is our duty, Father," Joe urged passionately.
"If we have to go to war with the South they will have
all the advantage.  They are ready for war.  The
Federal arsenals in the Southern States have fallen into
their hands and furnished their soldiers with
equipment.  You know that we are not prepared.  A great
army will have to be raised and furnished with the
munitions of war.  Should we, whom you have always
taught to love and honor the flag, sit still and see that
flag torn down, our country divided, and left a prey to
foreign nations?"'

Joshua Peniman blanched.  "God forbid," he cried
quickly.  "But if it comes to that terrible pass there
are others—not Quakers—who have not been reared
in the faith that makes it impossible for them to fight.
Let them go.  Let them protect the country."

"It will take us all, Father," put in Lige.  "This
war is going to be no light matter.  The South has the
men, the money, the military training.  It is going to
take all the men the North can raise to hold the nation
together if war comes."

And war did come.

Early in the spring Fort Sumter was fired upon.

This roused the North to the highest pitch of
excitement.  In April President Lincoln called for
volunteers to suppress the rebellion.

The hour had come that Joshua Peniman and his
sons had so long prayed might be spared them.

On the morning of June tenth Joe came and
stood before him in the living-room of the little
soddy.

Neither had slept.  Joe's face was pale and his lips
close set as he stood looking at his father.

"I enlisted last night, Father."  He spoke in a
hoarse, shaken voice, and his lips moved stiffly as if he
could with difficulty frame the words.

Joshua Peniman started.  He knew that it must
come, yet the dart passed no less cruelly through his
heart because it had been anticipated.

"Already?"

He looked grey and worn.  Lines that had not been
there a few months before had written themselves in
his forehead and creased his cheeks.  As the lad looked
at him his heart rose up and choked him.

"Oh, Father," he cried, "I *had* to do it!  It breaks
my heart to go against your will.  But I had no choice.
I must go.  Why, think what a skulker I would be if
after all I have done and said I were to—to stay at home!"

"You were already under orders," Joshua Peniman
said slowly.  "You are a member of the Quaker
Church.  By your covenant with that body you have
forsworn war.  Your church and your God forbid
you to fight.  God Himself has commanded that
'Thou shalt not kill.'"

"Oh, but, Father, that means a different kind of
killing.  War is not *murder*!"

"War is always murder.  The coldest, bloodiest,
most terrible murder.  Murder of the soul as well as
the body."

"Oh no, Father, no, that isn't so!" cried out the
boy.  "Think of the men who have engaged in war!
Think of Washington—his soul was not killed by war.
This is a thing that must be done.  It is a duty.  We
must fight for the Union—liberty—freedom—for our
own homes and firesides."

"This issue need not have been met by war.  It
would not have been if war-crazy hot-heads had not
forced it upon us.  There is a better way for countries
and nations to settle their difficulties than by war.
Sometime men will come to realize its brutality and
nations will combine to adjust their controversies by
reason, not might."

"I don't believe that such a time will ever come.
But if it does it is not here *now*.  This issue is upon us.
What are we going to do?—sit passive and let the
South secede and break up the Union?  Why, even
Jesus did not suffer evil passively.  He drove the
money-changers from the Temple.  And He Himself
said 'Think not that I come to send peace on earth; I
came not to send peace, but a sword.'"

"But the 'sword' that the Master speaks of in that
passage of Scripture is not the literal sword, the sword
used in war, but the sharp sword of conscience.
Better that the Union be dissolved than that the hands of
men should be stained with the blood of their brethren."

"Oh, Father," cried Joe, "how can you say so!  Do
you care nothing for the preservation of your country?"

Joshua Peniman flinched, and a hot flush passed
over his face.

"God knows that I love my country as well as any
man," he answered sadly.  "But dearly as I love my
country I love my God, my religion and the commands
that He has given more."

"But remember what the Lord said to His disciples,
in the twenty-second chapter of St. Luke: 'But now he
that hath a purse, let him take it, and likewise his scrip:
and he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and
buy one.'  The time has come, Father, when it is our
duty to go to war, when the man who tries to escape
that duty is dishonoring his God as well as his country.
The time has come, when, as Jesus told His disciples,
'He that hath no sword should sell his very garment
and buy one' and go forth to battle for the right."

Joshua Peniman gazed into the face of his son with
sorrowful eyes.  "Thee knows thy Scripture, Joe," he
said in an unsteady voice.  "I have striven mightily
for thee.  I thought I had brought thee up in the faith
of our fathers——"

Hot tears sprang into Joe's eyes.  "You have, you
have, Father!  As God hears me I would not take up
arms against my fellow-man for anything less sacred
than the preservation of our nation.  I have studied
deeply into this question.  I have searched the
Scriptures.  And I feel that it is my sacred duty to go.
Remember what the Lord said to Ezekiel, 'Son of
man, speak to the children of thy people, and say unto
them, When I bring the sword upon a land, if the
people of that land take a man of their coasts, and set him
for their watchman: If when he seeth the sword come
upon the land, he blow the trumpet, and warn the
people; Then whosoever heareth the trumpet and taketh
not warning; if the sword come, and take him away,
his blood shall be upon his own head.  He heard the
sound of the trumpet and took not warning; his blood
shall be upon him.  But he that taketh warning shall
deliver his soul.  But if the watchman see the sword
come, and blow not the trumpet, and the people be not
warned; if the sword come and take any person from
among them, he is taken away in his iniquity; but his
blood shall I require at the watchman's hand!'"

As the lad finished the long quotation from the book
of Ezekiel, over which he had pored through many
nights before, he fixed his gaze upon his father's face
and said in a solemn voice:

"We are the watchmen, Father.  If we rise not
now, if we do not blow the trumpet, then should our
nation perish, should the youth of our land be cut
down, the Lord, according to His word will require
their blood at the watchmen's hand."

Joshua Peniman gazed long and earnestly into his
son's face.  Then laid his hand on his shoulder.

"Thee has read thy Scripture carefully, son.  I must
confess that I have never read it in that light before.
Perhaps thee is right.  God knows.  I am sure that it
would grieve thee to go against the teachings of thy
father, thy church and thy people.  But I believe that
thou art following what thou believest to be thy duty.
It is breaking my heart, my son.  But every man must
settle an action of this kind for himself, according to
his own conscience and his own God.  If thou believest
that the Lord sanctions thee, that it is thy duty to
go, I will say no more; go, and may God go with thee."

The fire of youth and patriotism burned hotly in
Joe's breast, but it was with bowed head and wet eyes
that he left his father's presence.

All his life he had carried every pain, every grief and
trouble to his mother, and he sought her now, kneeling
beside her and burying his head in her lap.

She, too, had passed a sleepless night.  Many hours
of it she had spent upon her knees, praying for strength
and wisdom in the trial that was to come upon her.
She showed the strain of anxiety and labor of the
past five years, and the suffering of the present had
left her wan and pale, with heavy shadows in her eyes.

She clasped the boy to her and bowed her face upon his.

"Oh, Mother," he cried, "*you* don't blame me, do
you?  *You* don't think that I am doing wrong?  I'm
not deserting God, Mother, or the Friends' religion, or
you!  I love the old faith.  I believe in it.  I'll live
and die in it.  But oh, Mother, I *have* to go!  No man
who loves his country and is a man can hold back now!"

She held him close, tears streaming down her face.

Presently he raised his head.  "I'll have to go, dear.
They are waiting for me.  I"—he hesitated, then said
brokenly,—"I enlisted last night."

She gave a little gasping cry.

"You have enlisted—already?  Oh, Joe, Joe!"

"Lige enlisted, too, Mother," he forced himself to
tell her, "and Herbert.  In the First Regiment of
Nebraska Volunteers."

"Lige—Lige, too?"

Her cry stabbed him like a knife.

"Yes, Mother, he asked me to tell you.  You know
how soft he is.  He said he—he couldn't."

"Lige—Lige, too!" she repeated in a stricken
whisper.  "Both my boys!  My two eldest—my sons—my
little boys!  We came to this far country to save
you this.  We thought to keep you free from warfare
and slaughter!  And now it has come—even here!
You—the descendants of old Quaker stock—you are
going away to war!"

He caught her in his arms and held her close,
whispering to her, consoling her, explaining over and over
again the convictions and principles that actuated
himself and his brother in this, the most difficult and
momentous decision of their lives.

At length she was calmer, and withdrawing herself
from his arms, said, "Send Lige to me."

