ON: EHE PLAINS: The Rare for ile. LONDON AND NEW YORK: GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS. ellen, ON THE PLAINS; OR, qe = RAC CHE. oF OR LIFE. CHAPTER I. THE TRAVELLER. THE noonday sun was pouring its full tide of fiery rays upon the broad rolling prairie ; the blazing air was quivering with the intense heat of a summer day; the blue sky was not flecked by a single cloud. Away, as far as the eye coula reach, the plain stretched in monotonous, regular swells, unrelieved, save here and there by some stunted tree or jagged rock ; only now and then an emerald grove of trees met the eye, like a refreshing oasis in the desert. The earth long had been scorched by the withering rays. Only at in- tervals the sparse blades of buffalo grass were to be seen. It seemed as if the whole face of nature was blasted by some deadly sirocco. The section of country to which we refer is now compre- — hended in what is termed Nebraska territory. That portion in the neighbourhood of the Rocky Mountains, termed the ‘¢ Black Hills,” is the one of which we shall more particu- larly speak. Until recently it was rarely visited by whites, except by a few trappers and hunters. Now and then some adventurous man pierced its wilds with those daring spirks, but only at rare intervals indeed. The Indians held nearly undisputed possession of this territory, which was, in fact, but one great hunting ground. Herds of buffaloes, number- ing tens of thousands, thundered over its vast bosom ; innu- merable droves of horses galloped in unrestrained freedom over its face, while, in the plentiful streams, the beaver and otter flourished with little fear of molestation from the white 6 ON THE PLAINS. man. The whole North-west was the unexplored paradise of the aborigines of the continent. The only whites who trod this region were the daring trappers and hunters, who, indeed, differed little in their . customs and lives from the savages themselves. They gene- ‘ rally travelled in bodies, numbering from two or three to a dozen ; now and then an eccentric and fearless spirit might be found, who braved the perils of the wilderness alone, and *. journeyed hundreds of miles with his peltries, having no companion but his horse and faithful rifle. Although the prairie presented as cheerless and barren an appearance at this time as the desert, yet there were seasons when it seemed another country—when it was but one romantic ocean of verdure and roses, and the air was heavy with the perfumes of millions of wild flowers that bloomed and lived in the genial sunshine. i About noon of this suffocating day, a horseman was travelling over the prairie. He and his animal were the only signs of life that met the eye, and they together might . W have been easily mistaken for some stationary object, so slow and tedious was their course. The rider was a young man of not over twenty-five years of age, whose well-proportioned E frame showed that, although in all probability a stranger in those parts, he yet was no ordinary hunter. He was attired in the usual hunting-frock and leggings, and wore a closely- fitting cap of fur. At his waist the handles of two knives protruded, and a long polished rifle rested across the saddle in front of him. His black hair, escaping from his cap, hung loosely upon his shoulders, giving him at times a strange and picturesque wildness. His complexion was considerably bronzed from constant exposure to all kinds of weather. His hazel eyes were now gazing vacantly at the horizon, and his mind was lost in a deep wandering, that: nearly excluded all external objects from his view. His horse, a diminutive. specimen of the Canadian breed, although capable of bearing much fatigue, now gave palpable signs of weariness ; his dappled haunches glistening in the te ae a es a LOST ON THE PRAIRIE. 7 sun’s fiery rays like polished ebony, while the foam and froth was constantly dripping from beneath the saddle, as he patiently and slowly plodded forward. Such an appearance did George Summerfield present as he was journeying over the prairie. ‘¢ Heavens !” exclaimed he, collecting his thoughts and gazing about him, “‘when will this horrid scene change ! Here I have been travelling since daylight, over this dreadful ocean of earth, and not a solitary island has yet appeared. I am half tortured to death with thirst, while poor Ned here is suffering still more. Have patience, Ned,” he added, fondly patting the horse upon the neck, who was, indeed, siffering more than bis master. ‘‘Curses on those infernal fellows,” muttered he; ‘1 doubt whether I shall ever sce their ugly faces again, and a precious pretty scrape lam in. ‘Two or three thousands of miles from home, with no neighbours but the cowardly Indians, who, I doubt not, would be glad to make my acquaintance. But who shall I blame but myself for this ? Heavens! what a fate this would be; out on this baking prairie, to be tortured to death by this consuming thirst. God avert such a terrible death !” The horse stopped now and then to pluck the yellow blades of grass, and at last turned to lick the froth from his steam- ing sides. Summerfield restrained him. , “Don’t do that, Ned, though God knows that you axe suffering! It will only aggravate your thirst the more.” The animal ceased, and his rider rose in his stirrups, and anxiously swept the horizon. It was growing late in the afternoon, and he began to be alarmed for himself. He felt sure that he should die unless he soon \discovered water, Suddenly, as he gazed to the right, his eye flashed, and he started. “Thank heaven, there’s a gail in this infernal ocean, and close at hand, too!” he exclaimed, as his eye rested upon the mellow outlines of a grove of trees in the distance. ‘What could have prevented me from seeing those tings 8 ON THE PLAINS. before? They must have been in sight for the last half hour, while Ned and I have almost given up in despair. Relief is close at hand.” Summerfield, although quite an experienced hunter, had, however, sadly miscalculated the distance. It was full an hour before he approached near enough to distinguish the branches of the different trees ; and as he saw their fresh and blooming appearance, he felt sure that such a thing could not exist unless the roots were well supplied with water. “And yet,” he muttered, as the sickening thought pre- sented itself, ‘‘ suppose that I should be disappointed, what a death awaits me. I never could leave the spot, and poor Ned would die immediately.” As he rapidly approached the place, his anxiety became fearfully intense. He listened to hear the noise of running water, and when he heard it not, despite himself, an awful doubt would enter his mind. His horse’s instinct, however, was infallible; and, as the latter quickened his pace and ascended the swell upon the edge of the grove, a bright, sparkling stream of water was seen gushing slowly along within a few feet of him. With a shout he sprang from his horse, and they simul- taneously leaped into the refreshing element. As he quaffed _ the cool, refreshing fluid, he was fairly delirious with joy. _ It seemed that a death by drowning was the greatest bliss _ that a mortal could be given, and he covered himself with the limped water, and was really insane with his excess of pleasure. Summerfield, however, soon satisfied his desires, and, like an ordinary human being, laughed at his own ridiculous mani- festations. “¢ Hold on, Ned,” said he ; “‘ it won’t do for you to drink so much at first. It is dangerous, and you must be re- strained.” So saying, he led his horse from the water, upon the swell, and, holding his rein, gazed out on the prairie. The sun was now low in the heavens, and the air was becoming :e A NOVEL INTRODUCTION. 9 cooler and more tolerable. He saw no sign of animal life, and was about to turn to the grove, when the sharp crack of a rifle burst from the green spot, and a bullet whizzed within half-an-inch of his eyes ! “‘ Heavens! that was a close rub!” ejaculated Summer- field, cocking his rifle and gazing toward the grove in the hope of seeing his enemy. But no form was visible, and he began to feel rather uneasy in his situation. After waiting a few moments, helowered his rifle, and, at the same instant, another was discharged, and, as a slight puff of wind struck his face, one of his black curls dropped to his feet, severed by the leaden messenger. He turned quickly, and saw a thin wreath of smoke slowly rising from the edge of the grove. “ There’s a venture, at any rate!” said he, hastily dis- charging his rifle at the point where he supposed was his hidden foe. Ashe commenced re-loading, he saw the underwood be- come agitated, and the next instant a large, powerfully-built man stepped forth in full view. Summerfield gazed at him with mixed wonder and admiration. His form was one of the most noble and commanding that he had ever seen. His small eyes glistening beneath his shaggy, projecting brows, seemed ever restless with excitement. His jetty black beard, although long and uncombed, had yet an appearance of har- mony with the rest of his dress. As he moved, the swelling ridges of muscles showed what terrible strength was concen- trated in his frame. Yet he was graceful, and, when occa- sion required, was as lightning-like in his movements as the famished panther. His dress was similar to Summerfield’s, save that it ap- peared to be. made more for strength and durability. In his left hand he held a long, formidable-looking rifle, whose barrel glistened and shone in the sun’s departing rays as he slowly changed his position. The handle of a finely-carved scalping knife was visible, and, take him all in all, the hunter was a man whose ill-will was dangerous to any one. 40 ON THE PLAINS. ‘Tt seems to me,” said Summerfield, ‘ that you are rather reckiess with your shots. You made me wink rather suddenly a short time since.” *¢ Wal, stranger, I ain’t a feller what makes many mis- shots.” <* Will you allow me to inquire your object in thus sending your shots so close to me?” “Wal, stranger, that hyer’s the manner I generally says ‘ How d’you do? when I come across folks what I doesn’t know.” ‘A rather peculiar fashion of yours.” ‘ Tt’s the one I allers uses, and what I allers ca’culate to. What mought your handle be, stranger ?” *« Summerfield—George Summerfield is my name, I suppose you will have no objection to giving me yours ?” “¢ How come you to be trampin’ out in these parts ?” ‘*T left the States some weeks ago in company with three others, with the intention of accompanying them upon a trapping expedition. Yesterday, in the excitement of a chase, I lost them altogether, and have not seen a sign of them since.” “Yer a green one, no mistake, in these parts.” “¢T have been here before, and am not an inexperienced hunter, although I am young. I have been in several brushes with Indians, and trust that I am not what, upon further acquaintance, you will term green. But, my good friend, allow me again to inquire your name.” ; “ ?’'m known in these parts by the name of Vic Vannoven.” “JT have heard you spoken of as a great hunter and trapper, that—” ' . Thar, that’ll do. Just hold on with that stuff.” “ Way, Mr.