A BOY'S TRIP
ACROSS THE PLAINS.

By LAURA PRESTON,

AUTHOR OF "YOUTH'S HISTORY OF CALIFORNIA."

NEW YORK:
A. ROMAN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.

SAN FRANCISCO:
417 and 419 Montgomery Street.
1868.

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1868,
By A. ROMAN & COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
For the Southern District of New York.

TO

LOUIS AND MARY,

THE ELDEST
OF A BEVY OF NEPHEWS AND NIECES,
THIS LITTLE WORK
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED,
WITH THE HOPE
THAT AS IT HAS ALREADY RECEIVED THEIR FAVORABLE CRITICISM,
IT MAY MEET THAT OF ALL YOUTHFUL LOVERS
OF ADVENTURE.
San Francisco, June, 1868.

CONTENTS

A BOY'S TRIP

ACROSS THE PLAINS.

BY LAURA PRESTON.

CHAPTER I.

In the village of W——, in western Missouri, lived Mrs. Loring and her son Guy, a little boy about ten years old. They were very poor, for though Mr. Loring, during his life time was considered rich, and his wife and child had always lived comfortably, after his death, which occurred when Guy was about eight years old, they found that there were so many people to whom Mr. Loring owed money, that when the debts were paid there was but little left for the widow and her only child. That would not have been so bad had they had friends able or willing to assist them, but Mrs. Loring found that most of her friends had gone with her wealth, which, I am sorry to say, is apt to be the case the world over.

As I have said, when Mrs. Loring became a widow she was both poor and friendless, she was also very delicate. She had never worked in her life, and although she attempted to do so, in order to support herself and little Guy, she found it almost impossible to earn enough to supply them with food. She opened a little school, but could get only a few scholars, and they paid her so little that she was obliged also to take in sewing. This displeased the parents of her pupils and they took away their children, saying "she could not do two things at once."

This happened early in winter when they needed money far more than at any other season. But though Mrs. Loring sewed a great deal during that long, dreary winter, she was paid so little that both young Guy and herself often felt the pangs of cold and hunger. Perhaps they need not have done so, if Mrs. Loring had told the village people plainly that she was suffering, for I am sure they would have given her food. But she was far too proud to beg or to allow her son to do so. She had no objection that he should work, for toil is honorable—but in the winter there was little a boy of ten could do, and although Guy was very industrious it was not often he could obtain employment. So they every day grew poorer, for although they had no money their clothing and scanty furniture did not know it, and wore out much quicker than that of rich people seems to do.

Yet through all the trials of the long winter Mrs. Loring did not despair; she had faith to believe that God was bringing her sorrows upon her for the best, and would remove them in his own good time. This, she would often say to Guy when she saw him look sad, and he would glance up brightly with the reply, "I am sure it is for the best, mother. You have always been so good I am sure God will not let you suffer long. I think we shall do very well when the Spring comes. We shall not need a fire then, or suffer for the want of warm clothing and I shall be able to go out in the fields to work, and shall earn so much money that you will not have to sew so much, and get that horrid pain in your chest."

But when the Spring came Guy did not find it so easy to get work as he had fancied it would be, for there were a great many strong, rough boys that would do twice as much work in the day as one who had never been used to work, and the farmers would employ them, of course. So poor Guy grew almost disheartened, and his mother with privation and anxiety, fell very sick.

Although afraid she would die she would not allow Guy to call any of the village people in, for she felt that they had treated her very unkindly and could not bear that they should see how very poor she was. She however told Guy he could go for a doctor, and he did so, calling in one that he had heard often visited the poor and charged them nothing.

This good man whose name was Langley, went to Mrs. Loring's, and soon saw both how indigent and how ill the poor woman was. He was very kind and gave her medicines and such food as she could take, although it hurt her pride most bitterly to accept them. He also gave Guy, some work to do, and he was beginning to hope that his mother was getting well, and that better days were coming, when going home one evening from his work he found his mother crying most bitterly. He was in great distress at this, and begged her to tell him what had happened. At first she refused to do so, but at last said:—

"Perhaps, Guy, it is best for me to tell you all, for if trouble must come, it is best to be prepared for it. Sit here on the bed beside me, and I will try to tell you:"

She then told him that Doctor Langley had been there that afternoon, and had told her very gently, but firmly, that she was in a consumption and would die. "Unless," she added, "I could leave this part of the country. With an entire change of food and air, he told me that I might live many years. But you know, my dear boy, it is impossible for me to have that, so I must make up my mind to die. That would not be so hard to do if it were not for leaving you alone in this uncharitable world."

Poor Mrs. Loring who had been vainly striving to suppress her emotions, burst into tears, and Guy who was dreadfully shocked and alarmed, cried with her. It seemed so dreadful to him that his mother should die when a change of air and freedom from anxiety might save her. He thought of it very sadly for many days, but could see no way of saving his mother. He watched her very closely, and although she seemed to gain a little strength as the days grew warmer, and even sat up, and tried to sew, he was not deceived into thinking she would get well, for the doctor had told him she never would, though for the summer she might appear quite strong.

He was walking slowly and sadly through the street one day, thinking of this, when he heard two gentlemen who were walking before him, speak of California.

"Is it true," said one, "that Harwood is going there?"

"Yes," said the other, "he thinks he can better his condition by doing so."

"Do you know what steamer he will leave on?" asked the first speaker.

"He is not going by steamer," replied the second, "as Aggie is quite delicate, he has decided to go across the plains."

"Ah! indeed. When do they start?"

"As soon as possible. Mrs. Harwood told me to-day, that the chief thing they were waiting for, was a servant. Aggie needs so much of her care that she must have a nurse for the baby, and she says it seems impossible to induce a suitable person to go. Of course she doesn't want a coarse, uneducated servant, but some one she can trust, and who will also be a companion for herself during the long journey."

The gentlemen passed on, and Guy heard no more, but he stood quite still in the street, and with a throbbing heart, thought, "Oh! if my mother could go across the plains, it would cure her. Oh! if Mrs. Harwood would but take her as a nurse. I know she is weak, but she could take care of a little baby on the plains much better than she can bend over that hard sewing here, and besides I could help her. Oh! if Mrs. Harwood would only take her. I'll find out where she lives, and ask her to do so."

He had gained the desired information and was on his way to Mrs. Harwood's house before he remembered that his mother might not consent to go if Mrs. Harwood was willing to take her. He knew she was very proud, and had been a rich lady herself once, and would probably shrink in horror from becoming a servant. His own pride for a moment revolted against it, but his good sense came to his aid, and told him it was better to be a servant than die. He went on a little farther, and then questioned himself whether it would not be better to go first and tell his mother about it, and ask her consent to speak to Mrs. Harwood. But it was a long way back, and as he greatly feared his mother would not allow him to come, and would probably be much hurt at his suggesting such a thing, he determined to act for once without her knowledge, and without further reflection walked boldly up to Mrs. Harwood's door. It was open, and when he knocked some one called to him to come in.

He did so, although for a moment he felt inclined to run away. There was a lady in the room, and four children—two large boys, a delicate looking girl about five years old, and a baby boy who was sitting on the floor playing with a kitten, but who stopped and stared at Guy as he entered.

The other children did the same, and Guy was beginning to feel very timid and uncomfortable, when the lady asked who he wished to see.

He told her Mrs. Harwood, and the eldest boy said, "That's ma's name, isn't it, ma? What do you want of ma? say!"

Guy said nothing to the rude boy, but told Mrs. Harwood what he had heard on the street.

"It is true," she said kindly, "I do want a nurse. Has some one sent you here to apply for the place?"

"No, ma'am," he replied, "no one sent me, but—but—I came—of myself—because—I thought—my—mother—might—perhaps suit you."

"Why, that is a strange thing for a little boy to do!" exclaimed Mrs. Harwood.

"Hullo, Gus," cried the boy that had before spoken, "here's a friend of mine; guess he's the original Young America, 'stead of me!"

"George, be silent," said his mother, very sternly. "Now, child," she continued, turning again to Guy, "you may tell me how you ever thought of doing so strange a thing as applying for a place for your mother, unless she told you to do so. Is she unkind to you? Do you want her to leave you?"