As he was leaving the room she stopped him.

"Joe, dear," she said, "thee must not feel hardly
toward thy father.  He is not a fanatic.  His belief in
the wickedness and futility of war is as deep and
strong as his belief in God.  He could not change it
now—even for thee."

When Joe left the room his heart felt ready to burst
with pain.  He knew that the call of his country was a
sacred one.  He felt in every fibre of his being that he
was doing his plain duty as a man and an American.
Yet the habit and training of years, the principles
inculcated in him from babyhood, were not easily
overcome.  Even with a mind clear and positive upon his
duty doubts and fears and questionings rose to torture
him.

Blinded by the tears that would come in spite of all
his efforts he walked toward the river.

So harassed and broken was he that he did not hear
the murmur of voices in the little arbor they had built
under the willow trees until he was very near it.  Then
he looked up suddenly, and stood still.

On the rough bench they had made on the river
bank he saw Nina sitting, and Lige, with arms tightly
clasped about her and his face close to hers, was gazing
into her eyes.

He could not hear the words that were spoken, his
heart was beating too loud and fast, but he saw that
her arms were about his neck, that her face was wet
with tears, and that her eyes gazed into his with a look
of love and sorrow.

Up to this moment Joe had always thought of Nina
as his sister.  He knew that he had loved her devotedly
from the first moment he had seen her; but it was only
now, when the wild plunge of his heart, the wild fury
in his breast, the hot, fierce current of blood that surged
up to his brain brought the revelation to him, that he
knew that the love he felt for her was not that of a
brother.

For an instant a wild, mad rage against Lige filled
him; made him want to strike him, to hurl him
headlong from the arbor and down the bank of the river.
Then the sense of fairness and justice that had
always been a leading trait of his character asserted
itself.

Why, he asked himself, should Lige not love her, as
well as he?  She was not their sister.  He had the
right.  Handsome Lige.  Merry, sparkling, generous
Lige!  No wonder she loved him!

He stole away unobserved.  Then when he had
reached the house he called out loudly, "Lige, oh, Lige,
Mother wants you!"

When he saw Lige coming he turned away.

He hoped he was not selfish, but he could not speak
to him then.

He made no effort to see Nina alone, but bade her
good-bye the next day with the same grave, sad,
brotherly kiss that he gave to Mary and Sara and Ruth.





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.. _`IN CAMP AND FIELD`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII


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   IN FIELD AND CAMP

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When the First Nebraska Volunteers
embarked at Omaha under the command of
Colonel John M. Thayer, on July twenty-first,
Joe and Elijah Peniman and Herbert James went
with it.

The troops were raw and undisciplined, the
equipment poor, food scanty and hard to get.

The Peniman boys, neither of whom had ever been
away from home before, were desperately homesick,
and seeing the sordidness of war, its meanness, its
dirtiness and its horrors at close range, and losing some
of their high vision in the daily muck and grind, came
gradually almost to believe that their father was right,
and that they had gone against his will, violated the
faith of their childhood, and broken their mother's
heart to follow a chimera that could only end in utter
defeat.

For weeks they got no nearer to war than a hot,
dirty, disorderly, unsanitary camp, where they were
drilled from morning till night with aching shoulders
and blistered feet, marched and countermarched under
a broiling sun, eating hard-tack and sow-belly, and
drinking water from foul ponds and muddy streams,
and sleeping in fever-ridden swamps under rain that
poured down upon them continually.

For a long time Joe avoided his brother.  The sight
of Lige, so big and handsome in his uniform, with his
bright brown eyes, his rich color, the dark curly hair
that fell over his forehead under the vizor of his
soldier-cap, roused in him a bitterness that he could not
overcome.

The knowledge that had come upon him so suddenly
was a well-established fact in his mind now.  He knew
that he loved Nina.  Knew that he loved her with all
the power and strength and passion of his young
manhood.  Not as a brother loves a sister, but as a man
loves the one woman in all the world for him.

He could not banish her from his mind.  In camp,
in field, on march, standing guard in the rain at night,
waiting for the signal to go into battle, her face was
always before him.

It angered him to see that Lige was not suffering as
he suffered.  He did not appear to be eating out his
heart for her.  He larked and sang with the other
boys (for they were boys—mere boys—these defenders
of the nation's integrity), and before many weeks had
passed had become one of the most popular men in the
regiment.

Joe could not tell his trouble to Herbert—of whom
he had grown very fond.  That there had come an
estrangement in his heart toward Lige, that brother who
had always been almost like another self, was a thing
of which he could not speak.

But Lige did not seem to notice.  So far as Joe could
see he treated him as he always had, with his jolly,
careless affection.  As soon as their drilling days were
over and they were moved forward into action he
seemed to become possessed with the spirit of war.
The excitement, the danger, the fighting, the constant
sense of adventure appealed to his spirited, adventuresome
nature, and he threw himself into action with an
ardor that raised him from a private to a corporal in
a short time.  Whatever his thoughts, whatever his
emotions, Joe could see that he found no time to put
them on paper or to dwell much upon them in his own mind.

Transportation was poor and the distance great, and
they heard from home only at rare intervals.  They
had been gone two months when Joe received a small
package one day, which, when he tore it open eagerly,
he found to contain a daguerreotype of Nina.

Poor as was the early effort at photography, the face
that smiled up at him from the shiny glass was so
lovely that it caught his heart like a vise and left him
gasping.

She was eighteen now—a woman!  And in the
proudly poised little head, the small oval face, the great
violet eyes and the shining nimbus of golden hair there
was that distinction that had always marked her as
different from all others.

He was curious to know if she had sent a picture to
Lige, but could not bring himself to ask.  The letter,
which reached him at the same time, was like all her
letters, clever, witty, affectionate, sisterly letters, such
as Ruth or Sara might have written, and did write on
occasion.

The daguerreotype was in a little hinged case, which
he carried in the pocket of his tunic over his heart for
the remainder of the war.

Throughout the years of '61 and '62 the cause of
the Union suffered many disasters.  The defeat and
rout of the battle of Bull Run had a most demoralizing
effect on the Federal army.  It demonstrated the fact
that the soldiers needed more drilling and the army
better organization before success on the field of battle
was possible.  General McClellan, in charge of the
Grand Army of the Potomac, dallied and delayed,
while the South pushed on winning victory after
victory.  In spite of the victories which the Northern
arms had gained in the West the winter was a gloomy
one.  But the campaign of 1863 brought new hope to
the nation.  The battle of Shiloh was fought and won,
Lee was beaten back at Antietam, and the news of the
proclamation of emancipation went flashing over the world.

At the beginning of 1863 the army in the West
under General Rosecrans was near Chattanooga.
Vicksburg and the whole Southwest was in danger,
and the whole Union army was being pushed
vigorously forward.  The division of which Joe and Elijah
Peniman and Herbert James were a part were rushed
north to check Lee, who, after victories at Fredericksburg
and Chancellorsville, was pushing north, even as
far as southern Pennsylvania.  The opposing forces
met at Gettysburg, and the three boys were hurled into
one of the most stubborn and bloody battles of the war.
The battalion with which they were connected had
to cross a valley several hundred yards in width.  On
the left rose a hill which was being riddled with shot
and shell.  Joe, who was now a sergeant, was on the
extreme left of the advance, his platoon being the
supporting platoon of the left assault company.  Along
the steep slope of the hill facing them not thirty yards
away was a cannon.  They swung their guns around
and opened a fusillade on the attackers.  Joe, who was
commanding the platoon, was ordered to advance with
his men and cover the left flank.  Suddenly as they
pushed forward the valley became a shrieking Bedlam.
A company of Confederates on a hill far to the rear of
the Union men sensed a new menace in the advance
and opened up wildly against their position.  The air
was filled with howling bullets and shrieking shells.
Some of the men dropped flat on their stomachs, many
of them were killed.  It was a clear day.  There had
been mists in the valley in the morning which shrouded
the hills, but as the sun rose they lifted so that the
movements of the Union men were perfectly visible to
the enemy along the ridges.  They went stumbling
upward through the leafy jungle, bullets whipping and
snipping off the leaves and branches about them.

Finally they debouched upon a path veering to the
left in order to get behind the enemy.  Joe's detachment
made preparations to charge.  But before they could
move it seemed to them that all hell broke loose.  Joe
caught a glimpse of Lige, who was now a corporal,
leading his men, his cap gone, his hair blown back from
his forehead, his eyes filled with the lust of battle.
The next moment he saw him fall.