—” “ Hold on agin,” exclaimed the hunter, with an angry gesture ; ‘‘T don’t own that last handle. Jus please to drap it altogether when I’m spoken to, and never mind about stuffin’ me with that other stuff. It goes agin my stummick altogether.” a FORMING A CONDITIONAL FRIENDSHIP. Ta “Well, Vic, then, I have heard cf you before, and assure you that Iam glad to meet you. I don’t feel entirely safe in this part of the country, with no companion but my horse. I suppose that you are alone ?” “T hain’t got no chaps hangin’ round me, but Polly, here, is worth a dozen. When she barks she bites; and I’ve got Porkypine, out here, that sleeps with me every night ; and us three makes as big a company as I wants.” ‘Then I suppose 7 would rather be freed from my society 1?” “Wal, Somefield, ef yer death on redskins, and that Polly of yourn’ll drop one without yer touchin’ it, and ef yer ain’t afeard of gittin’ yer ha’r lifted, and don’t mind sleepin’ out in a snow-storm, and ain’t womanish, why hyer’s a feller what'll stick to you.” ‘¢ Then we are friends henceforth. Now that I have your company, I do not feel the loss of my friends so much, al- though, if possible, I must soon see them.” ‘¢ Whar was it that you left ’em ?” “J have no idea; but, judging from the distance that I have travelled, I should suppose it somewhere in the neigh- bourhood of forty miles.” ‘¢ What kind of lookin’ place mought it be whar you seen 7em last ?” : ‘©T remember that it was at the junction of two streams, near a large grove of timber—” “T knows the spot, and now am purty sartain that yer green ; coz why, you’ve been trampin’ your old hoss to death to find ’em, and they hain’t been more’n a dozen miles off.” ‘Why, how can that be, when I have travelled a much greater distance ?” “Coz you’ve been trampin’ all’round it, without comin’ — to the pint ; and ef yer’d had yer eyes open you'd have scen it too.” : “Can we reach them to-night, then ?” We'll see ; but don’t let us «tand here talkin’ when yer hoss is wanderin’ off.” 2 ON THE PLAINS. Summerfield turned, and saw that his animal had strayed site a distance down the stream, tempted by the luxuriant vass that lined its edges. He gave him but a word, when he geturned and remained at a short distance, while he himself ‘rejoined the hunter, and together they entered the grove. After proceeding a short distance, they came upon the horse of Vannoven, which was contentedly plucking the grass with which the grove was carpeted. “¢ Hyer, pears is a fellow what wants to qullrate yer acquaintance.” The horse raised his head, and seemed to fully mudacsbaatll that he was addressed. “Somefield, it’s a gittin’ nigh onto feedin’ time, and I s’pose you wouldn’t mind helpin’. ’Pears to me that yer rags must set nice, bein’ you’ve been washin’ ’em with such pains,” said the hunter, with a half-mischievous and half- contemptuous expression of his countenance. “That was a foolish piece of business,” returned Somer- field, blushing with shame at the weakness which he had manifested about the water. “But,” added he, ‘‘I was perfectly insane with the thirst that was burning me up. Heavens ! I never wish such an experience again.” ‘The shades of night were now rapidly setting over the prairie, and the grove had already become dark and gloomy, Vannoven commenced making preparations for a fire, while Summerfield returned to picket his horse for the night. This done, he again returned to his newly-made friend. He had a. bright fire burning and crackling, and yet so concealed and screened that it could not be seen from any point in the grove, until directly upon it. A huge piece of meat was spitting and frying over the blaze, while the hunter was reclining upon the ground, leisurely watching it. As Summerfield approached, he arose, and removing the meat, severed it into two equal portions, and tossing him one, remarked :— : ‘‘Thar’s the last of one of the finest bufflers I ever dropped.” Summerfield, like a true hunter, relished the steaming y NIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE. 33 moat, and devoured it without the least ceremuny or further preparation. This hearty meal was partaken of in silence. he hunter arose, and scattering the brands, so as to ex- tinguish the fire, again seated himself upon the ground. “Do you not fear the approach of an enemy during the night ?” asked Summerfield. “Not much. I’d like to see the red what could git near me while I’s ’sleep, without Porky smellin’? him; and me and Porky has no secrets,” added the hunter, with pride. ‘Do you generally wander alone over this dangerous country ?” ‘¢T don’t know what you mean by alone ; but ef yer mean fellers, why I kin tell yer I hain’t had much company fur the last ten year.” ‘¢ May I be allowed to inquire your reasons for leading such a strange life?” asked Summerfield, beginning to feel an interest in him. ** It would take too long ;—not now,” he returned, relaps- ing into a thoughtful silence, which Summerfield thought it best not to disturb. CHAPTER II. THE NIGHT-STORM, A BEAUTIFUL night settled slowly over the prairie. The air seemed to possess an unnatural brilliancy and clearness, and the countless myriads of stars glittered in glorious splendour. The Pleiades, Orion, and other constellations, blazed in wondrous strength and brightness, and the whole canopy of heaven had a gorgeous magnificence that was in- deed wonderful. Summerfield lay on his back, gazing in rapt wonder and admiration upon the spangled vault above him. In a short time there came occasional puffs of wind, which gradually grew stronger and stronger, and upon Summerfield luvckingupward again through the branches, he observed that the stars were slowly becoming obscured, while heavy clouds 14 ON THE PLAINS. -were rolling tumultuously through the heavens. Although the heat of the day had been suffocating, it was now uncom- fortably chilly, and was growing more so each moment. Suddenly, several faint flashes illumined the sky, and pre- sently the rumbling peals reverberated overhead. ‘“‘This is goin’ to be a reg’lar snorter,” remarked the hunter, quietly. “ That’s certain. See how the branches are swaying. Here it comes !” As he spoke, the sky opened.like one sheet of fire, and almost simultaneously with it came a crash of thunder tha’; made the prairie tremble for miles around. Its awful voice, slowly rolling away through the heavens, sounded like the rumbling of chariot-wheels ; and then the plain was light- ened up, and shone out with sudden and vivid distinctness, and falling rain glittered like the spears of an immense army. Again and again, with appalling rapidity, came the terrific bursts of thunder, and the rain rattled like hailstones through the branches overhead. Summerfield had never before wit- nessed such an awful storm, and for awhile was overcome by feelings of awe and sublimity. ‘‘Kiver up and snooze,” exclaimed the hunter, “‘or you mought git wet !” He wisely took the warning, and was not long in stowing himself away in his impenetrable blanket. The fall of the rain lasted but a short time, and Summer- field uncevered his face and gazed around him. All was of an inky blackness, save when thé lightning darted through the grove. Then the wet trunks glistened coldly, and the water shone with a glittering light; and when some gust of wind stronger than usual swayed the trees, they sent down a perfect deluge of water. The storm was as short as it was fierce. In half-an-hour more not a drop of water was falling, and only a faint flash of lightning could be seen at intervals. Summerfield, now that the deafening tumult around him had ceased, fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. This had lasted about an hour, > > AN ALARM—INJINS ! 15 _ when he was aroused by fecling a jerk at his blanket. He looked around, but saw nothing in the darkness. “¢ What’s the matter ?” he asked, in a whisper. ‘sh! keep quiet,” returned the hunter, in the same tone. ¢ Any trouble ?” ‘Ym afraid so. Injins are about, purty sure.” ‘¢ What! in the grove here ?” “Yas, cuss it, yas; you ain’t scar’t, are, you? I thort I’d let you know my. ’spishions,’ cause ef I didn’t you mought get into a muss without knowin’ it. ‘Thar goes Porky agin !” Ashe spoke Summerfield heard his horse give a faint whinny and a stamp, which convinced him that the trapper’s suspicions were well grounded. “Just keep docile now,” admonished the trapper, as he stole away. He crept carefully over the moist earth, and in a few minutes reached his horse. ‘What’s up, Porky?’ he asked, rising and placing his head close to his ear as he spoke. The animal gave another. whinny, and, dark as it was, Vannoven saw a body glide out of sight in the darkness, Quick as thought, he sprang behind a tree, and demanded in a loud and imperative tone : ¢ White or red ?” In a second came the answer :— “White. If that ain’t Vic Vannoven, then skin me !” “That you, Jim?” queried the hunter, in turn, as the familiar voice struck his ear. ‘*Come out here and show your carease.” : The next minute the two hunters met with genuine and unfeigned pleasure. “What the dickens yer doin’ here ?” demanded Vie, good humouredly. *¢ And what are you doin’ here?” esi the other in turn. ‘Why don’t you ax me, Jim Wandaught, what I’m allers doin’ in these parts. Yer knows well ’nough. I’ve been trampin’ round, and happened to drop aown hyer to-day, and 16 ON THE PLAINS. seein’ as how thar’s gwine to be a reg’lar ring-tail roarer of a storm, a thinks I, ‘Ole Vic, yer’d better stick hyer till it’s over ;’ and so I squatted till you come a nosin’ ’round.” “Wal, me ’n Sam an’ ’nother nigger war out when we see the Blow gettin’ ready, and made tracks fur this place, but war catched afore we got to it.” “Didn’t yer have anybody with yer ’cept Sam an’ tuther chap ?” ; “Yes ; thar war a chap what called himself Summerfield —one 0’ those from the States that don’t know nothin’.” “That's what I thort. He come ’round here ’while ago, and bein’ kindy clever, I let ’im sleep in my bed with me.” “Tn your bed? Wagh! wagh !” “Yas; in my bed. Don’t yer know nothin’, Jim? In the woods hyer, I mean ; that’s my bed. He’s green!” “Yes; he wanted to come so bad that I couldn’t help it, “cavse I’s fraid he mought boo-hoo himself to death ef I left him behind. He’s a greeny ; no mistake.” These compliments to Summerfield were spoken in a tone loud enough for him to hear, and, as may be supposed, there was not much danger of his trying to impress his companions with any exalted ideas of his own prowess and knowledge of _ border life after that. Jim and Vic conversed for a few moments more, when the former started out to bring in his companions. , They were snugly esconced in the thicket, and soon joined Vic and Summerfield, to the seeming satisfaction of all. It was a pleasant reunion after a day of exhausting riding. Let us, before proceeding further with our story, refer more particularly to those collected there in that picturesque group—each relating his story of news and adventure. George Summerfield, of Missouri, has been referred to, and with a remark or two we will let him pass. He was the son of wealthy parents, who died in his childhood, leaving him with no relation except a sister a few years younger than himself. Naturally of a roving, careless disposition, he had only entered college to gratify a wish that his father had. SUMMERFIELD, VANNOVEN, AND WANDAUGHT. 