"Oh, no, she is very, very kind," said Guy, earnestly, "and I wouldn't be parted from her for the world." He then forgot all his fears, and eagerly told the lady how sick his mother had been, and how sure he was that the trip across the plains would cure her, and, above all, told how good and kind she was; "she nursed me," he concluded, very earnestly, "and you see what a big boy I am!"

Mrs. Harwood smiled so kindly that he was almost certain she would take his mother; but his heart fell, when she said: "I am very sorry that your mother is sick, but I don't think I can take her with me; and besides, Mr. Harwood would not like to have another boy to take care of."

"But I will take care of myself," cried Guy, "and help a great deal about the wagons. Oh, ma'am, if you would only take me, I would light the fires when you stopped to camp, and get water, and do a great many things, and my mother would do a great deal too."

Mrs. Harwood shook her head, and poor Guy felt so downcast that he was greatly inclined to cry. The boys laughed, but the little girl looked very sorry, and said to him:

"Don't look so sad; perhaps mamma will yet take your mother, and I will take you. I want you to go. You look good and kind, and wouldn't let George tease me."

"That I wouldn't," said Guy, looking pityingly upon the frail little creature, and wondering how any one could think of being unkind to her.

"What is your name?" asked the little one.

"Guy," he replied, and the boys burst into a laugh.

"Oh, let us take him with us, ma," cried George, "it would be such capital fun to have a 'guy' with us all the time, to make us laugh. Oh, ma, do let him go."

"Yes, mamma, do let him go," said little Aggie, taking her brother's petition quite in earnest. "I am sure he could tell me lots of pretty stories, and you wouldn't have to tell me 'Bluebeard' and 'Cinderella,' until you were tired of telling, and I of hearing them."

Now Mrs. Harwood was very fond of her children, and always liked to indulge them, if she possibly could, especially her little, delicate Agnes. She thought to herself, as she saw them together, that he might, in reality, be very useful during the trip, especially as Agnes had taken so great a fancy to him; so she decided, instead of sending him away, as she had first intended, to keep him a short time, and if he proved as good a boy as he appeared, to go with him to his mother and see what she could do for her. Accordingly, she told Guy to stay with the children for an hour, while she thought of the matter. He did so, and as she watched him closely, she saw, with surprise, that he amused Agnes by his lively stories, the baby by his antics, and was successful not only in preventing Gus and George from quarreling, but in keeping friendly with them himself.

"This boy is very amiable and intelligent," she said to herself, "and as he loves her so well, it is likely his mother has the same good qualities. I will go around to see her, and if she is well enough to travel, and is the sort of person I imagine, I will certainly try to take her with me."

She sent Guy home with a promise to that effect, and in great delight he rushed into the house, and told his mother what he had done. At first she was quite angry, and Guy felt very wretchedly over his impulsive conduct; but when he told her how kind the lady was, and how light her duties would probably be, she felt almost as anxious as Guy himself, that Mrs. Harwood should find her strong and agreeable enough to take the place.

Mr. and Mrs. Harwood came the next day, and were much pleased with Mrs. Loring, and perhaps more so with Guy, though they did not say so. The doctor came in while they were there, and was delighted with the project, assuring Mrs. Loring that the trip would greatly benefit her, and privately telling Mr. and Mrs. Harwood what a good woman she was, and how willing she was to do any thing honorable for the support of herself and her little boy. So they decided to take her.

"We will give you ten dollars a month," said they, "so you will not be quite penniless when you get to California."

Mrs. Loring thanked them most heartily, and Guy felt as if all the riches of the world had been showered down upon them.

"You look like an energetic little fellow," said Mr. Harwood to Guy, as they were going away, "and I hope you will continue to be one, else I shall leave you on the plains. Remember, I'll have no laggards in my train."

Guy promised most earnestly to be as alert and industrious as could be desired, and full of good intentions and delightful hopes, went back to his mother to talk of what might happen during their TRIP ACROSS THE PLAINS.

CHAPTER II.

How quickly the next two weeks of Guy Loring's life flew by. He was busy and therefore had no time to notice how often his mother sighed deeply when he talked of the free, joyous life they should lead on the plains. There seemed to her little prospect of freedom or pleasure in becoming a servant; yet she said but little about it to Guy as she did not wish to dampen the ardor of his feelings, fearing that the stern reality of an emigrant's life would soon throw a cloud over his blissful hopes. Even Guy himself sometimes felt half inclined to repent his impulsiveness, for George Harwood constantly reminded him of it by calling him "Young America" and asking him if he had no other servants to hire out.

Guy bore all these taunts very quietly, and even laughed at them, and made himself so useful and agreeable to every one, that on the morning of the start from W——, Mr. Harwood was heard to say he would as soon be without one of his best men as little Guy Loring.

It was a beautiful morning in May, 1855, upon which Mr. Harwood's train left W——. Guy was amazed at the number of people, of horses and wagons, and at the preparations that had been made for the journey. Besides Mr. Harwood's family there was that of his cousin, Mr. Frazer; five young men from St. Louis, and another with his two sisters from W——. Guy could not but wonder that so many people should travel together, for he thought it would have been much pleasanter for each family to be alone, until he heard that there were a great many Indians upon the plains who often robbed, and sometimes murdered small parties of travelers.

As the long train of wagons and cattle moved along the narrow streets of the quiet village, Guy thought of all he had read of the caravans that used to cross the desert sands of Arabia. "Doesn't it remind you of them:" he said, after mentioning his thoughts to George Harwood who was standing near.

"Not a bit" he replied with a laugh. "Those great, strong, covered wagons don't look much like the queer old caravans did I guess, and neither the mules or oxen are like camels, besides the drivers haven't any turbans on their heads, and the people altogether look much more like Christians than Arabs."

Guy was quite abashed, and not daring to make any other comparisons, asked Gus to tell him the name of the owner of each wagon as it passed.

"The first was father's," he answered readily, "the next two cousin James Frazer's. The next one belongs to William Graham, and his two sisters, the next two to the young men from St. Louis, and the other six are baggage wagons."

Guy could ask nothing more as Mr. Harwood called to him to help them in driving some unruly oxen that were in the rear of the train. Next he was ordered to run back to the village for some article that had been forgotten, next to carry water to the teamsters, then to run with messages from one person to another until he was so tired, he thoroughly envied George and Gus their comfortable seats in one of the baggage wagons, and was delighted at last to hear the signal to halt.

Although they had been traveling all day they were but a few miles from the village, and the people in spite of the wearisome labors of the day scarcely realized that they had begun a long and perilous journey. To most of them it seemed like a picnic party, but to poor little Guy, it seemed a very tiresome one as he assisted in taking a small cooking-stove from Mr. Harwood's baggage wagon. As soon as it was set up, in the open air, at a short distance from the wagons, he was ordered to make a fire. There was a quantity of dry wood at hand, and soon he had the satisfaction of seeing a cheerful blaze. Asking Gus to take care that it did not go out, he took a kettle from the wagon and went to the spring for water.

Every person was too busy to notice whether Gus watched the fire or not. Some were building fires for themselves, some unhitching the horses from the traces, unyoking the oxen, and giving them water and feed. Guy thought he had never beheld so busy a scene as he came back with the water, hoping that his fire was burning brightly. Alas! not a spark was to be seen, Gus had gone with George to see the cows milked, and poor Guy had to build the fire over again. Although he was very tired he would have gone to work cheerfully enough, had not Mrs. Harwood, who was wishing to warm some milk for the baby reprimanded him severely for his negligence. He thought the fire would never burn, and was almost ready to cry with vexation and fatigue. Indeed two great tears did gather in his eyes, and roll slowly over his cheeks. He tried to wipe them away, but was not quick enough to prevent George Harwood who had returned from milking, from seeing them.

"Hullo!" he cried, catching Guy by the ears and holding back his head that everybody might see his face, "here is 'Young America' boo-hoo-ing, making a reg'lar 'guy' of himself sure enough. Has somebody stepped on his poor 'ittle toe?" he added with mock tenderness, as if he was talking to a little child; "never mind, hold up your head, or you'll put the fire out with your tears; just see how they make it fizzle: why, how salt they must be!"

Guy had the good sense neither to get angry, or to cry, at this raillery, although he found it hard to abstain from doing both. But he remembered in time that his mother had told him the only way to silence George was to take no notice of him.