In that one second all the love that he had ever had
for his brother came sweeping back in a great
overwhelming flood.  He rushed toward him, but the
demands upon him were too great, his responsibility too
terrible for him to stop even for his brother.  Officer
after officer was falling around him.  Colonel Baker
went down with a shot through the lungs, Captain
Young was shot in the stomach, Sergeant Ellton had
three bullets through his left arm, Private James, who
fought beside him, had a wound in his shoulder.  He
caught a wild glimpse of him, fighting with his left
arm, while a huge Confederate with clubbed musket
rushed at him.  Then Joe was swept on and saw him
no more.

They fought madly, blindly, desperately.  At last
but seven of his platoon were left; yet he must cover
his position.  The little band drew grimly together, and
the strain was so great, the excitement so terrible, that
Joe had no time to feel even a thrill of surprise or joy
when he found Lige fighting beside him.  As in a
dream he saw him crouch in the grass.  Then he
became aware that his rifle was cracking as regularly as
the crack of a whip.  For a brief instant he turned
and looked down.  Crouched low in the tall grass,
with his rifle at his shoulder, Lige sighting as carefully
as he was wont to do at home when he shot the heads
off wild turkeys, he was potting the Confederates who
manned the gun, dropping them one by one with the
regularity and precision of clockwork.

Suddenly an officer rose up near one of the guns, and
with perhaps a dozen men behind him came charging
down the hill.  The young sergeant had no time to
count his men, to see how many were left of that
platoon that started out so gayly.  Fixing his bayonet,
he dashed at them.  When the skirmish that ensued
was over and he had time to look about him he and
Lige stood alone on the hill.  The lieutenant with all
his men lay scattered about them.

It was not until the mad hell that raged about them
was over and the battle won that the two boys realized
that they had done anything out of the ordinary.
Then they learned that they had cleaned out a position,
routed the enemy, and left open the channel through
which the Union troops rushed in and saved the day.

It was a desperate battle, desperately fought and
gallantly won.  The Confederate army was defeated and
beaten back, and Lee never tried the invasion of the
Northern States again.  That battle, bloody and
terrific as it was, was really the turning-point of the war.
From that time the Confederate army began to
languish.  The end of slavery was at hand.

Then came victories, victories, and more victories
for the North.  Grant was made Lieutenant-General
and entered upon his "hammering campaign" at
Vicksburg.  Sheridan was in the Shenandoah Valley;
Sherman was marching through Georgia.  His telegram,
"Atlanta is ours and fairly won," gave a new
courage to the whole country.  Lincoln was reëlected
by a large majority.

Through it all Joe fought his battle with himself as
silently and bravely as he fought the battle with his
country's foes.

When a moment of leisure came and the two
brothers could be together for a few uninterrupted
moments he sought Lige's society, talked with him of
home and parents and brothers and sisters, spoke
lovingly and tenderly of Nina, and gave him every
opportunity and encouragement to tell his secret.  But Lige
did not speak.  After many trials Joe, hurt to the
quick, gave up the attempt and kept his own counsel.

Sharper and fiercer grew the fighting.  Lige was
captured, made a brilliant and spectacular escape, was
wounded once in the leg and twice in the shoulder, and
came out a Colonel, the most adored man in the regiment.

At last it was over.  The long, bitter, bloody struggle
was ended.  The South, impoverished, exhausted,
beaten, was obliged to surrender, and Lee handed his
sword to Grant at Appomattox, on a day which the
United States will never forget.

When the troops were mustered out the Peniman
boys, men now, with the stain and smirch of battle
upon them, laid down their arms and returned to the
homestead on the prairies, where anxious hearts,
loving and weary hearts, were waiting to welcome them home.





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.. _`HOME AGAIN`:

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   CHAPTER XXIX


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   HOME AGAIN

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Those terrible four years of war had been an
anxious, sorrowful time for the pioneers on
the Nebraska prairies.

Rumors reached even to the homestead of the
unsanitary condition of the camps, of the thousands of
deaths from fever, and the hearts of the parents were
rent with anxiety for their two brave lads, lest even
should they escape shot and shell they might fall a
victim to disease.

With the two older boys, upon whom he had
depended so much, away at war, Joshua Peniman found
the labor thrown upon him almost more than he could
bear.  Sam, who was now a fine, well-grown lad of
seventeen, full of fun and energy, had done his best to
take Joe's place, and Paul, whom the family had
previously looked upon as "one of the little ones" was
now a big boy of fourteen, strong and agile, intelligent
beyond his years, and able to do a large part of the
work that Lige had always attended to.

As the years of the struggle went on Hannah
Peniman's shining brown hair turned grey, and the deep
blue eyes that gazed out over the lonely prairies came
to have in them the look of those who wait and fear.

Nina and Ruth clung together as if some deep,
unspoken bond of sympathy lay between them, and day
after day pored over the newspapers, read the few
letters that came together, and lingered over them
with clasped hands and tearful eyes.

Mrs. Peniman noticed that many of these letters that
Ruth watched and waited for so eagerly were addressed
in a different hand from those of her brothers.
Seeing that the postmark on them was the same as
those on the letters of Lige and Joe she asked who they
were from.  Ruth blushed deeply and said they were
from Herbert.

She was seventeen now, dark and slender, graceful
as a young fawn, with soft, tender brown eyes and a
color like a prairie rose.  Between her and Nina there
seemed to be an affection that was deeper and closer
than that of sisters.  Nina had not seemed cheerful or
well of late.  The horrors of war seemed to weigh
upon her with crushing sorrow.  She grew thin and
pale, read the news of every battle with feverish
intensity, and often went away alone, wandering by
herself for hours over the loneliness of the prairies.

Mr. Peniman had long since set inquiries on foot
both in New York and St. Louis in regard to the
property the deeds to which had been found in the violated
dispatch-box.  But as yet nothing had come of them,
and the girl was as much in the dark as ever in regard
to her past and future.

Beatrice James came to the homestead often, and
the three girls seemed to have much to talk about
together, frequently banishing Sara and Mary, whom
they considered too young to share their confidences.

"All they talk about is the soldiers, Mother,"
indignantly protested Sara, who was now thirteen and
resented the indignity of being shut out; "and they cry
and snivel and get as sentimental as mush."

Mrs. Peniman smiled.  "Don't mind, Sara, they're
at the sentimental age," she comforted.  "You and
Mary and I have more sense, haven't we?"

Mary, who was now ten, glanced up from her task
of dressing Spotty in a gingham apron.

"They all want to be *nurses*," she commented scornfully.
"Huh!  I'd like to see Beatrice—or Nina either—put
on a bandage!  They'd faint away, both of 'em.
Ruth is the only one who would make a good nurse.
I guess"—with a wise little nod of her curly
head—"I guess they'd only want to take care of *certain*
patients, don't you think so, Mother?"

Mrs. Peniman laughed, though a bit sadly, her heart
quailing at the mention of wounds.  "You're a wise
little owl, Mary," she said, thinking to herself that
Mary was probably right.

There were periods of fearful anxiety, bitter
disappointment and deep depression as the first year of the
war went by, and times when the issue looked
doubtful and the hearts of loyal Unionists grew sick with
fear.

In the early spring of 1864: a terrible day dawned
upon them.  The Sioux, Cheyennes and other hostile
Indian tribes united to exterminate the white settlers,
and a great Indian outbreak ensued, during which the
entire frontier was paralyzed with terror.

With the aid of Mr. James and Arthur a stockade
about twelve feet high was erected about the house and
dugout, made from the young timbers along the creek,
which were driven into the ground so close together
that no living creature could pass through them.

For days and many weary nights they feared to
sleep, but with the whole James family as well as their
own crowded into the house, watched and waited,
fearing momentarily to hear the war-whoops that would
mean their destruction.  Dozens of settlers in the
western part of the Territory were murdered, their
homes laid waste and their women carried away by the
savages, and the settlers from the Blue Valley, the
Platte Valley, and Salt Creek left their homes and fled
to more protected counties.

Many of their neighbors abandoned their newly
located homesteads and fled for protection to the
agencies or towns, but this Joshua Peniman refused to do.

"We have worked too hard and sacrificed too much
to get what we have here, to abandon it," he said.  "If
thee and the little ones think best to go into the town
with the others, thee must do so, Hannah, but the boys
and I, with Mr. James and Arthur, will stay here and
protect our homes and property."