17 expressed om his deathbed. After graduation, he returned home, and spent a year in doing nothing in particular, but reading and hunting. The next year he spent in travelling — with his sister over the Atlantic States, and returned home again without any definite object in view. One morning at breakfast, he told his sister he should take a tramp among the Indians, just for the fun of the thing. Then he hurried to Independence, gave a trapper a hundred dollars to permit him to accompany him, and the next day was out on the prairies, half galled to death on an old pack-horse! He determined to brave it out like a hero, however—and he did. He was gone about nine months, and was given a good taste of wild adventure on the Northern trapping grounds. After this, he remained at home for five or six months, when he determined to make one more journey to the plains ; and for this he was wise enough to make some pre- paration. He purchased his own horse, aud took Seth Potter along with him. At Independence, he selected his own trapper—Jim Wandaught ; a selection that he never regretted. As might be supposed, his sister opposed his entire determination; but he succeeded in gaining her consent, and with a light heart he bade good-bye to his native State, and turned his face toward the great prairies of the Far West. Victor Vannoven was both a trapper and a guide, although for the last year or two he had not served in the latter capacity, and preferred to be only the former. Most of his life had been spent upon the prairies. He said he had no brothers, sisters, or parents, or if he had them, did not know them. For a number of years he had made most of his trapping journeys with no companion but his horse. Once or twice he and Wandaught had gone in company, but he generally preferred to be alone, and sometimes he would be gone for two years at a time. He was generally reserved and distant towards strangers, and his nature was never understood until a long companionship had gained his frindship. As we intend to make a companion of him, we 18 ON THE PLAINS. shall omit a disquisition at present upon his many failures and virtues, and leave them to develop themselves as our acquaintance with him progresses. Jim Wandaught, a trapper, born in St. Joseph, Missouri, was now about thirty years of age. He was rather below the medium stature, with a fine, compact frame, as agile and powerful as a panther. He always wore a cap that came down to his eyebrows, and fitted so closely that, at a short distance, it might easily be supposed that he had no covering at all upon his head. His eyes were of a light grey, and their power was so famous that many of his acquaintances termed him ‘‘ Eagle Eyes.” His hair was of dark grizzled colour, and so short that it was rarely seen except when his cap was removed. No beard graced his face, except along, yellow tuft upon his chin, the rest being as smooth as an infant’s. Te was good natured, always communicative, and rarely taking offence at a slight or intended insult. He had ex- perienced an incredible number of hair-breadth escapes and wild adventures, and his fund of anecdote was exhaustless. He was frank, open-hearted, and a man that could never be a hypocrite. He possessed a rifle of exactly his own length, from which he was never known to be separated, and whose qualities he could never laud too highly. There were many points of resemblance between him and Vannoven. He did not possess the great strength and majestic form of the latter, but he was more fleet cf foot, and his nature lay more upon the surface ; it could be seen at once. Seth Potter, as the reader has probably surmised, was a companion of Summerfield, whose father had adopted and 2 reared him. He was over six feet in height, very lank and cadaverous, and with a form excessively crooked. His head and neck projected forward, and when he stood, as was his custom, with his arms folded behind him, his knees bent backward, so that his legs had the appcarance of half-strung bows, his whole ody resembling the letter S. His features were rather pleasant than otherwise, having a mild blue eye, and an ingenuous, half-comical expression. His nose was SRT aA AEE ES PEI ape al SETH POTTER AND REDZEL. 19 very long, and his prominent cheek-bones prevented every- one except himself from supposing he had a right to ley claim to any good looks. His hair was long and yellow, his limbs . long and bony, and his whole appearance that of a wiry, nervous, and ungainly person ; yet there were few men pf the West who could get over so much ground in so little time. Give him rough, uneven surface, and there was not an Indian but what he could easily overtake—provided his wind lasted. Sam Redzel had been Wandaught’s companion for a year or two, and was as different in every respect as could possibly be imagined. He was somewhat taller, had fiery red hair, whiskers of the same hue, that grew in patches, on his cicatrized face; an eye that glittered like a coiled black snake underneath his shaggy eyebrows. He was taciturn and sullen, often refusing to answer a direct question. The sight of one eye had been destroyed, and, being of a milk- white colour, and always half open, it rendered his appear- ance more repulsive than it would have otherwise beem He had a habit of leering with his one eye, and of always contracting his brows, that gave one the idea that he possessed a hidden, deceitful nature. Whatever might be his character, it was plain that ib possessed not half the good qualities of either Vannoyen or Wandaught. CHAPTER III. A BAD CHARACTER. As the bright rays of the approaching sun pierced the foliage of the grove, the trappers were astir, and making preparations for the journey that was before them. As the destination of the five hunters was the same, it was agreed by all to keep company for a few days at least. The eccentric Vannoven had made up his mind to trap alone, and he was was fully determined that none should share his com- pany. Summertield, with his companions, were on their way north toward the trapping grounds, and from Vannoyen he . 20. ON THE PLAINS. learned that they would trap within forty or fifty miles of him. Yet, as we have said, he would accept of no company, and assured the rest that he should part with them in three or four days at the most. About the middle of the afternoon, Wandaught, who was riding considerably in advance of the rest, suddenly halted and raised his hand above his head. “ What’s the word ?” asked Vannoven. i“ Sign,” returned Wandaught. *¢ What?” “ Kioways, and a big party.” “Which way !” “Hast, and comin’ this way too.” ‘¢ Close on us ?” “‘Not very. They’ve bin round all the afternoon.” ‘Seen us.?” “Guess not, but we’ll have to show ourselves purty soon. Thar’s "bout oalyy or fifty on ’em, and they’re goin’ "bout as fast as we are.” “T s’pose we’ll have to get into another sia? exclaimed Seth indignantly. “You needn’t be afeard, Crooked Pegs,” sneered Redzel, ** that shootin’ iron would scare all of ’em to death, providin’ _ yer didn’t lose it.” “Tecan tell you, if you were among them you would find thero was no danger of my losing it, nor of the bullet losing the mark either,” retorted Seth, stung to the quick by the contemptuous remarks of Redzel. ‘‘Come,” interposed Summerfield, ‘this is child’s play.” “Mr. Greeny, wait till yer axed to put in your blab,” said Redzel ; and then to Seth, “How d’yer manage, gawky, to wabble ’bout on them pegs ?” zi FaVery oy, 1 s’pose, as you may yet manage to see,” “Come, don’t: give 1 me none of yer talk,” exclaimed the trapper, ee ‘Bah’! I'd like to know whether you think—” F urther utterance was orrt,short by acrashing blow directly $ + j q THE QUARREL BETWEEN THE HUNTERS, 21 in the mouth of Seth. He staggered back a pace or two, when as he tasted the blood he clubbed his rifle, and before even his assailant divined his intention, brought a murderous blow upon the head of Redzel that felled him like an ox. Summerfield sprang forward to interfere, as he saw the bloody track of Seth’s rifle ; but in spite of him, his assailant ‘arose and leaped toward Seth. The blood was streaming down his face, adding a ghastly intensity to his passion, while Seth stood quivering and perfectly white with rage. ‘Let them have it out,” said Wandaught, stepping back and complacently viewing them. ‘Yes, if they’re fools enough to fight and scratch, why, I says, let ’em doot,” added Vannoven. “This is a fine state of affairs,” exclaimed Summerfield, bitterly. ‘* We are even now discovered by our enemies, and these two fools must employ their time in using their strength upon each other. If I can prevent it I shall.” He seemed as excited as the two combatants, and ap- proached them with a determined air. Stepping forward, he placed his foot upon the breast of Seth, who was under, and almost throttled by his adversary, and concentrating his strength, gave a powerful jerk. The tivo separated, and, yielding to an impulse, he flung Redzel a dozen feet from him. The latter sprang to his feet, and, like a demon, leaped toward him. Vannoven and Wandaught, however, seized and held him. “Come, Sam,” said the latter, ‘‘ you’ve done ’bout enough. Yow’re makin’ a fool of yourself.” “‘Let me alone; I'll have the blood of both of ’em, I swear. ‘They shall both die!” “ Come, come, that’s plenty now.” But the infuriated man heeded no advice, but catching a rifle, cocked it, and raised it to his shoulder. Wandaught just knocked the barrel upward as it was discharged, and the bullet passed so close to Summerfield’s head, that he invo- luntarily started. He said nothing, but