"Guy," said Mrs. Harwood, who had just come from the wagon, with some meat to be cooked for supper, "I want you to go to your mother, and amuse Aggie."

He went joyfully as he had not seen his mother since morning. He uttered an exclamation of surprise when he entered the wagon in which she was seated, it was so different from what he had imagined it. It was covered with thick oil-cloth, which was quite impervious to rain; on the floor was a carpet, over head a curious sort of rack that held all manner of useful things, guns, fishing poles and lines, game bags, baskets of fruit, sewing materials, books; and even glass-ware and crockery. Guy thought he had never seen so many things packed in so small a space. There were at the rear of the wagon and along the sides, divans, or cushioned benches, made of pine boxes covered with cloth and padded, so that they made very comfortable seats or beds. As Guy saw no sheets or blankets upon the divans, he was at a loss to know how the sleepers would keep warm, until his mother raised the cushioned lid of one of the boxes, and showed him a quantity of coverlets and blankets, packed tightly therein.

There was a large, round lamp suspended from the center of the wagon, and as Guy looked at his mother's cheerful surroundings he could not but wonder that she sighed when he spoke of the dark, lonesome lodgings they had left, until he suddenly remembered that she had been nursing the heavy, fretful baby, and trying to amuse Aggie all the day.

Poor little Aggie was looking very sad, and often said she was very tired of the dull wagon, and was cold, too. Guy told her of the bright camp-fires that were burning beside the wagons, and asked her to go out with him to see them, for although he was very tired and would gladly have rested in the wagon, he was willing to weary himself much more if he could do anything to please the sickly little girl.

"Oh I should like to go very much," cried Aggie eagerly, "Go and ask ma if I can! It will be such fun to see the fires burning and all the people standing around them."

Mrs. Harwood was willing for Guy to take Aggie out, if he would be careful of her, and so he went back and told the anxious little girl.

"Ah! but I am afraid you won't take care of me," she exclaimed hastily. "No body but mamma takes care of me. George and Gus always lets me fall, and then I cry because I am hurt, and then papa whips them, and I cry harder than ever because they are hurt."

"But we will have no hurting or crying this time," replied Guy as he helped Aggie out of the wagon, thinking what a tenderhearted girl she must be to cry to see George Harwood whipped, he was sure that he should not, "for," said Guy to himself, "we should never cry over what we think will do people good."

How busy all the people seemed to be as Guy, with Aggie by his side walked among them. Both were greatly pleased at the novel scene presented to their view. Two cooking stoves were sending up from their black pipes thick spirals of smoke, while half a dozen clouds of the same arose from as many fires, around which were gathered men and women busily engaged in preparing the evening meal. Tea and coffee were steaming, beefsteaks broiling, slices of bacon sputtering in the frying pans, each and every article sending forth most appetizing odors.

Aggie was anxious to see how her father's baggage wagons were arranged and where they stood. They proved to be the very best of the train, but they were so interested in all they saw and heard that they did not appear long in reaching them.

"What a nice time we shall have on the Plains," exclaimed Aggie. "I shall want you to take me out among the wagons every night. I never thought such great, lumbering things could look so pretty. I thought the cloth coverings so coarse and yellow this morning, and now by the blaze of the fires they appear like banks of snow."

So she talked on until Guy had led her past the fires, the groups were busy and cheerful people, the lowing cattle and the tired horses and mules which were quietly munching their fodder and corn, until they reached the baggage wagons. In one of them they found a lamp burning, and by its light they saw how closely it was packed. There were barrels of beef, pork, sugar, flour, and many other articles which were requisite for a long journey. There were boxes too, of tea, coffee, rice, crackers and many other edibles, and in one corner, quite apart from these a number of flasks of powder. There were also several guns, some spades and other tools, and a great many things which Guy and Aggie thought useless, but proved very valuable at a later time.

"I wonder what papa brought so many guns for?" said little Aggie. "And all the others have them too. I should think they would be afraid to sleep in a wagon with so many guns and so much powder in it."

"Men should not be afraid of anything," said Guy very bravely, "and at any rate not of guns and powder, for with them they can guard their lives and property from the Indians."

"The Indians!" cried Aggie opening her eyes very wide with fright and surprise. "Are there Indians on the Plains?"

"Yes. But don't be frightened," replied Guy. "They shall not harm you, and perhaps we may not see any."

"Oh, I hope we shan't. Let us go back to mother, it is getting dark, and I'm so frightened. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"

Aggie's alarm rather amused Guy, but he soothed her very kindly and told her he would take her to her mother, and they had just left the wagon, when a terrible figure, wrapped in a buffalo robe, and brandishing in his hand a small hatchet, jumped with an awful yell into the path before them.

Poor Aggie caught Guy's arm and screaming with terror begged him to save her from the Indian. For a moment Guy himself was startled, then as the monster came nearer he jumped forward, wrested the hatchet from its grasp, and with hands neither slow nor gentle, tore the buffalo robe aside and administered some hearty cuffs to the crest-fallen George Harwood.

"Let me go," he said piteously. "Don't you see who I am? I'll tell my father, so I will."

"You are a fine Indian," said Guy, contemptuously, "just able to frighten little girls."

"I can whip you," exclaimed George, as he saw Guy was preparing to lead Aggie to her mother. "Just come on!"

"No," said Guy, who had already proved the cowardice of his opponent, "I am quite willing always to protect my master's daughter from Indians, but not to fight his sons."

"Bravely spoken my little man," exclaimed Mr. Harwood, who had approached them unperceived.

"He's a coward," whimpered George, "he struck me!"

"I saw all that passed," replied Mr. Harwood, "and I wonder that he acted so well. I shall make him from henceforth Aggie's especial defender, and he can strike whoever molests her, whether it be an Indian or any one else."

George walked sullenly away, and Mr. Harwood, Aggie and Guy turned toward the camp-fires, and passing three or four, reached that of their own party. At some little distance from it was spread a tablecloth covered with plates, dishes of bread, vegetables and meat, cups of steaming coffee, and other articles. On the grass around this lowly table the family were seated, all cheerful and all by the labors of the day blessed with an appetite that rendered their first meal in camp perfectly delicious.

But for Guy, a dreary hour followed the supper, there were dishes to wash, water to fetch, and fires to pile high with wood. Guy almost envied his mother the task of rocking the baby to sleep, yet was glad that he was able to do the harder work which would otherwise have fallen on her hands.

It was quite late when all his work was done, and he was able to sit for a few moments by the camp-fire. He had just begun to tell Aggie of "Jack, the Giant Killer's" wonderful exploits, when Mr. Harwood rang a large bell, and all the people left their fires and congregated about his. Mr. Harwood then stood up with a book in his hand and told them in a few words what a long and perilous journey they had undertaken, and asked them to join with him in entreating God's blessing upon them. He then read a short chapter from the bible and all knelt down while he offered up a prayer for guidance and protection.

Aggie whispered to Guy, as she bade him "good-night," that after that prayer she should not be afraid of the Indians, and went very contentedly to her mother's wagon, while Guy followed Gus and George to the one in which they were to sleep.

They were all too weary to talk, and wrapping their blankets around them lay down, and Gus and George were soon fast asleep. Guy lay awake some time, looking out at the bright fires—the sleeping cattle, the long row of wagons, seeing in fancy far beyond the wide expanse of prairies, the snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and at last in his peaceful sleep, the golden land of California.

CHAPTER III.

It seemed to Guy but a few short moments before he was aroused from sleep by the voice of Mr. Harwood, calling to him to light the fire in the stove.

He started up, for a moment, thinking himself in the poor lodging at W——, and wondering why his mother had called him so early. But the sight of the closely packed wagon, and his sleeping companions, immediately recalled to his remembrance his new position and its many duties. He hurriedly left the wagon, but as it was still quite dark to his sleepy eyes, he had to wait a few moments and look cautiously around, before he could decide which way to turn his steps.

The first objects he saw, were the camp-fires, which were smouldering slowly away as if the gray dawn that was peeping over the hills was putting them to shame. He thought to himself "I am the first up," but on going forward a few steps, found himself mistaken, several of the men were moving briskly about, rousing the lazy horses and oxen, or building fires.

"I shall have to be quick," thought Guy, "or I shall be the last instead of the first!" and he went to work with such ardor that he had a fire in the stove, and the kettle boiling over it before any one came to cook breakfast.