"Then I will stay with thee, Joshua," answered his
wife.  "I have never yet deserted thee in danger or
trouble, and I will not do so now.  The stockade is
high and strong and will act as some protection, and
we will trust in the One who never forsakes us to
keep us safe from harm."

For many days they lived in terror, with weapons
ready to give battle at a moment's notice from inside
the stockade.

The Governor of the Territory had called out troops,
and the First Nebraska Volunteer Cavalry company
was assigned duty in that locality.

The Indians were no match for the United States
troops, and after burning, destroying and massacring
the homes and families of many settlers were finally
overcome, and sent flying across the border, while
peace settled down over the distracted frontier.

With April of the next spring came the glad news of
Lee's surrender, and then the letters which told them
that the boys were coming home.

*The boys were coming home!*

The lads whom they had prayed for, wept for,
feared for, agonized over all these weary four years,
were safe—well—*coming home*!

The news ran like wildfire over the prairies.  Every
soddy, every dugout, every town and village and
crossroads store was vibrant with it.  In the
Peniman household the joy was too great, too deep for
words.

It was decided that the whole family should go to
Omaha to meet the returning soldiers.  And on a glad
morning, when all Nature seemed to laugh with joy,
when the very earth seemed to be rejoicing that the
cruel war was over, they set out, Sam driving Kit
and Billy, no longer young and skittish, but sobered
by years and the exigencies of pioneer life on the
plains.

The former trading-post had now developed into
quite a city.  Brick buildings were going up here and
there, streets were laid out, and the "squatties" and
shanties that had done service in the days of the
trading-station for Indians and trappers were giving place
to good shops and stores.

As the family passed through the little settlement on
Salt Creek, at which Mr. Peniman and Sam had spent
the night before the great blizzard, they were
astonished to see its growth.  It had developed from a
straggling settlement into a town, was now called
Lancaster, and not many years afterward was
rechristened *Lincoln*, and made the capital of the State.

The troops were ferried across the Missouri, and as
the Peniman family, with hundreds of others, stood
watching the transports laden with the cheering,
yelling, waving boys in blue, their emotions grew too
strong to be controlled.  The girls wept, the boys
yelled, but Hannah Peniman could only gaze and gaze,
her whole soul concentrated in her eyes.

They saw them at last.  Lige, mounted on the
railing of the ferry-boat, was waving his forage cap
around his head and shouting himself red in the face,
and Joe stood beside him.  He was very thin, very
white, and had a great scar across his cheek.  Leaning
against the railing his eyes were fixed intently on the
shore.

When the eyes of the long-parted ones met there was
a great shout, a tremulous, half-sobbing cheer, and
discipline was utterly forgotten as mothers and sons,
sisters and brothers, sweethearts and lovers rushed into
each other's arms.

Lige reached them first, in a rush that bore every one
in the way before him, and caught his mother in his
arms and held her to his breast.  Joe was directly
behind him, and grasped his father's hand.  There was
no need for words between them now.  Both knew
that the war and its issues had answered all arguments,
and as they held each other's hands, gazed into each
other's eyes, both knew that the past was passed and
over, and that there existed no differences of opinion
between them now.

Lige rushed from one to another, kissing and hugging
them all, laughing, sobbing, half beside himself
with joy.  But Joe was more quiet in his demonstrations.
After he had held his mother in a long, close
embrace, shaken hands with Sam and Paul, kissed and
hugged little David, and kissed and embraced Sara and
Mary and Ruth, he turned to Nina, and shook her hand.

It was not until long afterward, when the first
excitement was over, that he asked himself impatiently
why he could not greet her as he had greeted his other
sisters.

Every one was too excited to notice her pallor, or to
see that Ruth's great brown eyes were wide and
terror-filled, and her face white and drawn.  She waited her
opportunity, then clasping Joe's arm, said tremulously:
"Herbert, Joe—where is Herbert?"

Joe started and looked down into her face.  For the
first time he realized that Ruth was no longer a little
girl.  For the first time he realized the thing that had
been in Herbert's heart, that had drawn them so close
together through the war.

With a quick, indrawn breath he bent and clasped
his arm about her.  "Oh, Ruth," he said in a low
voice, "oh, little Ruth!"

Every vestige of color faded from her face.

"Was he killed?" she whispered huskily.  "We
have not heard anything from him in so long——"

"No, no," he hastened to assure her.  "He was not
killed.  He was captured at Gettysburg, but I heard
that he had escaped.  I haven't seen or heard from
him since, but I think he's all right.  He will probably
turn up soon.  Perhaps he may come home as a casual.
He never got back to our regiment."

The boys had been granted a furlough of a week,
and the journey back over the prairies was a happy
one, every one talking at once, so much to see, so much
to hear, so much to tell, so glad and thankful to be
together once more that words would not begin to
express it.

In the general hubbub of voices no one noticed that
Nina was very silent, that the color had faded from her
cheeks, and the light that had shone so transcendantly
in her eyes since the news of the home-coming of the
boys had faded, leaving them dark and still.

Joe, stealing a glance at her, thought that she had
never been so beautiful; and when he turned to talk to
her her laugh was so gay, her chatter so light and
merry that he thought he had fancied the shadow in
her eyes.

When they reached the homestead Joe leaped down
and patted Spotty, who came leaping and barking
about the wagon, as if he too knew that the boys had
come home and was wild with joy.  Then he went to
the team and put his arms about Kit's neck, laying his
face against her smooth neck.  Dear old Kit!  Memories
of all they had been through flooded over him and
almost unmanned him.

Both the returned soldiers were amazed and
delighted to see the changes about the place.  It was a
wilderness no longer.  Vines grew up over the little
sod house, shading its windows and throwing their
green tendrils and shining new leaves over the door.
Trees had been planted about the place, walks made,
and the fertile fields were already green with
winter-wheat.

Romeo and Juliet had departed for that bourn from
which no piggy returns, but were succeeded by a large
and thriving progeny, that were rapidly increasing in
weight and value.

Cherry was the mother of a fine two-year-old calf,
and Mother Feathertop and Dicky, the progenitors of
the poultry yard, were no longer there to greet them,
but had been succeeded by many fine broods of
chickens, which had multiplied and accumulated
wonderfully under Ruth's tender care.

It was almost evening before the transports of
rapture subsided and the boys went to their old place in
the sod house to wash up and get ready for supper.

When Joe entered he found Lige making a careful
and fastidious toilet.

"I suppose you are looking forward to a happy
evening with Nina," he said, trying manfully to keep
the pain that was wringing his heart from sounding in
his voice.

Lige was shining his shoes.  He turned his head and
looked up at his brother.

"Nina?" he said interrogatively, then going on with
his shining with bent head.  "Why—a—no, I—I
thought I would go over to the Jameses—that is if I
won't be in the way.  I—a—I thought I'd like to ask
if they had heard anything about Herb."

Joe stared at him.

"Go over to the Jameses?  Your first evening at
home!  Why, Lige!"

Lige looked up with rather a red face.

"Well, why not?  We've been with the family all
day, and I haven't seen Beatrice, and——"

"But Nina—what will she think—how will she feel——"

"*Nina*?  What the deuce——"  Lige suddenly
suspended operations on his boots and straightened up,
holding the brush extended and staring at his brother.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated suddenly.

For a moment he continued to stare, then dropped
the shoe-brush and caught Joe's arm.

"What d'you mean—you don't mean—you don't
think—that I—that Nina—that there is anything
between *us*, do you?" he demanded.

Joe turned white to the lips.

"Why I—I——" he managed to stammer.

"*Great Jehoshaphat!*" ejaculated Lige.  "That—*that's*
what's been eatin' you!  I couldn't understand
it.  I thought it was Beatrice——"

"*Beatrice*?  What the dickens do I care about
Beatrice!" panted Joe.  "I thought you loved Nina—and
that she loved you.  I saw you kiss her——"

"Well, Lord A'mighty, why shouldn't I kiss her?
She's my sister, isn't she?  I kiss Ruth and Mary and
Sara; why shouldn't I kiss her?"

Joe's heart was pounding so he could hardly speak.