caught Seth who was again starting for him. 22 ON THE PLAINS. Redzel, seeing that he was prevented from doing noes gave vent to an oath, and sprang upon his horse. “Remember, you'll hear of me agin !” said he to Summer- field and Seth, as he struck his horse into a gallop across the plain. “Yas, and I reckon you'll hear of me about that time !” returned Seth. The four stood and watched him as he eee galloping away. Once or twice he turned his head and made a threaten- ing gesture, but said nothing. “There goes a dangerous enemy ! he turned and mounted his animal. “¢ That’s so,” said Wandaught. ‘‘Sam’ll remember you as long as he lives.” “Yes, and Ill remember him,” replied Seth furiously. “Tm sorry it’s happened,” said Vic; “‘but Sam has no one to blame but himself for it.” “The precious fool ought to have been shot long ago,” added Summerfield. ‘If he ever has a chance to revenge himself upon us, he will most certainly do it. I expected, when I caine across him at Independence, that we should have trouble with him. I wonder how Jim ever got along with him so long.” “J allers had to yumer him, and bear a good ’eal !” “Wal, we’re likely to have trouble from other ones,” added Vannoven, with a significant emphasis, looking at the same time in the direction in which the signs of danger had been seen. It was now growing late in the afternoon, and after a few minutes’ consultation, it was decided to move forward a wile or two, where Wandaught said was a small stream of water. It was necessary to proceed with the utmost caution, as it was more than probable that they had already been se2n by the Indians, and the peril was indeed imminent. The company reached the stream spoken of, and com- menced making pieparations for passing the night. The spot possessed little advantage, although a great many disad: ” said Summerfield, as PREPARING TO RECEIVE THE {NDIANS. 23 vantages. It was in a depression in the plain, which formed a sort of breastwork around them ; and yet there was not the smallest tree to afford them a chance to conceal them- selves. The open prairie bounded them on all sides, and in case they were attacked by the war party, it can be seen that their chance was poor indeed. Just as they halted the sun sunk below the horizon, and darkness commenced settling over the earth. The four animals of the trappers were picketed a few yards up the bed of the stream, so as to give notice of the approach of a foe from that direction, while it was determined that Jim and Vic should act sentinels through the night. In answer to Summerfield’s inquiries, Vic informed him that the Kioways were not far distant, and that in all probability, they would be attacked before the morning dawned. There was no danger to be apprehended before late in the night, and Jim kindled a fire without hesitation, for the pur- pose of cooking their supper. This done, they partook of it leisurely, extinguished the fire, and then began to make pre- parations in earnest. Vic passed a short distance down the stream, while Jim went out on the prairie and reclined upon the ground; and at Summerfield’s earnest request, he was allowed to go a short distance in the opposite direction. Thus Seth lay down securely guarded upon all sides. CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST RACE FOR LIFE. It must have been considerably past. midnight before the slightest sign of danger was heard. Summerfield had fallen _ into a sort of half-asleep and half-awake state, when the » nerves are painfully sensitive, when he heard a peculiar whistle from Vannoven. It was slight, yet full of warning. He was about to start to waken Seth, when Wandanght touched him. ““_sh !” he whispered. ‘I’ve woke Seth. Thar’ll be somethin’ dun shortly.” 24 ON THE PLAINS. “Indians ?” “‘Yaas; they've been creepin’ around for the last two hours. Thar ar about twenty or thirty only, and they tried to come down stream first; but they found they couldn’ get past the animals, and they’re coming up from below.” ‘Well, what is going to be done?’ * Vic is down thar, and he’ll let us know how matters ar goin’ long. We ain’t sartin of thar number, but they can’t be over twenty-five. If they’re less, I ca’culate there’ll be sum fun here, for we ain’t gwine to show sich a number our heels.” ‘« Suppose there are more ?” ““We must mount and make tracks. We’ll move out to where Seth is, and wait for signals from Vic. If he says that thar ar too many, we'll get on the hosses and wait for him; but if he wants to show fight we’ll wait for sarcumstances to develop themselves. Move still.” So saying, Wandaught commenced walking in a very prone position, while Summerfield followed with the silence of death. In a few seconds, they reached Seth, when there came a suppressed whistle from Vic. “ They’re close on to us,” whispered Jim. In a second or two the same signal was repeated twice. “ He’s goin’ to show fight! See that you’re ready.” As he uttered these words, the rifle of Vannoven cracked, and they heard him yell :— ‘*Give’m blazes—the sneakin’ devils,” and the shouts and howls of the savages mingled with those of the hunter, At the same instant Wandaught leaped forward, followed by Seth and Summerfield, who in a few moments were in about as hot water as any one could wish. It was so dark that the Indians could only be seen when directly upon them; then they appeared like shadowy demons darting to an fro in agony. There was constantly the reports of rifles, and some- times by the lurid flashes the hideously-distorted features of the combatants ‘could be seen ; then again all would be struggling furiously in the impenetrable night. 7 ae? & A FIGHT WITH THE INDIANS. 25 Summerfield, when he rushed blindly into the fight, came s0 violently in collision with a gigantic Indian, that the rebound threw him backward upon the ground, and before he could rise his swarthy enemy was upon him. ‘There is no doubt of what his fate would have been, had not Seth come to his aid at the critical moment. Clubbing his rifle, he brought so terrible a blow upon the savage’s head, that the skull was literally shattered to pieces. The Indian roiled to the ground without a struggle. Summerfield sprang to his feet and mingled in the fierce affray. The contest was as short as it was terrible. The assailants had not counted upon such a reception, and could not stand before the fury of the trappers. They had expected to find them off their guard, and hoped to scalp them without any serious trouble ; but they found their fatal mistake when half their number were slain, and, setting up a mingled howl of rage and disappointment, broke and fled in wild confusion. ‘*Wach ! wagh! that’s what this chap calls fun,” laughed Wandaught. ‘Bother it! it’s through too soon. Why it’s done before it commences,” said Seth, panting with a perfect fever. “You needn’t be disapinted, for you'll see ’nough of this *fore you see the States agin, I can tell yer,” answered Vic. ¢ Anybody hurt ?” *¢ We’ve all got some scratches, but nothin’ worth speakin’ on, less it’s Seth here.” ‘¢ Oh, I ain’t hurt much, though I felt more’n one knife.” ‘¢ Well, what shal] be done?” asked Summerfield. ‘“‘ Shall we build a fire ?” ‘* We can’t build a fire, that’s sartin, and I opine that we hadn’t better wait till mornin’. Them wasn’t all the red- skins that ar about these parts. My idee is to mount hosses while night is hyer, and leave for other parts.” ‘¢That’s the talk,” added Vannoven. ‘‘ You fellers just go bring the animals round, while me and Jim lifts hair.” As Summerfield had no desire to assist in the disgusting ope- ration, he willingly went for the horses. He feared that tney 26 ON THE PLAINS. had left during the confusion, but they were all used to such scenes, and had not moved. Taking Vannoven’s animal, the others followed, until he came to where the two hunters were busy at their revolting work. They were joking roughly as they stooped, and, seizing the prostrate forms by the ti ft upon the head, ran the keen point around it, and jerked it rudely off. k **Your horses are ready.” “Yes, I see. Ain’t that beautiful?” asked Wandaught, holding up several scalps. Summerfield made no reply ; for, although he felt a sickening sensation at the sight of the scalps, he thought it best not to express his opinion ; but he could not help recoiling, when, on account of the darkness, they were held so close to his face as to nearly touch it. “Oh, you néedn’t be squeamish,” added Jim. ‘* You've got to git used to sich things. I should think you'd travelled enough in these parts to know the way to handle wild beasts.” “Now, Vic, you lead the way,” continued Wandaught, as they all mounted. ‘ Without replying, the hunter moved forward, and the rest followed. They had gone a mile or so, when the faint streaks of grey in the east showed that the day was close at rand, “ Blow me to cinders,” suddenly exclaimed Wandaught, “ef yonder ain’t the whole lot!” Turning their eyes toward the south, they saw as many as _a hundred mounted Indians rapidly galloping toward them. They were coming without any regard to order, and their number appeared very much greater—so great that the four hunters concluded at once that their only hope of safety lay in their horses, and that, could they not distance their pursuers, there was little chance of ultimate escape.” “Thar’s a long run for us!” said Wandaught, “shall we separate, or keep together ?” The savages were coming from the south-east, and the trappers changed their direction so as to move in the same— toward the north-west. Vannoven took the lead, and his THE RACE FOR LIFE. at horse sprung away, seemingly conscious of the threatened danger. Tt was now plain to both the pursuers and the pursued that victory must rest with the horse which showed the best speed and endurance. Vannoven and Wandaught’s steeds started off on a steady gallop—such as they were capable of continuing for many hours, while Summerfield and Seth judged it prudent to save the strength of theirs, and consequently they gradually fell some distance behind the former. This had been con- tinued but a short time when they saw that their speed must be increased, for the Indians were perceptibly gaining. Loosing the reins, they shortly came up beside the two old hunters, who seemed to feel no concern at all about the state of things. Nothing was said for some time, when Wan- daught remarked :— *¢ They’re gainin’. Heigh !” The latter exclamation was to his horse, which instantly thrust its head forward, and increased its awkward but rapid gait. Vannoven’s imitated him without any command, and the other two did the same. The race now began to assume a serious character to all parties. Far behind could be seen the picturesque and