He was glad to see that his mother was the first to leave Mr. Harwood's wagon, for he wanted to have a chat with her alone, but his pleasure was soon turned to sorrow when he saw how weary she looked. He feared, at first, that she was ill, but she told him that the baby had passed a restless night and kept her awake. Poor Mrs. Loring could not take up her new life as readily as Guy, and even while she encouraged him always to look upon the bright side, she very often saw only the dark herself.

But no one could long remain dull or unhappy that beautiful spring morning. The dawn grew brighter as the fires died away, and at last the sun extinguished them altogether by the glory of his presence, as he rose above the distant hills.

Guy thought he had never beheld so lovely a scene. There was the busy, noisy camp before him, and beyond it the calm beauty of freshly budding forests, standing forth in bold relief from the blue sky which bore on its bosom the golden sphere whence emanate all light and heat, God's gifts that make our earth so lovely and so fruitful.

Those were Guy's thoughts as he moved about, willingly assisting his mother, and the two young girls who, with their brother had left W—— to seek their fortunes in the far West. Guy pitied them very much for they were unused to work and had at that time a great deal to do. So when he went to the spring for water, he brought also a pailful for them, and when he had a leisure moment, he did any little chores for them that he could. He had not noticed them much the night before, but that morning he became quite well acquainted with them; discovered that the elder was called Amy, and the younger Carrie, and that they were both very pleasant, and appreciative of all little acts of kindness.

Before the sun was an hour high, the breakfast had been partaked of, the camp furniture replaced in the wagons and the train put in motion.

Slowly and steadily the well-trained mules and the patient oxen wended their way towards the Missouri River, and so for nearly two weeks the march was kept up with no incident occurring to break its monotony, save the daily excitement of breaking camp at noon and after a tiresome walk of a dozen miles or more, building the watch fires at night, and talking over the events of the day.

I think had it not been for Aggie, Guy would often have fallen to sleep as soon as he joined the circle round the fire, for he was generally greatly wearied by the labors of the day. Every one found something for Guy to do, and as he never shirked his work as many boys do, be found but little time for rest, and none for play.

So, as I have said, he was usually so tired at night that he would certainly have fallen asleep as soon as he gained a quiet nook by the fire, but for little Aggie, who never failed to take a seat close beside him and ask for a story. So with the little girl on one side, Gus on the other, and George seated where he could hear without appearing to listen, Guy would tell them all the wonderful tales he had ever read, and many beside that were never printed or even known before.

Those hours spent around the glowing fires, were happy ones to the children. Even George, when he looked up at the countless stars looking down upon them from the vast expanse of heaven, was quieted and seldom annoyed either Guy or his eager listeners by his ill-timed jests or practical jokes.

"I wish," said little Aggie one evening, when she was sitting by the fire with her curly head resting on Guy's arms, "that you would tell me where all the pretty sparks go when they fly upward."

"Why, they die and fall to the earth again," exclaimed George, laughing.

"I don't think they do," replied Aggie, "I think the fire-flies catch them and carry them away under their wings."

"And hang them for lamps in butterflies' houses," suggested Guy.

"Oh yes," cried Aggie, clapping her hand in delight. "Do tell us about them, Guy! I am sure you can!"

So Guy told her about the wonderful bowers in the centre of large roses where the butterflies rest at night, of the great parlor in the middle of all, whose walls are of the palest rose and whose ceiling is upheld by pillars of gold, and of the bed chambers on either hand with their crimson hangings and their atmosphere of odors so sweet that the very butterflies sometimes become intoxicated with its deliciousness, and sleep until the rude sun opens their chamber doors and dries the dew-drops upon their wings. And he told them too, how the butterflies gave a ball one night. All the rose parlors were opened and at each door two fire-flies stood, each with a glowing spark of flame to light the gay revellers to the feast.

For a long time they patiently stood watching the dancers, and recounting to each other the origin of the tiny lamps they held.

"I," said one, "caught the last gleam from a widow's hearth, and left her and her children to freeze; but I couldn't help that for my Lady Golden Wing told me to bring the brightest light to-night."

"Yet you are scarcely seen," replied his companion, "and 'tis right your flame should be dull, for the cruelty you showed toward the poor widow, I caught my light from a rich man's fire and injured no one, and that is how my lamp burns brighter than yours."

"At any rate I have the comfort of knowing mine is as bright as that of some others here."

"Nay even mine is brighter than yours," cried a fly from a neighboring rose. "I would scorn to get my light as you did yours. I caught mine from the tip of a match with which a little servant-maid was lighting a fire for her sick mistress. It was the last match in the house too, and it made me laugh till I ached to hear how mistress and maid groaned over my fun."

"You cannot say much of my cruelty when you think of your own," commented the first, "nor need you wonder that your lamp is dull. But look at the light at my Lord Spangle Down's door, it is the most glorious of them all, and held by poor little Jetty Back! Jetty Back! Jetty Back, where did you light your lamp to-night?"

"I took the spark from a shingle roof, beneath which lay four little children asleep," she modestly answered. "It was a fierce, red spark, as you still may see, and it threatened to burn the dry roof and the old walls, and the children too. So I caught it up and bore it away, and the children sleep in safety while I shine gloriously here."

"And so," concluded Guy, "a good deed will shine, and glow, ages after evil and cruel ones are forgotten."

"That is a pretty story," said Aggie, contentedly, "and I am going to bed now to dream all night of the good fly, and her fadeless lamp. Good-night, dear Guy, don't forget that pretty story, for you must tell it again to-morrow."

CHAPTER IV.

But on the morrow neither the story of the fire-flies or any other was told, for late in the afternoon they arrived at Fort Leavenworth, which is situated on the western border of Missouri, and was then the last white settlement that travelers saw for many hundreds of miles.

All felt very sad the next morning when the train proceeded on its way. Many of them thought they were leaving civilization and its blessings forever behind, and as they looked toward the vast prairie of the West they remembered with a shudder how many had found a grave beneath its tall grass. But there was no delaying or turning back then, and so they slowly continued their way, pausing but once to give a farewell cheer for the flag that floated from the fort, and to look at their rifles and say, "We are ready for whatever may come!"

To Guy it seemed impossible that any one could long remain sad in the beautiful country they were entering upon. As far as the eye could reach lay a vast expanse of prairie, upon which the sunbeams lay like golden halo, making the long, rich grass of one uniform tint of pale green. Then a gentle breeze would come and ruffle the surface of this vast sea of vegetation, and immediately a hundred shades, varying from the deepest green to the lightest gold, would dance up and down each separate blade, producing the most wonderful chaos of colors. A great variety of the most lovely and delicate flowers, too, nestled beneath the grass, and sent forth sweet odors to refresh the traveler as he passed. Guy gathered them by handsful and gave them to Aggie, who wove them into long wreaths which she hung around the wagon, when she declared it looked like a fairy bower.

At midday they stopped to rest. The mules and oxen were turned out to graze on the luxuriant grass, and a small party of the men rode a short distance from camp in search of game. Guy would have greatly liked to accompany them, but as Mr. Harwood did not tell him to do so, he remained contentedly behind, assisting his mother to take care of the baby, and anxiously wondering when she would become strong and well, for she still looked as pale and weak as when they left W——.

He was speaking to his mother of this and hearing very thankfully her assurance that she felt better, if she did not look so, when Gus and George came up to him, and rapidly told him that their father had gone to the hunt and had left his powder flask behind and that their mother said he was to take it to them.

"But he is on horseback," said Guy, "and I should never be able to walk fast enough to overtake him. I'll go and speak to Mrs. Harwood about it."

"Indeed you won't!" exclaimed George, "she says you are not to bother her, but to go at once. You will be sure to meet papa, because he said they would not go farther than that little belt of cotton-wood trees which you see over there."

"Why, he did not go that way at all," cried Guy in astonishment. "He left the camp on the other side."

"Well, I know that," returned George, "but they were going toward that belt of trees, anyway. Didn't papa tell mamma so, Mrs. Loring?"

"Hallo! where has she gone to?"

"She went into the wagon before you began to speak to me," said Guy, not very well pleased with the cunning look in George's face.

"Oh, did she? All right! Here, take the flask and hurry along, or mamma will give it to you for lagging so. I wish I could go with you and see the hunt."