"Yes, but that's different.  She *isn't* our sister, you
know.  I saw you together the night before we went
away, and her arms were around your neck and she
was——"

"And she was talking about *you* every minute of
the time, you big booby, begging me to take care of
you and bring you home safe and all that!  Oh, gosh,
this does beat all!  Why here was me trying to do the
noble brother act and forget all about little Beatrice
because I thought you cared for her, while all the time
you were hating me like the old Harry because you
thought I'd cut you out with Princess!  Why, Lord
love you, boy, what's the matter with you?  Are you
blind as a bat?  Can't you *see* how she feels toward
you?  Why, there never was any one else in the whole
world for Nina but just you, ever since that first day
when she refused to ride anywhere else in the wagons
but beside you!"

Joe's face was as white as chalk, his eyes fastened
on his brother's face, and his breath coming quick and
short.

"Is it—is it true, Lige?" he asked after a little
interval, in a strained whisper.

"*True*?  Well, you are a duffer if you haven't seen
it yourself.  Didn't you see her face when you gave
her that cold little hand-shake to-day?  She could
hardly keep from crying all the way home.  I thought
you didn't care about her at all.  I thought all the time
you cared for Beatrice——"

"Beatrice!  As if I could ever think of Beatrice
when Nina was around!  Do you really think she
cares, Lige?  That she doesn't care for me just as a
brother——"

"Go along and ask her, you old gosling," cried Lige,
busily adjusting a new tie.  "As for me, I'm going
over to the Jameses so fast you can't see me for the
dust.  I've been afraid to even write to little Bee for
fear I'd be making trouble for you, but now that I
know what a goose you are——"  He clapped on his
soldier-cap and shot through the door, leaving Joe
standing motionless beside the window with wildly
beating heart.

Twilight was coming before he found courage to
wander down to the river.  He found Nina sitting in
the little arbor alone.  She had been with Ruth for the
past hour, trying to comfort her, and her eyes were
red and her heart cold as she sat gazing down at the
water.

Joe came so quietly that she did not hear him.  For
a long moment he stood gazing at her, his very heart
in his eyes.  She was more beautiful than ever, startlingly,
exquisitely lovely, as she sat with bent head, the
sunlight flickering through the golden waves of her
hair, the pure oval of her cheek and chin a little
sharpened in the years he had been away.

He entered the arbor noiselessly and sat down by
her side.

"Joe!" she cried, and started violently.

Very tenderly he took the little hand that lay
trembling in her lap.

"Nina," he said, bending his head close to hers,
"are you really glad I have come home?"

"*Glad!*"  The tears she had been trying to conceal
rushed into her eyes.  "Glad, Joe?  There are no
words that can tell how glad!  Oh, we have all missed
you so!  Sometimes I have thought that Mother would
die of grief and longing.  And Father—oh, Joe, his
patience, his gentleness, his suffering, his noble and
generous admission of his mistake——"

"But you, Nina, you——"

She lowered her lashes and gently drew her hand away.

"I, Joe?  Why, of course I am glad!  Why
shouldn't I be glad?  Both my dear brothers back
from war——"

.. _`356`:

"But I am not your brother, Princess.  I don't want
to be your brother."  Then suddenly the denial that he
had so long set on his heart burst its bonds and cried to
her, "Oh, Nina, Nina, dearest, sweetest, loveliest girl
in all the world, I don't want you for my sister.  I
love you, I love you!  I want you for my love, my
sweetheart, something nearer, dearer, sweeter than a
sister—I want you for my wife!"

From Nina's parted lips came a little smothered cry,
and she covered her face with her hands.

Joe drew them down gently.

"I have always loved you, Princess.  Ever since
the day that I first saw you out there on the desolate
prairies, lying on the graves of your father and mother.
I have always loved you——"

Nina looked up at him, tears flooding the purple
splendor of her eyes.

"Oh, Joe, Joe, why didn't you tell me so before!"
she cried.  "You went away to the war—and I might
never have known.  I thought you cared for me only
as a sister, and I have suffered—my God, how I have
suffered—thinking that you did not care for me, while
I—while I——"

He caught her in his arms and pressed her to his
heart.

"While you—say it, darling, say it; my heart has
been breaking for those words!  I thought I should
never hear them from your lips.  I thought you loved
Lige.  I could not speak because I thought he loved
you and you cared for him.  The night before we
went away I saw you in his arms, and I thought—I
thought——"

She drew herself from his clasp and gazed into his
eyes.

"You thought I cared for *Lige*?"

"Yes, dearest, yes, I truly, truly, did."

"And you went away without a word!  You gave
up your own chance of happiness because you thought
you were adding to mine—and his!  But what about
me, Joe?  I almost broke my heart trying to make
myself love you like a sister.  Oh, Joe, Joe, how like you!
And you never suspected about Beatrice?  Oh, Joe,
you dear, darling old simpleton, how *could* you think
such a thing?  Didn't you know that there never
was—never could be—any one else in all the world but
*you*?"

Darkness had quite come when they went back to
the house together.  As they entered the kitchen hand
in hand Hannah Peniman looked up, and a little cry
escaped her lips.

Nina ran to her and hid her head on her breast.
Joe took her hand and slipped his arm about her.

"I've been a great fool, Mother," he said tenderly,
"but I've come out of it better than I deserved.  I
thought that Lige cared for Nina, and I was going to
just step aside and never let any one know how I felt.
But I find I was mistaken, and that Princess cares for
me.  Are you glad, Mother?  Tell us that you are
glad she is really and truly going to be your daughter."

"She could never be more truly my daughter than
she is now," said Mrs. Peniman, kissing the white brow
that nestled against her shoulder.  "But I am glad
that she and you have found each other, for true love
is the greatest thing in the world."

It was long after midnight when Lige came home,
bursting into the room where Joe lay in the darkness
with a tumult in his heart too great for sleep.

Lige rushed up to the bed and grasped his hand.

"Congratulate me, old boy," he cried; "by golly, I'm
the happiest chap in all Christendom to-night.  She
loves me, Joe, she really loves me.  I can hardly
believe it even yet.  And she's loved me all the time I've
been away.  I'm so happy——"

"I'll bet you're not any happier than I am," cried
Joe, returning the grip of his hand.

"You are?  Bully!  Then you and Nina have fixed
it up all right?  Good!  I'm mighty glad.  Lord, Joe,
I wish I'd suspected it sooner; it would have saved
us both a lot of heartaches.  But no matter, they're all
over now, and perhaps we fought all the better for
feeling that we hadn't so much to live for at home."

And while the boys lay in their old bed exchanging
confidences and talking in whispers of the happiness
that was to be theirs, and Nina, glowing with a
happiness she had thought to never know, kept watch and
ward through the silent night, little Ruth lay at the
other side of the curtain and wept for the boy who did
not come home.





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.. _`RUTH RECEIVES A SURPRISE`:

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   CHAPTER XXX


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   RUTH RECEIVES A SURPRISE

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With the return of the young men of the
West from the war the settlement and
development of the new country made rapid
strides.

The Free Homestead Law, which had been signed
by President Lincoln, took effect in 1863 and provided
that any man or woman twenty-one years old or the
head of a family could have 160 acres of land by living
on it for five years and paying about eighteen dollars
in fees.

Joe and Lige, who were now of age, immediately
filed claims on the tracts of land that their father had
staked out for them near his own eight years before,
and proceeded joyfully to build upon them the houses
necessary to hold the claims, which each fondly hoped
would shelter a bride before another year had rolled away.

Ruth was not yet old enough to file a claim, but
Nina, who had passed her twenty-first birthday, filed
a claim on a beautiful tract of land next to Joe's, near
the river.  Sam, who was only twenty, had already
taken out a timber-claim, and was planting trees upon
it in his spare time, and both he and Paul had pieces of
land located upon which they meant to preëmpt as soon
as they were old enough.

In spite of the thankfulness she felt for the return of
her brothers Ruth could not be happy.  She tried to
enter into all the joy of the household, but the sight of
Joe and Nina walking hand-in-hand in the moonlight,
of Lige and Beatrice scampering across the prairies on
their ponies, caused an ache in her heart that kept her
sleepless many nights and wet her pillow with tears.

She had kept her secret while Herbert was away,
feeling that they were both too young to become
formally engaged, but she knew that she loved him as she
could never love any other man, and that if he never
returned there would be a grave in her heart for all
eternity.

Joe and Lige did their utmost to comfort her, but
felt as the days crept by that there was little chance of
Herbert's return.

Joe's ambition to become a lawyer had never
faltered, and as soon as he had received his discharge
from the army he immediately set to work to prepare
himself for his examination for admission to the bar.