fan-. tastic figures of the Indians, slowly but steadily and surely gaining upon the trappers. Vannoven’s animal was lumber- ing along on a sort of half trot and canter, with his nose pointing directly ahead and his thin tail projecting in such a manner that it was nearly a straight line from it to his ears. A foot or two behind him was Wandaught. He seemed conscious of their perilous situation, and now and then cast hurried glances behind. Summerfield felt the most anxiety of any; not that he was possessed of less courage, but because he had good reason. He well knew that his animal was not one that could bear such travelling for along time. Sooner or later he must break, and his heart throbbed pain- fully as he even now saw unmistakeable signs of weariness. He, however, remained calm, devoting his whole attention 28 - ON THE PLAINS. to the management of his noble beast. Now and then he found it necessary to draw the rein, as he plunged too im- .petuously forward. He, however, maintained his position between Wandaught and Vannoven, neither gaining nor losing ground. Seth said nothing to any one excepting his own horse, which he was constantly admonishing to travel a little faster, to keep steady, and not let himself be overtaken by the merciless savages. Thus the four moved regularly and swiftly forward. Steadily the distance lessened between the pursuers and the pursued. The savages felt confident of success, and now and then gave vent to fierce, exultant yells. * Heigh !” exclaimed Jim, ‘‘ we’ve got to let our hosses do their best !” As he spoke, his horse and Vannoven’s simultaneously leaped forward, increasing their gait very greatly indeed. Seth’s did the same, while the speed of Summerfield’s re- mained unchanged. The latter saw this, and, hesitating a moment, suddenly turned to the left, and urged his horse into a full run. “Good-bye all!” he said, cheerfully. ‘‘Look out for yourselves, I’m in a tight place, and can’t keep with you !” _ He smiled pleasantly as they looked wonderingly at him, and warned back Seth, who turned to follow. The three saw that his movement was the wisest course, and they lost no time in idle words, but kept upon their own way. “* Now, Ned,” said Summerfield, “‘ do your best for awhile. Our safety depends upon you; and if you only show the rascally savages your true metal, we'll give them the slip — yet.” As he gazed back he could see at least a dozen Indians in full chase. Mile after mile flew under the feet of the pursuer and pursued. For half-an-hour Summerfield distanced his foes ; then for a time the space separating him from them remained unchanged, but now he saw too plainly that his animai- was giving out! The savages were gaining rapidly and surely. THE EMIGRANTS--SAVED ! a Nobly and painfully, however, did his animal struggle for his master. “QO God!” exclaimed Summerfield, ‘‘ am I destined to die upon this friendless prairie? Is there no avenue of escape! Save, Lord, or I perish ! ” Several times he thought of surrendering without further effort; but he too well knew the consequences of such a course, and still clung tenaciously to the faint hope that yet remained. Suddenly he saw that he was saved! Directly ahead of him, he detected the white tops of a number of emigrant waggons. It was the Oregon trail they were pursuing across the continent, and he well knew that strong and friendly arms were there. Although far ahead, he despaired not of reaching them, but urged his horse again forward. Soon he could see the dark forms of the animals and men of the train, and he raised a shout—a shout that reached both friends and foes. The latter returned it, and fired their guns at him ; and seeing that their prey had passed safely beyond their reach, they halted, paused a moment, and galloped away. CHAPTER V. THE EMIGRANTS. THERE are times when it seems that Providence interposes directly in our behalf. We are sometimes almost tempted to. believe that the days of miracles have not yet gone from earth, and are assured that hardly a person lives who cannot point to some day when the hand of his Creator was made visible—when he felt that something more than mere circum- stances governed his destiny. When a man is brought so near death as to despair of life, and is then saved, he is certainly in the best frame of mind to believe thus; and if ever a fervent prayer of thanks ascended to God, it did from George Summerfield’s heart as he rode forward toward the emigrant train. He couid not but believe his escape was miraculous. Be” ON THE PLAINS. His friends proved to be a company on their way to the wilds of Oregon. As may be supposed, they evinced no little surprise at our hero’s appearance among them, and over- whelmed him with questions and congratulations, all of which he pleasantly replied to, as his almost exhausted horse slowly made his way toward the centre of their train. They num- bered about a hundred, all told, and were well provided for the sufferings and dangers before them. “‘ Rather a narrow escape,” suggested one of their number, looking up in Summerfield’s face with a quiet smile. “Yes,” returned he, “‘ rather narrower than I care about experiencing again.” “ How far have you been coming at this rate ! ” **T can hardly tell. I suppose over a dozen miles. Had you been a mile or two farther, I should never have reached you.” ‘What is the prespect of their gathering for an attack on us, now that they have discovered our train ?” “ Very certain,” answered Summerfield. ‘‘ There are over one hundred Kioways in the band, out on the war-path, and you may expect them down upon you this very night.” 3 This alarming piece of intelligence was soon communicated through the company. Our hero felt nearly famished, and yielded to their solicita- tions to eat. The company having concluded to halt for the night, he dismounted, and seating himself upon the ground, waited for his food. He was weary with his long race, and the repose of security was not unwelcome to his spirits. He was at length aroused from his half sleep by a sweet voice bending over him. ; “Your food, Sir !” The young man sprang to his feet, as if the word ‘‘ Indian” had been whispered in his ear. There stood before him a very beautiful girl of eighteen, bearing in her hands a platter, on which steamed a savory repast. Instantly the blood shot to his heart like a thunderbolt; then it rebqunded and spread over his face like a sunset glow. He was confused, LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT. oL and tremblingly too he proffered d sh. [ is eyes met those of his fair purveyor, to find them struggling like his own to find some other object upon which to rest, yet, like the charmed bird, unable to look away. It was a moment of mutual surprise and embarrassment ; but why it should have been g0, neither knew. “Can I do anything more for you?” she at length ask esti hesitatingly. 3 h—ah—yes—as I was going to observe. I think so, too,” he replied, not knowing to what words he was giving utterance. He saw a quiet blush and smile upon the face before him, that disclosed the beautiful teeth she possessed, and convinced him that he was making a fool of himself. <¢T? you wish anything, Sir, just speak to this gentleman.” “* Hxcuse me !” he added, blushing and stammering like a boy. ‘I misunderstood you. I believe you spoke of the weather. Rather pleasant, I think. Don’t know but what we shall have a storm, however.” “TJ observed that if you wished anything, you had only to speak to the gentleman at hand,” she answered with a half- eoquettish expression. “Thank you, thank you, I will. My mind was so busy that I did not heed your remark. Excuse me, will you ?” “‘Oh, certainly, Sir. I supposed you were deeply medi- tating upon something,” she returned, turning and walking away. “Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the friend referred to, who had been curiously gazing at this interview. ‘‘I do believe now that you were struck. But you ain’t the first one, old boy ; and I s’pose it won’t do you no good, for she’s got enough fellers hangin’ on her lips. But blame me,” he added, sobering down, “I believe yow’re good lookin’ enough to cut out any chap yow’re a mind to.” Summerfield, as he saw that he had been observed, blushed deeply, and at the last remark he felt a throb of pain. He hoped that the man would go away; but, on the contrary, he walked closer, and added :— 32 ON THE PLAINS. “Don’t blame you much, for she is a fine gal, and no mistake.” ’ “Yes—don’t you think we’re going to have a storm ? “Ha! ha! ha! why, you’re green.” “‘T confess,” returned Summerfield, recovering himself, “that I was struck with her appearance, and was foolish enough, I suppose, to show it.” (However, this latter fact was far from not pleasing him.) “Wal, as I said, I don’t blame you much, for there are a great many fellers who’ve got themselves in the same fix.” “¢ May I inquire her name ?” “ NIGHT ATTACK UPON THE EMIGRANTS, 35 The night was intensely dark, so that an enemy might approach within a few feet without being discovered by the eye of the keenest hunter. Summerfield took the point from which he judged the onslaught would most probably be made, and brought the most subtle powers of his being inte play, in surmising the course that would most probably be pursued. He formed his conclusions, which in the end proved correct. Several times he was upon the point of darting to the waggon containing the females, for the purpose of reassuring them, but prudence restrained him, and he remained at his post. He did not know but that the Indians were waiting for some such negligence upon the part of the sentinels to commence the contest. They had done such things more than once before. Summerfield’s nearest friend was a few yards off, and of course invisible in the darkness. In about an hour the darkness seemed to lessen, so that objects could be distinguished a few feet distant. Summer- field had remained listening intently during this time, but hearing no sound of danger, he was about to risk a word with his friend, when he fancied he heard a noise as if of some one gliding upon the ground. He peered forward, and was certain that he saw a human form flat upon the - earta. He waited a moment and then saw it hitch forward, toward the next waggon. Hardly knowing what to make of this, he stepped forward toward it, when it suddenly leaped to its feet and sprang away. He would have fired had he been certain that it was a savage, but he feared that it was - one of the emigrants, who had adopted this ruse to see whether a proper watch was kept. However, as it was, he concluded to give the signal of danger, and accordingly, placing his hand to his mouth, he gave two short, trembling sounds, loud enough to be heard by all, and his surprise was great upon hearing it returned by several, thus showing that he was not the only one who had detected danger. He de- termined to speak to his neighbour. 