Guy was so fearful that he would do so whether he had permission or not, that he hurried away without farther thought, and was soon quite alone on the great prairie. I think he would not have gone so fast had he heard George's exultant laugh as he turned to Gus with the remark, "Isn't it jolly he's gone, but if you tell that I sent him away, I'll break your bones."

Gus had a very high regard for his bones,—perhaps rather more than for the truth,—for he promised very readily to say nothing of what had passed, and indeed thought it an excellent joke, and laughed heartily.

Meanwhile Guy walked on in the direction George had pointed out to him, wondering as he forced his way through the tall grass, how Mr. Harwood could consider it enough of importance to send him with it. He walked a long distance without finding any traces of Mr. Harwood and his party, and looking back saw that the wagons appeared as mere specks above the grass. For a moment he felt inclined to turn back, but he remembered that his mother had told him always to finish anything he undertook to accomplish, and so stepped briskly forward quite determined to find Mr. Harwood if it was at all possible to do so.

It was a long time before he looked back again for he did not like to be tempted to return, and when he did so he was startled to find that the wagons had entirely disappeared. In great affright he looked north, east, west and south, but all in vain.

At first he ran wildly about, uttering broken ejaculations of alarm, then he sat down and burst into tears, it was so dreadful to be on that vast prairie alone. He soon grew calm for his tears relieved his overcharged heart. He arose and looked carefully around, and for the first time noticed that the trees which had seemed but a short distance from the camp, looked as far off as ever.

"It is plain," said he to himself, "that those trees are at a great distance. Of course, Mr. Harwood could calculate their distance though I could not, and would certainly never have ventured so far to hunt. George must have been mistaken."

Then he wondered that the flask he had so long carried in his hand had not oppressed him by its weight. With many misgivings he opened it, and found that he had been most basely, cruelly deceived. The flask was empty.

I think it is not surprising that Guy was very angry, and made some very foolish vows as to how he would "serve George out" if he ever gained the camp again. Ah! yes, if he ever gained it! But the question was how he was to do so, for the long prairie grass quite covered the tracks he had made and he was uncertain from what point he had come, and there was nothing in that great solitude to indicate it.

Oh, how Guy wished that the tall grass, which he had thought so beautiful, was level with the earth, "Then I should be able to see the wagons," he thought, "but they have now moved on into some slight hollow, and I may never see them more."

Oh! how bitterly he reproached himself for his foolish trustfulness in George Harwood, and again for ever having persuaded his mother to undertake such a perilous journey. For even then he thought more of his mother's sorrow than his own danger, saying again and again: "I shall be lost, and my mother's heart will break. Oh, my dear, dear mother?"

"Well, well!" he exclaimed aloud, after spending a few moments in such sad reflections, "it is no use for me to stand here. There is one thing certain, I can meet nothing worse than death on this prairie if I go back, and if I stay here it will certainly come to me, so I will try to make for the wagons, and if I fail I shall know it is not for the want of energy."

So he forced his way again through the rank grass, this time with his back to the belt of trees, though he knew that they were growing by the side of water, for which he was eagerly wishing, for the sun was very hot, and as he had taken nothing since morning he was fast becoming faint with hunger and thirst.

At last the air grew cooler and a slight breeze sprang up, but although it refreshed Guy's weary body, it brought nothing but anguish to his mind, for he knew that the sun was setting.

In despair he lifted his voice and halloed wildly, crying for help from God and man, but no answer came, while still the sky grew a deeper blue, the sun a more glorious scarlet, till at last when it had gained its utmost magnificence, it suddenly dropped beneath the prairie, the green grass grew darker and darker, and at last lay like a black pall around poor Guy, as he stood alone in the awful solitude.

CHAPTER V.

For a time poor Guy sat upon the ground helpless, and hopeless, listening intently to the rustling movements of the numerous small animals, that wandered about seeking food; fearing to move, lest he should encounter a prairie wolf, or some other ferocious beast, and equally afraid to remain still, lest they should scent him there.

There was but one thing he could do, he felt then, and that was to put his trust in God, and entreat His guidance and protection. So, in the agony of his terror, he prostrated himself upon the ground, and offered up his petitions. The very act of praying comforted him, and when he lifted up his eyes, he was rejoiced to see a few bright stars shining in the sky.

"I think the moon will rise in about an hour," thought Guy, looking eagerly around, with a faint hope that she might even then be peering above the horizon; and truly, like a far off flame of fire, she seemed to hang above the prairie grass.

With great joy Guy waited for her to rise higher, and throw her glorious light across the wild, but she appeared almost motionless; and in much amazement at the singular phenomenon, he involuntarily walked rapidly toward the cause of his surprise, looking intently at it still. Suddenly he paused, and burst into a fit of laughter, exclaiming rapturously; "It is no moon; it is a camp fire! There! I can count one, two, three, of them, They are the fires of our own camp. Hurrah!"

In his excitement, he ran eagerly forward, shouting and laughing, but was suddenly tripped by the thick grass and thrown headlong. As he was quite severely hurt, he walked on much more soberly, but still at a brisk pace, towards the steadily brightening fires.

The moon he had so anxiously looked for, gave no indication of her presence in the heavens, and so Guy's progress was much retarded for the want of light, for the stars were often overwhelmed by great banks of clouds, and gave but a feeble ray at best.

"It is becoming very cold," thought Guy as he shivered in the rising wind, "I fear there is going to be a storm; Oh, what will become of me if it finds me here!"

Suddenly he paused, thinking for a moment that he heard shouting at a distance, but he listened for a long time, and heard no more, and continued his walk slowly and wearily, quite unable to repress his fast falling tears. He was so very tired, so hungry, and so cold, it was with the utmost difficulty he could force his way through the coarse grass. Very often too he was startled by some prowling animal, and thought with horror of all the tales he had read of boys being torn to pieces by wild beasts. He especially remembered one he had read in an old primer, of little Harry who was eaten by lions for saying "I won't" to his mother. He was thankful to know, that there were no lions on the prairies, and that he had never said "I won't," to his mother, but he very much feared he had said things just as bad, and that prairie wolves, or even a stray bear, might be lying in wait to devour him for it.

Just as he had reached this stage of his reflections, he fancied he heard some animal in pursuit of him. Without pausing even for an instant to listen, he set off at full speed toward the still glowing fires, till his precipitate flight was arrested by some obstacle, over which he fell, reaching the ground with a shock that almost stunned him.

As soon as he recovered his senses, he attempted to rise, but to his dismay, found that he could not stand. A sudden twinge of pain in his right ankle prostrated him, as quickly as if he had been shot.

He thought at first that his leg was broken, but after a careful examination, came to the conclusion that his ankle was sprained, but even a broken leg would not have been a greater misfortune then, for he was unable to walk, and was suffering the most excruciating pain.

I think no one can imagine what poor Guy suffered, for the rest of that long night. There he lay helpless, in sight of the camp fires, but quite unable to reach them or to give any indications of his whereabouts to his friends. There he lay dying with pain, and hunger, and cold, yet suffering more in mind, than from all of these bodily evils, because he knew that his mother must know of his absence from the camp, and was wildly bemoaning the loss of her only child.

The long wished-for moon at length arose, hours after Guy had expected her, but too soon he thought when she made her appearance, for the camp fires grew dim beneath her rays, and he had to strain his aching eyes to see them at all. But he had not long to bemoan her presence, and to say, that she hid the light of home from him, for she soon plunged into a great bank of clouds; a fearful blast of wind swept by, and Guy was drenched with rain.

Oh, it was terrible, that passing storm! Short as it was, it appeared to Guy to last for hours, long after it had passed over him, he heard it wildly sweeping on, but as it grew fainter, and fainter, the calmness that came upon the night overpowered him, and he fell into a troubled sleep. It seemed but a short time before he again awoke, yet the grey dawn was struggling in the east, and the little birds were hopping from blade to blade of the wet grass twittering cheerily as if to thank God for the refreshing rain.

Poor Guy saw all this as if in a dream. He fancied he had been transformed into an icicle, and that some one had built a fire at his head, and was slowly melting him. He had no idea where he was, and talked constantly to his mother, whom he fancied was beside him, entreating her to put out the fire that was consuming him.