He studied hard, and the reading he had done during
the long days while he plowed in the fields now stood
him in good stead.  A month after his return he went
to Nebraska City and took his examination, which he
passed with high honors and was admitted to practise
law in the State.

He left the building with his certificate in his pocket
and pride and exultation in his heart.  He was a
lawyer!  The ambition of his boyhood was fulfilled.
It now remained with him to make the rest of his
dreams come true.

As he walked along jubilantly he saw a group of
men coming toward him wearing the familiar blue
uniform.  He had returned to citizen's clothes, but the
sight of the old uniform still thrilled him, and with the
feeling of comradeship that it always inspired in him
he stopped and waited for them to come up.

They walked very slowly, and as they came nearer
he saw that they supported between them one of their
comrades, who tottered like an old man.

"That fellow ought to be in an ambulance instead
of on foot," he thought, and walked toward the group.
As he reached them the man who was being supported
raised his head.

"*Herbert*—my God, Herbert!" he cried, and
clutched the yellow, skeleton-like hands.

The gaunt figure raised a haggard, ashen face, with
hollow eyes and unshaven cheeks.

"*Joe!*" he whispered in a weak voice; "thank God!"

Joe had his arm about him by this time supporting
him.  Casting a swift glance up and down the street
he saw a man coming toward them in a wagon.

"Here," he shouted, "take this soldier to a hotel,
won't you?  He's sick—wounded—he is not able to
walk."

The war was too fresh in the minds of the people for
any one to hesitate.  Willing hands lifted the
emaciated frame of the young soldier into the wagon, Joe
sprang in beside him, and a few moments later Herbert
James was in a hot bath, laid in a clean bed, with a
doctor and nurse beside him.

When he could speak he told Joe that he had been
captured and held in a Southern prison, where the
conditions were so terrible that it was a miracle a single
man came out of it alive.  He had just been exchanged,
he said, and he and the companions whom Joe had
seen with him were on their way home when Joe met him.

Joe saw that there was something on his mind of
which he hesitated to speak, and after a little time he
asked for Ruth, so bashfully, and with an expression
of such wistfulness in his hollow eyes that Joe's
heart rejoiced.  He told him that Ruth was well,
but very unhappy at his failure to return, at which
a faint color stained the boy's thin cheeks, and he
turned his face to the wall and lay silent for many
moments.

When he had fallen asleep Joe asked the doctor how
soon he could be taken home, and was told that the
sooner he reached home the better.  "All he needs
now is food and rest and care," he continued, "and it
will take a lot of that, and considerable time before he
is much better."

When the young soldier awakened it was to find a
new suit of citizen's clothes laid out upon a chair, his
filthy, tattered old uniform destroyed, and a barber
waiting to shave him.

When he had eaten, was bathed and shaved and
dressed he looked better.

"Now we're going home, old chap," Joe told him,
whereat the poor broken youth began to cry.

Joe now had a side-bar buggy, to which he drove Kit,
and with Herbert beside him made as comfortable as
possible with rugs and pillows, they started for the Blue.

When they came in sight of the homestead Herbert
gave a glad cry.  "I never thought to see it again,"
he cried.

Joe lifted him out of the buggy and supported him
into the house.  Fortunately Ruth had gone for a walk
with Nina.  Mrs. Peniman received him almost as
joyfully as if he had been one of her own sons.  He
seemed too exhausted to go farther, and a message was
sent to his parents by David, who almost caused the
death of Mrs. James by bursting into the house and
yelling at the top of his voice that Herbert had come
home.

The James family arrived at the homestead a few
minutes later, and Mrs. Peniman went out and closed
the door, leaving the young soldier to meet and greet
his mother.

Half an hour later Ruth and Nina came home.  It
was evident that Ruth had been crying, and they
walked slowly, with Nina's arm clasped about her waist.

Mrs. Peniman sent the children away and stood in
the door awaiting them.  As they came up to her she
put her arms about Ruth and drew her to her side.

"Ruth," she said gently, "I have news for thee.  A
message has come——"

Ruth started forward, the color ebbing out of her face.

"From Herbert?" she whispered.

"Yes, there is a message from Herbert.  Is thee
strong enough to bear a shock——"

"A *shock*?  Then he is dead?"

"No, no, I did not mean that.  But we have news—some
one has come——"

"Some one has come—*Herbert*?" and without
waiting for the preparation that her mother had
intended, she rushed into the house.  For an instant she
stood inside the door with white face and distended
eyes.  Then, hearing the low murmur of voices, she
dashed aside the curtains, and saw Herbert lying on
the bed.

The two young people uttered a simultaneous cry,
and a moment later were locked in each other's arms.
It was not for many minutes that Ruth could look at
him, that she saw the wreck that war had made of the
handsome boy she had loved.  But when she did see it
made no difference in her love.  With the wealth of
mother-love that had always overflowed her gentle
heart she soothed and comforted him, told him that he
would soon be well, and promised that she would nurse
him back to life and health.

The next day she went quietly to her father and told
him that she wanted him to marry them.

"It will take months to nurse him back to himself,
Father," she told him, "and I am the one who can do
it best.  I can give him better care as his wife than I
could as his sweetheart, and I want to marry him right
now."

The family protested, but Ruth was never known to
abandon an idea once she had set her mind upon it, and
after some argument on the subject her family at last
gave in.

"She might as well be nursing Herbert as a chicken
with a broken wing or a dog with a sore foot," smiled
her father, "for you know Ruthie will always be
taking care of something.  We all know and like Herbert,
and have no objection to her marrying him sometime,
and I know no reason why, if they both desire it, Ruth
should not be given the privilege of nursing her
husband back to health."

Mrs. Peniman finally agreed to this, and that
evening as the sunset glow shone into the little soddy
Herbert was propped up in his bed, and Ruth, in a simple
little white dress, with the flush and glow of radiant
happiness upon her face, stood with her hand in his
while her father spoke the solemn words that made
them man and wife.





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.. _`JOE HEARS A STRANGE STORY`:

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   CHAPTER XXXI


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   JOE HEARS A STRANGE STORY

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Civilization was now moving westward
with rapid strides.

The part of the Territory in which the Peniman
family had cast their lot had been organized into
a county, and a thriving little town had sprung up
about five miles from their homestead which had been
made the county seat.

It was here that Joe decided to open his law office
and begin the serious business of his life.

Sam and Paul were now old enough to take his place
at home, and he saw no reason why he should not begin
his life-work, continuing to live at home, and doing
what work he could mornings and evenings.

He had managed to save up a little money, and with
it he rented a small one-story frame building
containing two rooms, and after building his book-shelves
with his own hands he disposed upon them his precious
library, bought a table and two chairs, and hung out
his shingle, "Joseph Peniman, Attorney at Law."

One of his first cases was that of an Indian, brought
to him by Pashepaho, for whom he obtained justice
against a white man for fraud.  This case received
wide notice in the Territory, and before long the young
attorney had a large Indian clientage, whom he served
with fairness and honesty, demanding for the red men
the same justice that the law provided for white
settlers.

By this time Joshua Peniman was considered one of
the leading men of the county, and the family were all
well and favorably known.  Joe's anti-slavery speeches
had made him many friends, and it was not long after
his admission to the bar before he had a good practice.

In the fall of '65 the first election was held, and he
was nominated for floating delegate to the legislature.

He had been too busy since his return from war to
go to Omaha to call on his friend Judge North, but
shortly after his nomination, while he was sitting in his
office one day busily preparing a brief, the door opened
and Judge North walked in.

Joe sprang up to meet him joyously.

"I heard that you had returned safely," said the
Judge, warmly shaking his hand, "and I've been
expecting that you would drop in to see me.  But as you
didn't, and as I had business here in the county, I
thought I'd come to see you."

Joe expressed his pleasure in seeing him.

"Thought you were coming up to study law in my
office?" smiled the Judge, casting a glance about the
modestly furnished little office.

Joe colored, then smiled.  "I took my examination
a few weeks ago," he answered, "and as I got my
certificate and felt that I couldn't lose time I thought I'd
better not study any longer, but begin work on my own hook."

"You're right, my boy," and as he spoke the same
strange, illusive resemblance that always tormented
him when in the Judge's presence again flashed through
Joe's mind.

They talked for a long time, Joe telling of the war
and his experiences, Judge North informing him of
many things that had taken place during his absence,
and were soon to take place in the State.

As the sun declined Joe looked at his watch.

"Come home to dinner with me, Judge, and meet
my family," he said.  "I have often talked to Father
and Mother about you and I would like you to meet
them.  It's only a short ride, and I have my buggy here."