2 ON THE PLAINS. ‘* Say, friend, have you heard—” Che rest of the sentence was drowned in a theusszid terrific yells and shrieks, that sent the blood shivering back to his heart! Then came the deafening crash of firearms, the whizzing of bullets, and shouts as though a legion of demons were struggling for life. He saw shadowy forms springing and leaping around him, and in a second he was in the midst of the fiercest fight that he ever witnessed. Some half a hundred Indians had made a rush, expecting to carry every- thing before them, but were received at the very muzzle of the rifle. The savages were determined to break through the circle, drive off the horses, and slaughter the women and children, and the whites inwardly swore that not one should accomplish this unless it was over their dead bodies. At the first second the guns were discharged, and drawing their knives, the two parties fought like tivers. Summerfield felt fired by the contest, and in a wild ecstszy of excitement Le leaped forward, and in an instant was grappling with a powerful swarthy savage. Together they rolled to the earth, the savage desperately enceayonring to wrench the rifle from Summerfield, who, straiyely enough, had not yet dis- charged it. Numbers rushed cvee ths prostrate writhing bodies, but noticed them not. Deforu they wele aware of it, day had risen to their feot, and still continued twisting and striving for the rifle. One band ef the savaye was closed around the barrel at about half the distance from the muzzle to the breech, and the other was upon the stock, while Summer- field’s right was apom the lock aud his left upon the end of the tacrel. Cuick as lightning he thrust his left hand for- eure, forelny the muzzle in ihe face of the savage, and raising tre Ne pes the rifle discharged its contents through tho red of tha savage ! : 14 Yiis Instant the Indians made a break and rushed into ‘the circle, and mow indeed commenced the struggie of lite and death! The whites well knew their situation, and -as fiercely and madly rushed they among them; thus in a mo- f ij = ap p= VIULA CARRIED OFY BY THE LNDLANS. ment they were driven tumuliuovaly back, with half. their number either dead or in their death agonies upon the ground. But this was not accomplished until the second. waggon had been reached and its inmates scattered ! _ Thinking that all hope was gone, many of the women and children rushed out, and in the confusion several were slain and captured, and among the latter was Viola Vennond! Summerfield had an instinctive knowledge or presenti- ment that she was in danger, and sprang toward the waggon. Just as he reached it, he heard his name called in frenzied accents, and turned to rush in the direction from which it came, when he felt that he was shot, and, as his brain reeled, he feil to the earth. When he recovered, the noise of the battle had entirely ceased, and in its place he heard the moans and struggles of the dying around him. As he arose to his feet, he found that he had been severely wounded in the side, but in the state of his feelings he felt but little pain. Several fires had been kindled ; the wounded were placed beside them, and guarded and watched by their mourning friends. Summer- field: passed hurriedly around the circle, and in answer tc his anxious inquiries was told that Viola, with several others, had been carried away by the Indians. It is true that this was what he had expected, yet he felt nearly overcome by the intelligence. He exaniined his own wound, and found that it was neces- sary to attend to it immediately. At last the morning broke and showed the full horrors of the night’s events, yet Summerfield was glad to find that it was not so bad as he had feared. It was found that but five of the emigrants had died, while nearly all of the rest were wounded, yet none mortally. Two females besides Viola had been carried away. Nearly twenty savages lay stark dead around, showing how dreadful and fearful -the contest. had been. About noon the train set out upon their gloomy march. Summerfield debated long whether to accompany them or 38 ON THE PLAINS. not, but at last decided to leave them. The distance to Oregon was great, and there was, in fact, nothing to draw him thither, while he experienced a desire not to leave the neigh- bourhood in which he supposed Viola to be. He believed that the tribe which had captured her was at no great distance, and that it was in his power to rescueher. Accord- ingly he bade his friends adieu, and changed his course more to the north, hoping to intercept or come upon Vannoven 4 the rest. oe lover—especially a young one—rarely posesses more .eason ‘and foresight than he should, and it was not at all dtrange that Summerfield should indulge in some wild and {mprobable speculations, and form wilder and more im- probable determinations. As soon as he was free from the caravan, he reined his horse into a slow walk, rested his arms upon his sides, and commenced meditating. It is not to be denied that hours flew past, yet found him undecided. Night drew slowly on, yet there was nothing in sight but the endless, boundless prairie. Casting a glance around the darkening horizon, and seeing nothing but the monotonous roll of the plain he halted, dis- mounted, and prepared for his comfortless rest. First, he turned his horse loose, cautioning him to remain within hailing distance, and then spread his blanket upon the earth. Then he looked at it a moment, and lying down upon one edge and coiling himself up, took hold of it with his hand, and rolling over several times, he was so completely wrapped up that nothing but his head was visible. His wound so pained him that he was compelled to lie in a certain position. He lay quietly, endeavouring to fall asleep, when his heart leaped as he heard, not far off, the sound of footsteps! At first he thought it might be his horse; but he was to well acquainted with his step to be deceived. He was confident that human beings were around him. It was they who had disturbed him. For a moment he hardly breathed, listening so intently. Then as a faint hope that he might not have been discovered ‘ SUMMERFIELD IN CAPTIVITY. 39 began to spring up, he felt some one pull rudelyat his blan- ket, and as it came off, he looked up and saw a number of dusky forms around him. “Eh, white! dog! burn!” said one, closing his bony fingers upon his arm like rods of iron, and actually lifting him to his feet. Summerfield said nothing, but suffered him- self to be led silently away. CCAP AEs NEL L: * CAPTIVITY. Peruars Summerfield’s state of mind may be imagined, az the overwhelming sense of his condition came upon him. His dejection and melancholy were painful, and he had, in fact, been suddenly hurled from his airy regions of bliss to the chilling reality of woe—a transition from hope to despair. His captors jerked him rudely forward, giving vent at in- tervals 4o fierce and malignant curses and threats in broken English ; and their expressions of hate and intended ven- geance were so constant, that he realised too well the fate intended for him. One of them had secured his horse, although all were mounted. He was placed upon one of the Indian beasts, and with a wary enemy upon either side, they broke into a canter and struck toward the south-west. Tke savages who had thus come upon and captured Sum- merfield belonged to the Pawnee tribe, and were a portion of a war party. They numbered but five, who had voluntarily separated themselves from the main body during the day, and were returning toward home, when they discovered a solitary horseman proceeding leisurely over the prairie. At first they were disposed to shoot him down, but, as he did not appear to know that he was observed, they concluded to capture him by stratagem if possible. Accordingly, they kept him in sight until night, when they set rapidly forward, and late in the night came directly upon him, sleeping upon the earth. One or two proposed to tomahawk and scalp him as he lay asleep ; but after a short consultation, it was deter- a ON THE PLAINS. mined to capture and reserve him for the torture. This was successfully accomplished, and they set out to-reach their tribe. The captors journeyed forward, after a time, without ex- changing words, in nearly a due north-west direction. In the afternoon, they forced several streams of considerable size, and reached a country of a much wilder and more ron.antic appearance than they had passed through heretofore. Just as the sun was setting, they reached the Indian vil- lage. It was composed of some thirty or forty rough wig- wams or lodges, arranged so as to fourm a rough, irregular street. As soon as the savages came in sight of it, they uttered three long echoing yells, which in a moment weie re- turned by a hundred lusty throats within the village. They then rode forward and entered it, and were surrounded by a multitude of women and children, jabbering and scrcam- ing like wild beasts. Summerfield they dragged mercilessly from his horse, and although they could not help observing his condition, yet he was subjected to all manner of barbari- ties. The women jerked and pushed him, the children be- laboured him with sticks, and pulled his hair from his head by the roots. He was nearly stripped, and underwent ail in- dignities possible. At first he was disposed to resist these liberties, but he saw that it was utterly useless, and made no effort or attempt. His captors had left him with the women and children, and gone on to the extremity of the village, and joined the rest of the warriors. Summerfield hoped that they would, after a while, take pity upon his condition, and let him remain. But he was mistaken. The evidences which he gave of suffering. only increased their fiendish delight, and they continued to torment him with greater determination, He sank to the earth, but was immediately overrun with children, who screamed with pleasure. He saw that he would be killed shortly, should he remain thus and sprang to his ‘feet, hurling his tormentors madly trom him. He felt the fever increasing in his veins, and already his vision was becoming strange and dizzy. It appeared as ~— THE INDIAN VILLAGE. thougn he were dreaming, the ground seemed rising and turning, and he reeled like a drunken man. Several times a true sense of his situation and condition flashed across him, and then all was lost in one wild, wonderful illusion. He was raving mad ! The young savages paused a moment as they saw the un- earthly light that gleamed in his eye, but in an instant they sprang upon him again. As quick as lightning, he leaped forward, bearing a half-grown boy to the earth, clutched him by the feet, and swinging himself clean around, dashed his head against the earth, crushing the skull, and scattering the brains. in every direction! Then, giving vent to a half shriek and yell, he darted away with the swiftness of the panther. 