Suddenly he heard his name called, and realizing his position, and springing to his feet, in spite of his wounded limb, halloed loudly, waving his white handkerchief and signaling frantically to a horseman that appeared in the distance. For a few dreadful moments he was unheard, and unseen, then a shout of joy, answered his screams, and the horseman galloped rapidly toward him, and in a few minutes the poor boy lay fainting, but saved, in the arms of James Graham!

CHAPTER VI.

Guy knew no more for many hours. When he regained his senses, he found himself in Mrs. Harwood's wagon lying upon one of the divans. His mother was bending anxiously over him, and burst into a flood of joyful tears when she saw that he recognized her. Nothing could exceed Guy's joy at seeing her again though with traces of deep anxiety upon her face. Indeed, so delighted was he at his escape from death, that he was inclined to regard every one with favor! Even George Harwood, who a few days after his return to the camp, came to him, according to his father's instructions, to confess his unkindness and to ask pardon for the pain he had caused him.

"I just thought I would send you off on a fool's errand," said he, "but I never thought you would go so far, and frighten us nearly to death, and most kill yourself. I was so scared when you didn't come back I didn't know what to do. Father missed you, but thought you were somewhere about the wagons, and I dared not tell him you were not; but Gus turned coward during the afternoon, and told that I had sent you away—and then didn't I catch it?" and George grimaced most dolefully, pointing to poor Guy's sprained ankle, and declaring that the pain of that was nothing to what he had had in his back for days past.

Mrs. Loring came in then, and sent him away, as Guy had been ill with fever ever since his night's exposure, and could bear but little excitement. It was nearly two weeks before he could rise, and they had even then to carry him from place to place, because he could not bear his weight upon his wounded limb. It fretted him sorely when they camped at night, to see how hard she must have worked while he lay ill; yet he could but perceive that she looked better and stronger than she had done since his father's death, and joyfully felt that the excitement and toil of a journey across the plains would restore his mother to health, whatever might be the effect upon him.

How kind they all were to him during the time he was slowly regaining his health and strength. Aggie sat by him constantly, in her childish way telling him of the wonders she daily saw, or coaxing him to tell her some pretty tale. Mrs. Harwood always smiled upon him when she passed, and Amy and Carrie Graham often asked him to their wagon, and lent him books, or talked to him of the home they had left, and that which they hoped to find.

All the men missed Guy so much, he had always been so useful and good-natured. Mr. Harwood daily said, that there should be a jubilee in camp when Guy got well again. But he recovered so gradually that he took his old place in the train by almost imperceptible degrees, and was at the end of a month as active as ever.

They were then on the borders of the Rio Platte, or Nebraska River, in the country of the Pawnee Indians. They were about to leave behind them the vast, luxuriant prairie, and enter upon what may more properly be called the plains. Guy was not sorry to see the thick grass become thinner and thinner, for he remembered that amid its clustering blades he had nearly lost his life, and therefore looked with much complacency upon the broad, shallow river, along which their course lay; the sandy loam beneath their feet, and the sand hills that arose like great billows of earth, rolling in regular succession over the level surface. George and Gus thought the country most dreary and wretched, and would scarcely believe Guy, when he told them of a desert called Sahara, that had not even a blade of grass upon it, save an occasional oasis, many miles apart, and which were often sought for, by the weary traveler, as he had himself sought the camp, during his terrible night on the prairie.

"It can't be worse than this," they eagerly contended, "I don't believe even Indians live here."

But they were soon convinced to the contrary, for a few days afterwards Guy startled them by the exclamation "see the Indians! There are the Indians coming!"

George very boldly told them to "come on," but Gus went close to Guy, and declared that such mere specks as they saw in the distance couldn't be Indians; yet was suddenly most anxious to know whether they were cannibals, and if so, whether he looked a tempting morsel or not.

Guy could not help laughing at his questions, although he himself felt quite uneasy at the approach of the wild hunters of the prairies, which were seen rapidly drawing near to them. The men in the train formed a closer circle about the wagons, and hastily inspected their rifles, while Mr. Harwood gave them instructions how to proceed in case of an attack.

That, however, he did not greatly apprehend, as they soon perceived the Indians were but a small party of middle-aged, or old men, and squaws, and it is seldom such a party attempts to molest any number of travelers.

However, Mr. Harwood thought it best to keep them at a safe distance, and when they approached within a hundred yards of the train, suddenly commanded them to halt by raising his right hand with the palm in front, and waving it backward and forward several times. They, upon this, stopped their horses, and consulted together a few moments, then fell into a posture indicative of rest. Then, Mr. Harwood raised his hand again and moved it slowly from right to left. This they understood to mean "who are you?" One of the oldest of them immediately replied by placing a hand on each side of the forehead, with two fingers pointing to the front, to represent the narrow, sharp ears of a wolf.

"They are Pawnees," said Mr. Harwood. "Ah! there is the chief making signs that they wish to talk with us."

A long conversation by means of signs, in the use of which the prairie Indians are very expert, was then carried on between Mr. Harwood and the old chief. Remembering his promise to Aggie, to protect her from the Indians, Guy went to Mrs. Harwood's wagon to assure her there was no danger, and that he would remain near, and then took a stand behind the wagon where he could see and hear all that passed.

He was soon joined by George and Gus, for Guy was always so calm and collected that they felt quite safe near him, though he was no stronger or older than themselves.

They all watched the Indians with much interest, and were surprised to see that instead of being giants, as accounts of their cruel and wonderful deeds had led them to expect, they were of medium height. In place of the horrible face, and the flaming eyes they had pictured, they saw the countenances of these Indians were intelligent, and although of course of a bright copper hue, were in some instances quite handsome. The hair of the men was very long, and streamed like black pennants, upon the wind. Their arms, shoulders, and breasts were quite naked, and their dress consisted only of deer skin, with a cloth wound around the lower part of the body. One or two were covered with buffalo robes, of which every warrior carries one, in which he wraps himself when cold.

Guy thought that the men as they sat proudly upon their beautiful horses, holding in their hands long bows made of the tough wood of the osage orange, which is as supple as elastic, looked very noble and fine. Their bows were about eight feet long and were wound around with the sinews of deer, and strung with a cord of the same. The arrows were about twenty inches long, of flexible wood, with a triangular point of iron at one end, and two feathers intersecting each other at right angles, at the opposite extremity.

This description Guy quoted to his companions, from a book he had once read, and they saw at once how perfectly true it was. While they were astonished at the appearance of the men, they were much diverted at that of the women. They were very short and ugly; each had her hair cut short, and they were dressed the same as the men with the addition of a skirt of dressed deer skin. Their faces were tattooed in the most uncouth devices, and altogether they appeared quite hideous, as they sat upon their horses, in the same position as the men, regarding with much interest the movements of their chief who had been made to understand that he might come alone to the train.

At first, he seemed doubtful about the propriety of such an act, but his wish for gain soon overcame his caution, and he rode up to Mr. Harwood, making many signs and protestations of friendship, which were returned most graciously. After a long series of compliments had passed between them, the old chief gave Mr. Harwood to understand that his people were hungry and needed sugar, corn, and many other things. Mr. Harwood replied by saying there were many deer upon the prairie, which they could kill, that they themselves had but little provision but would give them some beads, and bright paints, in token of the good feeling of the whites toward them.

At that the old man was delighted, for the Indians are very fond of beads and all kinds of ornaments, and of paints, with which they daub their faces and arms in the most grotesque manner, upon any grand occasion. But the old chief disdained to exhibit any satisfaction, and smoked the pipe, that had been offered him, in the most indifferent manner while the presents were being procured from the wagons.

When the old man had entered the camp, George and Gus thought it prudent to retreat to their mother's wagon, from whence, they could look out and see all that was going on. Aggie, on the contrary was so anxious to have a nearer view of the Indians, when she found them so much less terrible than she had imagined, that she begged her mother to allow her to stand with Guy outside the wagon, and after some little hesitation, Mrs. Harwood permitted her to do so.

When Guy lifted the little girl from the wagon, the savage gave a grunt of surprise, and gazed for a long time upon her with such evident admiration that Guy was greatly afraid he would take a fancy to carry her off. But Aggie, herself entertained no such fears, and after looking at the old man curiously for some little time, approached him slowly and examined his strange dress, the circular shield covered with buffalo hide that was strapped on his left arm, and the formidable war-club that lay at his side. It was made of a stone, about two pounds in weight, round which a withe of elastic wood was bound, being held in its place by a groove which had been formerly cut in the stone. The two ends of the withe formed a handle about fourteen inches long, and were bound together with strips of buffalo hide, which rendered it strong and firm, totally preventing it from either splitting down, or breaking when used, as no doubt it often was, with great force, upon the heads of unfortunate enemies.