The Judge, who had contemplated spending the
night at the little cross-roads hotel, gladly accepted the
invitation.

It was twilight as they drove across the prairies and
approached the little soddy.  The warm rosy afterglow
was lingering in the sky, and silhouetted against
it a figure moved toward them across the prairie, a
light, graceful figure, the after-glow touching its crown
of golden hair into gleaming splendor.

As they drew nearer Judge North fastened his eyes
upon the girl who was coming to meet them, with a
strange, intent expression.

When she raised her hand and waved to them he
turned to Joe swiftly.  "Who is that girl?" he asked.

"It is my—my—a—foster—sister," Joe answered,
his face flushing a little.

"I asked"—explained Judge North,—"because as
she came toward us in this light she bore such a
strange, such a remarkable resemblance to some one
I—some one I loved very dearly."

The girl had drawn nearer now, and seeing that
there was a stranger in the buggy was about to turn
back when Judge North leaned forward and stared at
her, then leaped out and ran to her.

"*Marion!*" he cried, "*Marion!*"

The girl stopped, then turned to him inquiringly.

The lawyer was breathing quickly, and his face was
pale, his eyes intent as he leaned forward staring at
her.

"My God!" he breathed.  "Her face—her voice—her
hair!  It must be—I can't be dreaming—Marion, Marion!"

Nina came toward him.  For some reason she too
appeared greatly moved.

"My name is not Marion," she said; "my name is
Nina, but Marion was my mother's name."

"*Your—mother's name*?  Then you are her
daughter—you must be the child of Marion—Marion
North!"

"No, of Marion Carroll."

"*Marion Carroll*!  Oh, thank God, at last, at last!"

He sprang forward and clasped Nina's hand.

"Your mother was Marion Carroll—Marion North—my
sister—my precious little sister—who was lost,
and whom I have been searching for all these years!
Where is she?  Where is she?  You are her living
image.  I thought when I first saw you that it was she.
I had forgotten the lapse of years.  I should have
known you were her daughter anywhere!"

Nina had turned white, and Joe, who had thrown
the lines to Paul, now came up to them.

"Come into the house," he said quickly, slipping his
arm about her.  "This is very strange.  There must
be much to tell and much to hear.  Come, Nina, you
are shaking so you can hardly stand."

He led the way swiftly to the house.  Inside the
door Mr. and Mrs. Peniman were waiting to receive
them.  After a hasty introduction Joe explained to
them what had just taken place.

"I know now," he cried; "I have always seen a
resemblance in Judge North to some one I had seen.
Now I know that it was to Nina—to Mrs. Carroll—whom
I have never forgotten.  Don't you see it,
Father?  Isn't it so?"

Joshua Peniman had been gazing at the stranger
with keen scrutiny.

"Yes," he said, "I see the resemblance to the unfortunate
young mother very plainly.  I also see a certain
look that is like Nina, which is only natural, as Nina is
the image of her mother."  Then, turning to the
stranger, "I was with Mr. and Mrs. Carroll in the last
hour of their lives.  I buried them on the prairies, and
took their child with us in our wagons.  Sit down,
friend, this is a strange dispensation of Providence.
Tell us what you know of this strange tale."

Judge North seemed unwilling to let go of Nina's
hand.  Drawing her close to his side he sat down at
the table.  Joshua Peniman in his clear, calm fashion
told the story of the arrival of the Carrolls in their
wagon at their camp on the prairies, of Lee Carroll's
tragic death, of the subsequent death of Mrs. Carroll,
and their taking charge of the child.  Of the raid
upon the wagons by the Indians, the taking of the
dispatch-box, and the kidnapping of Nina by Red Snake.

The lawyer listened with intense interest.

"And this white man—this 'Red Snake'—what of
him?  Did you ever see him?" he asked eagerly.

"I saw him several times," said Joe.

"What was he like?"

"He was tall, powerfully but slenderly built, with
red hair, a long, red, dissipated face, and a short, sandy
mustache."

Judge North brought his hand down upon his knee
with a sounding blow.

"A *red Carroll*!" he ejaculated.  Then turning to
Nina, who stood with blanched face and parted lips
beside him, he led her with gentle, old-fashioned
courtesy to a chair.

"Sit down, child," he said, "I have a strange story
to tell, that touches you nearly."

The family had all gathered about him now, anxious
to hear the solution of the mystery that had baffled
them so long.

"I know who 'Red Snake' was," he began; "his
name was Bernard Carroll.  He was a brother of the
Lee Carroll whom you buried on the prairies."

"A *brother*?" cried out Joe; "why, it was he that
killed him!"

"I don't doubt it at all.  He was a bad man; a
degenerate, a scoundrel, from his very boyhood.  The
two brothers were descendants of a splendid old
family, the Carrolls, of Virginia.  But every few
generations there appears in that family a *red Carroll*.  The
family are all of dark complexion, and whenever a
red-haired Carroll appears among them there is sure to
follow trouble and disaster.  Before he was twenty
years old Bernard Carroll had broken his mother's
heart and caused her death.  When he was twenty-three
he fell wildly, madly, passionately in love with
my sister Marion."

"Marion—*my mother*!  That was why he stared
at me so!  That was why he called me 'Marion'!"
panted Nina.

The Judge turned his eyes upon her.  "Yes, no
doubt it was.  You are marvelously like her.
Startlingly like what she was at your age.  He wooed her
with the same fiery zeal, with the same ardor and
passion that he carried into every act of his life.  For a
time his good looks, his native charm, his passionate
wooing attracted her.  Then as she came to know him
better she turned from him with loathing.  It was just
at this time that Lee came home from college.  He too
fell in love with Marion, and she returned his love.  In
a short time they became engaged."

He paused, as a short, broken sob escaped from
Nina's lips.  He laid his hand over hers affectionately,
then resumed:

"Bernard never forgave either of them.  For Lee
he developed a hatred that was shown in every act of
his life.  He was drinking heavily at the time, and as
his extravagance threatened to ruin the family his
father put him on an allowance, which no amount of
whining or bullying would induce him to increase.  He
laid all his father's sternness at Lee's door, and set
deliberately to work to ruin him in his father's affections.
With the cunning of the snake, for which he was so
well named, he crawled and wormed himself into his
father's confidence, and then with devilish malice
began to poison his mind against his younger son.  Lee
and Marion had married by this time, and were starting
out in life together.  Bernard forged his brother's
name to a check, and made his father believe him a
criminal.  The father denounced him and turned him
out of the house.  Lee, indignant, hurt, grieved to the
heart that his father should doubt him, high-spirited
and stubborn, as all of the Carrolls are, left home with
his young wife and went to New York to earn his
living.  A short time afterward a child was born to them,
and they went abroad.  It was while Lee was abroad,
and all communication between himself and his family
had been cut off, that Bernard again began to go the
pace.  He forged another check, which was traced to
him, he was arrested, and fled the country.  His father
was relentless.  Bernard had prejudiced him against
and separated him from his younger and dearer son,
had caused the death of his mother, and the old man
was determined to punish him to the full extent of the
law.  But Bernard was never found.  Once he was
heard from in Iowa; some one who knew him saw him
on a wagon-train headed for the gold-fields of
California.  Then all trace of him was lost.  I presume that
growing more and more degenerate he took to using
drugs as well as liquor, became a squaw-man and
settled among the Indians."

When his voice ceased there was deep silence in the
room.  Nina, with her violet eyes fixed intently on
the face of her uncle, had scarcely stirred during the
narrative.  The keen mind of Joshua Peniman was
busy putting two and two together.

Suddenly he rose from his chair and going to a chest
in a corner of the soddy brought out the two deeds that
had been found in the dispatch-box.

"This would indicate that the father forgave Lee,
and deeded this property to him," he said, handing the
deeds to Judge North.

The lawyer examined them critically.  Then he
looked up with an eager light in his eyes.

"Have you ever done anything about these?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Mr. Peniman; "I have done all
that I could with the limited knowledge and means I
possessed.  I have tried to set inquiries on foot
regarding them, but as yet have had no results."

Judge North put the deeds in his pocket.  "I will
take this matter up at once," he said.  "This should
be valuable property.  Bernard would never have allowed
it to fall into the hands of Lee's child if he could
have used it himself, but he knew that he dared not
claim it."

Turning to Nina he laid his hand on her head.