2 This latter movement had been seen by several warriors, and they instantly rushed after him. Summerfield’s unna- tural strength lasted but a few moments, and he had gone but a short distance when he stwwbled, fell, and was unable to rise. -In a moment his pursuers were upon him, and had raised him to his feet. Summerfield stared idiotically at them. Perhaps at that moment they understood his condition, and their stony hearts were touched with pity. They gazed at him a mo- > ment, and listened to his wild, incoherent raving, and seemed to understand that his senses were gone. They con- sulted a second or two hefore returning. One proposed to brain him on the spot; but the others determined to take him back, doctor him until he had fully recovered, and then carry out their favourite idea of putting him to the torture. Accordingly, laying firmly hold upon him, they led him slowly toward the village. They stopped at an odd, strange- looking lodge, where dwelt the ‘‘ medicine woman” of the tribe. Here he was left in charge of the old woman, and most of the rest, in obedience to her commands, left for their several homes, The medicine woman watched and attended Summerfield with the kindness and assiduity of a mether. As she piaced ON THE PLAINS. him upon the soft bed of skins, he had a Incid moment, and realised his condition ; yet he judged it prudent to conceal the fact that lie had regained his senses, and still «affect delirium. The lodge consisted of but a single room—large, square, and with one opening for ingress and egress. 1t was hung around with many different kinds of skins, and with many Indian garments. At one side, over a small, smouldering fire, was suspended a common kettle, with the contents of which the medicine woman busied herself as Summerfield was taking bis survey of the interior. He gazed with a strange fascination upon her repugnant features, but his mind finally became drowsy and wandering, and at last he dropped off into the realm of dreams. He slept until midnight, when, his fever increasing, in a torment of thirst he awoke. The medicine woman detected the movement as he raised himself upon his elbow, and shuffled quickly up to him. “Water ! water!” demanded Summerfield. She gently: forced him back upon his bed, and in answer to his wish poured from the kettle a steaming fluid which she placed to his lips. He swllowed the contents eagerly. It was bitter, and so hot that it fairly made him writhe with pain. It, however, was an anodyne, aud in a moment so quieted his nerves that he sunk into a peaceful, dreamless slumber. We need not record the story of his convalescence. Hig wound healed readily, and the potent herbs of the medicine woman drove the consuming fever from his system, In a few days he was able to sit and partake of nourishment, and in somewhat over a month he had entirely regained his health. As soon as he was able, he busied himself in doing small jobs for his mistress—such as carrying water, building her fire, and the other jobs that he saw were needed. He often anticipated her desire, and sometimes took the vessel pleasantly from her hand and hastened away to accomplish her wish. This, of course, had its effect. She could not Ww THE MEDICINE WOMAN. 43, help being pleased (although she seemed to take particular pains to conceal it) at this exhibition of good-will and obedience. This woman, as has been stated, was the medicine woman of the tribe, which position she had held for some half dozen years. Previous to this, her husband had been the medicine man for a great number of years. The couple were never blessed with children, but were cheerfully supported and supplied with food by the warriors of the tribe. When any were wounded in battle, they were brought to her lodge, and remained until they either recovered or died, and those stricken down by sickness received the same treatment that Summerfield did. One day, some two months after Summerfield’s capture, a couple of warriors came to the lodge of the medicine woman, and demanded him for the torture. The only answer she gave was a tremendous thwack over their heads with a heavy stick, and the assurance that he belonged to her, and she should keep him. This was so unexpected that they ventured to demur, which so enraged her that she nearly eracked the skull of one of them, and bade them never enter her lodge again. The savages, much crest-fallen, slunk away and imparted the discouraging fact to the others that they were cheated out of their intended prey. There was considerable murmuring and remonstrance, but it was useless. The wish of the medicine woman was law, and none durst cross her path. , From the first, it was her intention to preserve his life, and save him from the others. She was getting old, and felt the heavy hand of time upon her. She wished some one to fill the place of a son, and determined to adopt the pale-face. She meant that he should. be a son and a slave ; she would have all claim upon him, and her right should not be interfered with by the others. A short distance from the village where he was a prisoner flowed a stream of considerable size, which was a tributary of the Yellowstone. Summerfield had determined that this ° 44 _ON THe PLALNS, should be the route of escape. Some night he would set him- self afoat upon it, and conceal himself until his enemies had given over all hopes of capturing him, and then reach the trapping giounds of the whites, discover Vic, and return with ini to the States. he following spring he fixed upon as the period to make the attempt. But he was compelled to see the spring and summer months pass away without the slightest chance being given ; and, to make matters worse, in the autumn the tribe gathered their effects together and moved farther to the westward. Another winter dragsed wearily by, and Sammerfield’s chances seemed no better than before. Sometimes the thought would core over him that he should never escape, but live and die among these savages; and then he would resolve to make the trial at all hazards, He would have a could be but death, which would be no wozse than his wresent mode of existence. But pru- dence whispered in his ear to wait, and the time would soon come, and during all this time he had not forgotten Viola. Many a long and otherwise wearisome hour had been passed in thinking solely vf her. He admitted that he loved her, and something seemed to tell him that his ardent passion was returned. He wondered what tribe held her, and whether she was yet living and unharmed. He sometimes thought and believed that she was not many miles distant, and the thought that he was securely fettered was maddening almost to desperation. In the spring hope was again awakened and tuned in another direction. ‘he tribe gathered t effec’; together and made a long journey to the south-east. Th fast, thia was carried so far, that they located themselves directly in the trapping ground of the whites. Summerfield believed that chance, and the worst result the time for action had now arrived, and determined that, tn. two weeks at the most, his fate shovld be decided, THER §RRIVAL AT THR INDIAN VITAGE, 45 CHATTER VI. VIOLA’S CAPTIVITY. As has been recorded, the savages, during their night attack upon the emigrant train, succeeded in breaking through the line of waggons, and reaching the one that held. the females, scattering its terrified inmates. Viola, leaping to the ground, was immediately seized in the arms of a powerful savage, and borne rapidly away. She screamed and struggled desperately, but it was useless, and in a few mo- ments was carried beyond the reach of friends. She was placed upon a large, powerful horse, and the company rede rapidly forward until morning, when they halted. Viola was surprised to see that no other captives were with her, when she felt certain that several had been teken. She learned shortly, however, that the company had separated—the other keeping them. Her own party numbered some thirty. Her captors journeyed forward most of the day, and in the afternoon reached the Indian village, which was somewhat smaller than the one belonging to the Pawnee tribe. She found that she was among the Crows. There was much commotion among the Indians when it was known that a pale-faced captive was among them. The squaws gathered around, and there was more than one baleful glance of jealousy at the fair face of Viola. Her meek beauty and loveliness excited admiration, and at that mo- ment she was not conscious what a wild passion she had awakened in the heart of more than oe savage. She was taken to the lodge of the chief, and given to understand that for-the future she was to consider this her home. Viola felt that she was beyond the reach of friends, and it- vas vain to look for succour. Hope was gone, but she des- paired not. She determined to do her utmost to gain the good-will of the chief, aud beseech him to return her to her friends. She believed that she could eventually prevail upon him to do this. The chief of this portion of the tribe—for it w.s wit a 46 ON THE PLAINS, a portion—was a middle-aged man, much beloved hy his sub-. jects, and one who wielded an all-powerful influence. The royal lodge, situated near the centre, was much superior to - the others. It contained several rooms, and was furnishod with all the luxuries that ever graced the savage life. The choicest apartment was given to Viola. She thanked the chief kindly, and accepted it with pleasure. Viola busied herself in arranging the glittering beads, and. making small trinkets for the two children of the chief. This pleased them greatly, and in time they evinced a genuine affection and love for her. They were both boys, one twelve, and the other some ten years of age. Their father often sat and grimly smiled as they gathered around her with their childish pleadings and thanks, while the mother would sometimes pause and utter some kind word to her. Thus the winter passed and the spring came. Viola. had fixed upon this season as the period to supplicate the chief to return her to the whites, when a strange circumstance occurred, There was considerable trouble among the neigh- houring tribes, and several bloody battles had been fought. In one case a party of Crows had attacked and nearly exter- minated a small company of emigrants, In this attack they would have been most signally repulsed had they not been assisted and led by a white man! He seemed perfectly beside himself with fury, and urged on the savages as long as there was a chance to slaughter. Some half-a-dozen escaped only by flight, after being pursued a great distance. This white man had signified his intention to remain and live with the Indians, and had returned with them. When they were told of his great strength and prowess, they nearly worshipped him as a superior being, and his influence was _ nearly equal to that of the chicf. The next day after his arrival, he married one of the squaws and erected himself a lodge. Viola had been told of his arrival, and her first impulse was to seek him ; but when the chief communicated to ker the circumstances, plain sense told lier to shun such a dangerous and eyil-minded man. She endeayoured to avoid RENZEL, THE RENEGADE. 