The old chief allowed Aggie to examine all those things with the greatest good nature, and when she touched his quiver of arrows, and asked him to give her one, he grunted assent; so she took the prettiest one, and after admiring it for some time, nodded and smiled, and walked toward Guy with the prize in her hand. But immediately the Indian darted to his feet, frowning with anger, and sprang toward the frightened child. Mr. Harwood and most of the men believed for the moment that he was indeed about to attempt to carry her off, and with loud voices bade him stand back, and levelled their rifles upon him, to enforce obedience. The old man raised his hand, and immediately the whole force on the prairie commenced galloping toward them.

"Aggie give him his arrow!" cried Guy at this juncture, "he misunderstood you; he thinks you have stolen his arrows! Give it to him."

She did so, the old man released her, and she fled to the wagon like a frightened deer. With a few expressive gestures Guy explained to the Indian the mistake that had been made, and at the same time it became evident to Mr. Harwood and his party. The chief signaled to his party to retire, and in less time than it has taken to describe it, peace was restored; whereas but for Guy's presence of mind a terrible battle might have followed Aggie's innocent freak.

But, notwithstanding that peace had been restored, they were all glad when the chief took up his presents and went back to his motley followers, and even more so, when they put their horses to their utmost speed, and returned to their lodges; where no doubt they gave to their tribe an astounding account of the adventure of their chief in the camp of the white man.

CHAPTER VII.

For some time after the encounter with the Indians, which happily ended so peacefully, the train moved on without meeting with any adventures. George and Gus thought the days passed very drearily, and longed for some excitement, but Guy was altogether too busy to feel dull. Mrs. Harwood's baby was quite sick, and as Mrs. Loring's time was fully taken up in attending to him, Guy had double work to do.

You would be surprised if I should tell you half that he did. Of all the fires he built; the oxen he fed; the water he carried, and even the breakfasts and suppers he helped to cook. And he did it all in the best manner of which he was capable too. Although the first biscuits he made were heavy, the next were light as down, for he inquired into the cause of his failure and rectified it, and by doing that in every case he soon learned to do perfectly all that he undertook.

Most children would have thought the life of constant toil which Guy led very wretched indeed; but he did not, for he had daily the gratification of perceiving that the great object of their journey across the plains was being gradually accomplished; his mother's health was slowly becoming strengthened, by every step they took toward the snowy mountains, beyond which lay the fruitful valleys in which they hoped to find a home.

But, as the days passed by, they greatly feared that one of their number would never reach there; the baby boy grew worse. The cooling breezes that brought health to his weakly sister, seemed fraught with death for the lately blooming boy. Guy was greatly saddened by the sufferings of the child, and by the grief of its parents, and shuddered when he saw the bones of animals which lay by thousands bleaching upon the desert, and once was filled with horror on coming across a human skull, which the prairie wolves had dragged from some shallow grave, and separated far from its kindred bones. The idea that the body of the poor little baby should meet such a fate, filled him with sorrow, and although it had always seemed to him a natural and peaceful thing that the temple of clay should rest under its native dust, after the flight of the soul, he thought that the Indian mode of sepulture, of which they saw examples every day, by far the best.

Very often they saw a curious object in the distance, and two of the party, riding forward to examine it, would report an Indian place of burial. Guy had himself gone forward once and found, to his surprise, two forked poles, some six or eight feet high, supporting something wrapped in a blanket. This something was a dead Indian, who in this strange position, with his weapons in his hands, was waiting his summons to the "happy hunting grounds."

On his return to the train, Guy hastened to find Aggie, to tell her of what he had seen. She was listening very attentively, when George ran up, exclaiming: "Look at the rats! there are thousands of rats on the plains!"

Aggie looked in the direction indicated by her brother, and crying: "Oh, the dreadful rats," was about to run away, when Guy stopped her, telling her, laughingly, that they were the wonderful little prairie dogs, of which they had heard so much.

Truly enough when she gained courage to look at the little animals, she saw that although they at first sight resembled rats, on closer inspection they appeared even more like squirrels. The children were greatly entertained by watching their quick, active movements, as they darted about through the low grass. A very busy community they appeared to be, and with plenty to gossip about. To Aggie's delight Guy pretended to translate their quick, chirruping barks into our own language. Some he said were telling how a monster rattlesnake had come to visit them without any invitation, and that the only food he would eat, was the youngest and fattest of their families; and that their constant intruders, the owls, had the same carnivorous tastes, besides which they rendered themselves particularly disagreeable, by standing in the doors and staring at every dog that went by, and even preventing the entrance of visitors, to the great distress of all the belles and beaux in town.

All this may have been very true, for the excited little creatures talked so continuously that I am sure they must have had some grievance, and the children thought it must be the owls that stood solemnly at the entrance of many of the burrows. They did not see the rattlesnakes, so even Aggie somewhat doubted the tales of their ferocity, which Guy said the little prairie dogs related.

But although these little creatures were such chatterers, they appeared very industrious, for many hillocks of sand indicated where their homes were burrowed. Each little hole was occupied by a pair of dogs, one of which was often seen perched on the apex like a sentinel. But like many other sentinels, they appeared on the watch for danger, not to combat, but to avoid it, for they darted like a flash into their holes whenever a lean, prowling wolf stalked near them, or even a prairie hen flew by.

"I wish you would tell us a story about prairie dogs," said Aggie to Guy, that evening when they were gathered around the camp-fire.

"I am afraid it is impossible for me to do that," he replied, "for very little seems to be known about them. Naturalists have never paid much attention to them, curious as they are."

"But the Indians must know something about them," said Gus.

"Yes, I suppose so," returned Guy, "for before the white man came to annoy them, they had nothing to do but to watch animals and learn their habits, that they might know which were fit for food, and which was the easiest way of killing them. Ah, yes, now that I have been thinking about it, I do remember a story that the Indians tell about the prairie dogs!"

"Oh tell it!" cried Aggie, eagerly; Gus seconded the request, and even George drew nearer, for Guy had a great reputation as story teller in the camp.

"It is rather a long tale," said he, "but the Indians say, a true one. It happened years and years ago when each animal understood the language of all others, and men conversed with them as readily as with themselves.

"In those days each tribe had its sorcerers, or wise men, who pretended to cure not only all diseases but to control the destinies of men. They were accordingly held in great veneration by their simple-minded dupes, as are their few descendants, which even at this day practice in a lesser degree the arts of their forefathers.

"Well, it happened that when these men were more powerful among the tribes than the chiefs themselves, that they combined together to wrest from the hands of these the commands that they held, in order that they might hold the people both in bodily and mental subjection. There had for a long time existed a tradition among them, that when a daughter of a chief—an only child,—should love a brave of an unfriendly tribe, they would have power to change her into a flower or animal, and unless the brave should find the means within ten moons, or months, to break the enchantment, she would die, and with her every chieftain and his family. Accordingly these wicked sorcerers found constant pretexts for involving the tribes in war, especially if they supposed that the only daughter of a chieftain loved a brave of another tribe; but for many years all their arts were in vain, for the Indians were so passionate and revengeful that immediately an affront was given or received, violent hatred vanquished love, and the chiefs and their families were saved.

"The sorcerers were almost in despair of ever obtaining the entire authority they craved, when it came to pass that two rival tribes met upon the plains, and as was usual in such cases, a battle was fought. The Ohoolee tribe were victorious, and killed many of the Gheelees and also took many of them prisoners. Among the latter, was the only daughter of the chief Sartahnah, the beautiful Mahdrusa.

"Great was the consternation of her tribe, for this maiden was held more precious by them than a hundred braves. She was more graceful than the fairest flower that grew upon the prairie; her hair was longer than the grass by the riverside and blacker than the night; her eyes were like those of the young fawn, and her voice was sweeter than a breeze laden with the song of birds. There was not a chieftain or brave of the Gheelee's but would have laid down his life for her, and great was the grief and shame that befell them when she was taken captive by the Ohoolees.