"And so, after all the search of years I have found
my niece at last!  I had almost believed I never should
do so.  And then," breaking into a genial smile, "I
accept an invitation to dinner with my young friend
here, and find my beautiful young niece—the very
image of the little sister I lost and for whom I had so
grieved—awaiting me!——"

He put out his arms, and Nina, with a glad little
cry, ran into them.

"Of course you must come and live with me
now——" he began, but got no farther, for from the
whole Peniman family there rose a cry of simultaneous
protest.

Nina, blushing rosy red, turned a shy glance on Joe.

He at once came to the rescue.  Crossing the room
he laid his hand upon the Judge's shoulder.

"I—a—I hope you won't mind, judge," he said
awkwardly, "but—but the truth is that Nina has just
promised to—to live the rest of her life with me."

The Judge turned and looked at him, then burst into
a roar of laughter.

"Well, well, well!" he cried, "to think that the
young man I have liked so much would steal such a
march as that on me!  So you have promised to live
the rest of your life with this young chap, have you,
niece?  And I suppose you'd much rather do that than
come live with a lonely old man like me?"

Nina could not truthfully deny the statement, but
softened the blow by putting her arms about his neck
and kissing him softly on the forehead.

It was Judge North's wish to give the young couple
a fine wedding in Omaha, but this they firmly declined.

Lige and Beatrice had decided to be married soon,
and the two young couples had planned a double
wedding, at which the gentle Quaker father, minister,
justice, should officiate.

It was while the preparations for the double
wedding were going briskly forward that Joe received a
letter from Judge North one day, asking him to come
to Omaha at once, and bring Nina with him.

When they arrived the Judge met them at the door
and led them into his private office.  They saw that he
looked very grave, and they were no sooner seated than
he turned to Nina and took her hand.

"My child," he said, in a tone that sent premonitory
chills of trouble into the hearts of the two young
people, "you must prepare yourself for a great blow."

"A blow?" Nina turned pale.  "What kind of a blow?"

Joe too had whitened.  "What is it, Judge?" he
asked, wondering if some insurmountable barrier to
his marriage with Nina had been discovered.

"I have been very busy tracing back these deeds and
looking up the estate that I hoped your grandfather
Carroll had left his son," the Judge went on, "and
which you, as his only heir, should inherit.  But to my
deep regret and sorrow I found that the property, the
deeds of which were found in the dispatch-box, had
long ago passed into the hands of some distant cousins,
and that the fortune which we supposed Colonel
Carroll to possess was so wasted by his spendthrift son,
and so dissipated by his long search for Lee and his
own long illness, that there was nothing of it left when
the will was probated."

"Is *that* all?"  Nina drew a deep breath and loosed
the grip of her hands in her lap.  "Great heavens,
Uncle, you nearly frightened me out of my wits.  I
thought—I thought something terrible had happened."

"But—but it *is* terrible, my dear," said her puzzled
uncle.  "You don't seem to understand.  There is no
money for you to inherit.  I thought you would be a
great heiress.  I hoped you would get a large sum of
money from that property——"

Nina burst into a ringing laugh.

"Nonsense, Uncle!  Who cares!  What would I
want with a great lot of money?  I don't care a button
about the fortune.  I've found you—and know all
about my dear father and mother now—and I've got
Joe, so what more could I ask?"

"But, my dear——" cried her distressed uncle, gazing
at the shining eyes and smiling face with amazement.

Nina sprang across the room and threw her arms
around his neck with another burst of laughter.

"Don't bother any more about it, dear," she cried.
"Just let's forget all about the money part of it, and
be happy.  I'm sure it will never give me another
thought—if Joe doesn't mind taking a penniless bride."

Joe's expression as he gazed at her would indicate
that he did not mind in the least.

"As a matter of fact," he admitted, "I feel rather
relieved.  I don't know whether I should feel equal to
living up to a rich wife or not."  Then more seriously,
"No, Judge, don't let's lose any sleep about that.
Nina and I have grown up poor, and I guess we shall
never be any happier than we were in the little soddy
back home.  I have my profession, the State is
growing, new business is coming in, I have my homestead
and the little house on it where we can begin, and I
guess we'll manage to get along and be pretty happy
with that."

Judge North, who had been exceedingly worried and
unhappy since he had received the news in regard to
the property, looked at the young couple with surprise,
and his face cleared.

"Well," he ejaculated, "I think you're a great pair
of young simpletons, but I'm glad you take it that way.
I don't think, however, that you need feel much
uneasiness about your future.  The new West is
opening up, there are going to be great adventures and
opportunities for young men, and Joe has a good start
and the prospect of a brilliant future."

"Of course he has," cried Nina; "why should we
worry about a little old money!  Joe is going to be one
of the biggest men in the new State."

The Judge patted her head and sighed while he
smiled.  "He ought to be, with a love and belief
like that behind him," he said, a little wistfully.

It was now fall, and Herbert was once more almost
himself again, thanks to Ruth's good nursing.  She
entered into the preparations for the double wedding
with all the interest and enthusiasm she had had no
opportunity to expend on her own wedding.

It was a glorious autumn morning when the little
party left the sod house and walked quietly across the
fields that were just beginning to put on their robes
of brown and russet and gold, splashed here and there
with brilliant dashes of color made by the goldenrod
and sumac, and starred with St. Michaelmas daisies,
while the great yellow sunflowers lifted their proud
heads to the kiss of the morning and the meadow-larks
poured forth their thrilling melody through the golden,
sunlit air.

Joe walked with his mother, his arm about her waist,
his tall form bent to hers, as he talked in low and
tender tones of all that he meant to do for her and his
father and the children in the days that were to come.

Nina, radiant and lovely as the morning, dressed in
the soft creamy white she loved, was with her uncle,
leaning lightly on his arm, while she chatted with Ruth
and Herbert, who walked beside them, and Sara and
Mary, who as bridesmaids to the party were charming
in their garlands of wild-flowers and their simple little
dresses of virgin white.

Lige walked with Mrs. James, his handsome head
thrown back, his face shining with happiness and his
eyes turned continually upon Beatrice, who skipped
gayly along by the side of her father, lovely as a
picture in her bridal white.

Sam and Paul, who were to act as best men to the
wedding party, felt just a bit out of it as they trudged
along behind, and David, now a sturdy little chap of
ten years, skipped in and out, now with one group, now
with another, the pet of the family, welcomed and
admired by all.

At the door of the little church on the prairie Joshua
Peniman awaited them.  His hair was grey, his face
lined and pale, and in his eyes was the expression of
one who had been communing with another world.

As the friends and relatives crowded into the pews
and the two young couples approached the altar there
was a little bustle and stir at the back of the church,
and Joe looked back to see a sight that touched him
deeply.  About the door was crowded a large party of
Indians, the friends whom he and Nina had made in
their captivity among them, and those he had made in
later days.

They were all there, squaws, bucks, papooses,
grinning at him from the door, and among them was
the tall form of Pashepaho and the stately Neowage,
who had come many, many miles to witness the
wedding of their friend.

Joe rushed to the back of the church to meet them,
insisted that they must all come inside, and ushered
them down the aisle to the front pews, as proudly as
if they had been the mayor of the city and governor of
the State and their staffs.

They wore no hats, their hair was braided with
beads and feathers in honor of the occasion, and
Pashepaho bore on his arm a magnificent otter skin as a
wedding present, while Neowage carried a wonderful
pair of elk-horns that adorned Joe's home for many years.

Slowly the gentle patriarch mounted the pulpit,
quietly the two young couples took their places before
him, and with solemn voice he read the ceremony that
united their lives.

When the wedding was over they all returned to the
homestead, where a wedding feast had been prepared,
and the Indians were among the most honored guests.
They refused to sit on chairs, never having become
accustomed to that luxury, but squatted on the grass they
enjoyed the feast as well as any of the guests.

When it was over Joe and Nina left for Omaha,
where his legislative duties were soon to begin.  Lige
and Beatrice drove over to the county-seat, where Lige,
now a cashier in the bank, had built a modest home
for his gay little singing-bird.  Ruth and Herbert left
for the home that had been built on their homestead,
and as the shadows of night came down Joshua and
Hannah Peniman with their shrunken household were
left alone.

"We have given much to the New West, Joshua,"
she said, gazing with moist eyes about the little soddy
that looked so lonely and empty in the waning light.

"It was that for which we became pioneers,"
answered Joshua Peniman, laying his hand over hers.

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   THE END

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