"From that day there was continual war waged between the two tribes. The Ohoolees acted on the defensive, the Gheelees on the offensive. Never a week passed but that a party of braves went forth to attempt the rescue of the beautiful Mahdrusa from the lodges of the enemy. The chief, her father, to increase if possible the zeal of the braves promised her hand to him who should deliver her. There was great rejoicing when this was made known, for all loved Mahdrusa, though she cared for none. Her rescue was attempted with a thousand times more eagerness than before, and one day Anoctah, the bravest of all the Gheelees, led her in triumph to her father's wigwam and demanded his reward.

"Mahdrusa heard him with dismay, and clasping her father's knees, sank down before him, and entreated him to give Anoctah some other treasure.

"The old chief told her that was impossible, and Mahdrusa wept so loudly that the whole tribe gathered about the lodge and asked what had befallen the beautiful daughter of Sartahnah. But she would say nothing, yet wept continually, so that the sorcerers said the spirit of the rivers was within her, and that they alone, could deliver her from it.

"Now these men had reasoned together over her strange malady, and said, 'She mourns so much over her betrothal to Anoctah because she loves a brave of an unfriendly tribe. Let us then take her from her father, and place her in the great medicine lodge where we can work our enchantments upon her, and make ourselves rulers of all the tribes.'

"So in the night they took her from her father's wigwam into the great medicine lodge, which was hung about with the herbs they used in their incantations, and had in the centre a great heap of stones, within which was a fire burning.

"Beside these stones, which were kept constantly hot, they made Mahdrusa sit down, and while she still wept, her tears fell upon the stones, and a great vapor arose, which the sorcerers condensed upon clay vessels into drops of water as pure as crystal, and with them and the herbs that hung around, made a decoction so powerful that when they had forced Mahdrusa to drink it, she lost all power and reason, and her spirit lay passive in the hands of her tormentors.

"'We will take it from her body,' said they, 'and place it where no brave will ever discover it.

"'Let it fly to the centre of the wild rose,' said one. But the others demurred, saying her lover would certainly seek it there.

"'Better hide it under the thick skin of the buffalo,' said another.

"'No!' they answered, 'the brave that Mahdrusa loves must be a fearless hunter, therefore his arrow would bring her forth.'

"In short, they talked of every flower and beast on the prairie, but found in all some fault, until the most cunning of all mentioned the prairie dogs. 'No one would look for her in their miserable holes,' said he, 'and they are such chatterers that the magpies, themselves, would not have patience to listen to them.'

"So it was agreed that her spirit should dwell as a prairie dog, and before long out sprang one from a reeking cauldron of herbs, and they took it to the holes of the prairie dogs and left it there, placing beside it a terrible serpent, that all others might be afraid to approach it, and an owl at the door, as a sentinel that would stand looking patiently for an enemy both night and day, and never breathe to the gossips around her the tale of the princess that was prisoned within.

"And that was how the rattlesnake and owl became sharers in the homes of the prairie dogs, and it was with these awful companions that the spirit of Mahdrusa spent many weary days. Meanwhile her body lay in the medicine lodge of her people, and the sorcerers said that her soul had ascended to the stars, where, in ten moons, she would be purified from her sin and return to her body, or that it would die, and moulder away.

"This news soon spread over the prairies, but the brave that Mahdrusa loved would not believe it. He knew the wicked desires of the sorcerers, and believed that she was a flower on the prairie, and that he was appointed to rescue her.

"So he went forth and cut down every flower that he found, and he toiled so ceaselessly that before two moons had passed not a blossom remained, and still he found not his beautiful Mahdrusa. Then he made a strong bow, and arrows that could not miss the mark, and he slew the beasts of the prairie by hundreds, yet he could not find his love. And so nine moons passed by, and Mahdrusa was still in her horrible captivity, and the brave that sought her was bowed down as if by years, with the weight of his sorrow, and his body was so steeped in the blood of the animals he had slain that he was redder than clay, and his descendants continue so to this very time. All the beasts of the prairie had he slain in his terrible anger, and all the people had fled to the mountains for food, thither he thought he would follow them, and he sat down upon a ridge of sand, to strengthen his bow, and sharpen his arrows, when, lo! quite unmindful of him, a thousand little creatures he had fancied too insignificant to notice, sprang forth from their holes, and gathered in groups for their daily gossip.

"They angered him so greatly by their chatter that he placed an arrow on his bow to fire amongst them, when his hand was stayed by hearing a curious tale that a gay young dog was telling.

"'She lives next to my mother's lodge,' said he, 'and the poor thing never appears either to eat or drink. I took her a delicate slice of cactus myself, but I dropped it in a terrible fright, for a great serpent darted towards me, and an owl sprang forward and devoured my youngest brother before he had time to utter a squeak.'

"The brave rejoiced when he heard these words, and springing up, went in search of the captive prairie dog. Many weary days he sought in vain. He asked of her whereabouts from every insect he met, but none could give him any information, and the prairie dogs, under the spell of the sorcerers, were silent—on that topic, at least.

"There was but a day left in which he could act. Almost in despair, he wandered about the prairie dog town, vainly looking for his love.

"At last he remembered that a queer old woman whom he had met, while hunting one day, had told him that she was his guardian fairy, and had given him two little pieces of stone which he was to strike together if ever he was in great trouble, and she would appear and help him.

"He had taken but little notice of the old woman at the time, supposing her to be a conjurer or evil worker, and he had dropped the little stones into his pouch, where they had long lain forgotten. Without daring to hope that they would be of any use, he took them out, and struck them together. A tiny spark of fire fell from them upon some dry grass at his feet, a flame sprang up, and lo! out of it stepped the old woman he sought.

"'So you have called me at last!' said she, 'what is it that I shall do?'

"'Lead me, kind fairy, to the hiding place of the beautiful Mahdrusa,' he replied

"So she went before him to a part of the prairie that, in all his wanderings, he had not visited. But, strangely enough, before his feet the grass turned into briars, through which he only with the greatest difficulty could force his way. Every timid hare became a wolf, each gentle fawn a raging buffalo, but the brave went on undaunted, brandishing his war-club, and keeping his formidable foes at bay. Never for a moment did he allow fear to gain possession of him for he knew if he did he should be lost. It was only faith and courage that could carry him safely through that enchanted ground.

"'Stop!' cried the fairy, when he had passed unscathed through a thousand dangers. 'Mahdrusa is before you!'

"But before he could look for her, the owl flew like a fierce hawk in his face, and pecked at his eyes, and the rattlesnake sprang upon him burying its deadly fangs into his arm. The brave almost lost his courage then, but he heard Mahdrusa, though in the voice of a prairie dog, entreating him to save her. He caught the serpent in his hands, and seizing its jaws, tore it asunder, and wrapped its writhing body around his wound, while at the same moment the fairy called up a terrible wind that blew the owl far away, and to the arms of the young warrior, the little prairie dog that held the soul of Mahdrusa.

"So was half the task of the lover accomplished; yet all his toil would be in vain if he could not before the moon set that night place her soul in the body it had before tenanted. But he was many leagues from the lodge in which it lay, and he knew that by his own power he could not hope to reach it in time, so he called upon the good fairy again, and she turned a rabbit into a fleet courser that bore the lover and the enchanted maiden, over the prairie with the swiftness of wind.

"The moon was but a few inches, it appeared, above the horizon, when they reached the lodge. By command of the sorcerers all the people had returned from the mountains to see whether the spirit of Mahdrusa would come from the stars, or her body, which all this time had lain as if in a deep sleep, take upon itself the signs of death. All were gathered in the great lodge. The cauldron of herbs from which the enchanted prairie dog had emerged was boiling over the fire, and around it the sorcerers were standing. Before them lay the body of the beautiful Mahdrusa, and beside it stood her father and Anoctah.

"Into the lodge, into the midst of all the people, the young brave sprang! The warriors of the Gheelees raised their war clubs when they saw one of the hated Ohoolees, but the young brave cried, 'strike me not, for I bear the soul of Mahdrusa!"

"Then they all fell back and Anoctah said, 'Restore it to her body, and she shall be thine, if she loves thee better than me.'

"But the sorcerers sprang upon him, and tried to tear the little prairie dog from his bosom, but the fairy cried:—

"'Hold her with thy right hand into the cauldron and she shall be saved!'