47 meeting him, and for two weeks succeeded. But matters could not remain always thus. Intelligence of her presence was communicated to the white man, and he determined at once to see her. : It was a pleasant day in spring that she was seated in the chieftain’s lodge, playing with one of his children. Both the man and woman were gone, and she was alone with the boy, who was full of sport. Suddenly the door was darkened. She looked up and saw the veritable white man before her. He was standing in the door, gazing curiously, with a half grin, at her. She started, and felt her heart shrink as she observed his vulgar gaze. She nodded slightly, when, without _ heeding her, he remarked :— “Rather warm day, this,” at the same time lifting his cap and brushing the matted hair from his forehead. “Yes,” returned Viola. ‘‘ Won’t you step in and take a seat ?” : He stepped heavily in, and seated himself upon a rude stool, near the door. Then he threw one leg over the other, whistled part of a song, then hummed it, and concluded by ejecting a mouthful of tobacco-juice in the face of the boy, and making a jump toward him, Frightened, and screaming with pain, the lad ran from the lodge as rapidly as his feet could carry him. ‘¢Wagh! wagh! wagh !” laughed the white, leaning back and slapping his knee with his hand. “ Rather scart, I guess. Wanted to get ’im out of the way, so I could talk with you, and ’cluded to take a ’riginal way to do it.” Viola was justly indignant at what she had witnessed, and felt like rising and leaving him also; but again something seemed to tell her to remain and be civil to him. **So they’ve got you, hev they?” he queried. ‘* Yes ; I have been a prisoner some time.” “Yeah, like it much ?” “T am treated very kindly, although, of course, I should prefer to be with my own kindred.” “Yeah. Wal, being we’re both white, or leastwise I 48 ON THE PLAINS. pretend to be, we mought as well git a My name is Sam Redzel.” - ‘Viola Vennond is mine.” $ ‘Yeah. Dunno as I ever heard it. From the States ?” “Yes ; from Kentucky.” “Yeah. Wal, I’m from the States, too, and hev tramped around considerable ; but I got among a lot of rascals, and ’cluded as how redskins were as good as any, and so I’ve took up with ’em. You ’quainted with any trappers ?” “There was a man by the name of Summerfield, who joined—” “¢ What name is that ?” ‘¢ Summerfield—George Summerfield, I believe, who was with us a day or two, although I did not see him after we were attacked.” Viola was about to say more, but paused as she saw the fea.ful contortion of Redzel’s face. Some powerful emotion was stirring his very soul, Suddenly, looking at Viola with a scowl, he spoke :— ‘Say, gal, do you see that ’ar mark?’ As he said this, he turned his face toward her, and pointed to the cicatrized wound that Seth had given. “Yes,” faltered Viola. Wal, that chap done it ?” _ What! Summerfield ?” ‘* He didn’t himself ; but he’s the cause of it, and done what’s as bad, and I’ve sworn that, ef that feller’s livin’, he’s got to pay for it.” An embarrassing pause to Viola followed. At last, to change the subject, she asked :— “Did I understand you, Mr. Redzel, to say that you intended to spend your life with this tribe ?” **T don’t know what you understood, but that’s what I said, and what I intend to do, too. As long as whites live, why Sam Redzel ain’t going to live with em.” **T suppose that you have great cause for provocation.” “ That’s so, gal.” my, ——— a? & VIOLA APPEALS TO THE CHIEF. 49 <‘} would thank you not to address me thus,” said she, provoked at his coarse familiarity. « Whew ! how then, we beauty ? « Any way but that. «¢ Miss Vennond do ?” 6oVes: Sir.” “Oh! no, Vily, Vily; that’s it, that’s it. Shoot my old hide, Vily, ef you ain’t good lookin’. That’s the fact.” And he arose and patted her cheek. ‘“‘Mr. Redzel, I would thank you very much to baat me as the savages do,” said she, with cutting indignation, arising and seating herself away from him. “ Wal now, Vily, you ain’t mad, areyer? Ise justin fun.” ‘¢¥ don’t care about such fun as that.” “Yeah. I wouldn’t care either.” “¢ And T would prefer to be alone.” ‘‘ Wal, be alone then!” exclaimed Redzel, enraged, as he arose and left. At this juncture the chief entered, and Viola related all that had occurred. He was provoked, and assured ber that it should not happen again. She seized the present oppor-’ tunity to press her suit. ‘Why not send me away, and thus be rid of the trouble I cause ?” The chief was perfectly taken aback at this. He gazed at her, as if doubting her senses. She repeated the question with great earnestness. ‘‘Oh! Mascanagh cannot spare the white maiden.” “Why not? She does no good, and how did he do before they robbed her of her friends ?” “ No, no; she’s a part of his household. Mascanagh can- not spare her.” ‘ “QO Mascanagh ! the white maiden has wrought for you, and been pleased with your smile and disheartened with your frown. She has done all that she can to soften your heart, and will you not now restore her to her home? Oh! do not refuse me this !” Ve ON THE PLAINS. The chief seemed affected, and shook his head. Viola sank on her kness before him. ““Oh, Mascanagh, refuse me not this !” “ Arise,” said he, lifting her to her feet, ‘‘and I will talk with thee.” Viola’s heart throbbed at this, and she raised her stream ing eyes to his. “The way is long,” said he, ‘and who will guide thee ?” “¢ Can you not ?” “*T cannot leave my tribe.” “Surely there are many who would.” “* Viola,” said the chief, in a thrilling, earnest whisper, ‘had better remain with Mascanagh. Many warriors love her, and should she leave with any, they would kill her. The white man loves her, and would make her his squaw. She has no friend but Mascanagh.” This was a truth which had never crossed her mind before. She had never dreamed that she had awakened a passion in the breast of any savage, much less in the heart of Redzel ; but now that her suspicions were aroused, she recollected many things which went to strengthen the remark of the chief. She remembered many strange glances that had been given her, and many strange actions upon the part of several warriors. “Cannot Viola be returned ?” she asked, mournfully. ‘¢ J will see,” returned the chief. ‘‘Say no more about it. Mascanagh will do what he can for the white maiden. Let her wait.” And Viola waited and hoped. She saw plainly too that half a score of savages watched her every movement, and Redzel dogged her steps whenever she left the age She felt alarmed at the state of affairs, and earnestly hoped and prayed that she might be delivered from the fate ee seemed impending. Ae SUMMERFIELD DETERMINES TO ESCAt'R CHAPTER IX. ESCAPE AND THE PEKIZS Ol A NIGHT. SUMMERFIELD, by long and seemingly cheerful obedience to the medicine woman’s veriest whims, succeeded in con- vincing her that he meditated no hope of escape, and was willing to reside with her tribe for life. Several times she had hinted that there might be opportunity offer, but he stated that, as he had no friends among the whites, he cared not to avail himself of it; and thus, as we have said, she came to believe, in time, that he was contented with his lot. Thus he gained considerable liberty for himself, and was often absent for a long time from the village without exciting any apprehensions upon her part. One morning he arose, and taking one of the medicine woman’s rifles, told her that he believed he should spend the day in hunting. She made no objection, but admonished him to return before evening. He promised obedience, and, throwing the gun over his shoulder, stepped lightly forth. The hour was so early that, as he gazed about him, he saw that the village was not yet astir. : Wheu le left the village, he had no thought of attempting an escape, but intended to gain still more of the old woman’s confidence by his punctual obedience. He had wandered but a mile or so, when the thought suddenly flashed upon him that the proper moment had arrived to make the attempt! The wild hope thus suddenly awakened completely overcame him. With a heart throbbing painfully, he seated himself upon the earth and gave way to his emotion. In a few moments he mastered it, and began calmly reflecting upon , the chances that favoured him. He possessed a trusty rifle, and was well supplied with ammunition. This was his only weapon, yet it was sufficient to answer all purposes. And when would another more favourable opportunity be given him? What was to hinder him now? Could there be a better combination of circumstances in his favour? He would make the attempt. He would have a day and night ON THE PLAINA, before there would be danger of pursuit, and in that timo he could place a long distance between himself and his enemies. Yes, he would make the trial at all hazards. Having thus made up his mind, he started off like a frightened animal. The ground ae to fly from under him, and he hardly paused for breath unti! tho sun was high in the heavens. ‘Then he found ae ypon a banks of a swift flowing stream. It wes some twenty yards wide, and ,appeared very deep. The water was ex saew clear and limpid, and the white pebbles could be seen glistening upon the bottom for a leng distance, He hesitated about entering it, for it was icy ccld, and it seemed nearly impos- sible to stem the strong current. At length, however, he ventured, and resolutely plunged ir. It sent a shiver through his frame, bnt he breasted it manfully, and suc- ceeded in soon reaching the opposite bank. He judged it was now past noon, and concluded to rest awhile and dry his garments, His ammunition wes still dry and ready to use. Hardly half-an-hour was spent in rest, when he hastened opagain. Hetravelled by tho sun, keeping in a southerly direction, and carefully guarding against the tendency that persons in his situation are subjected to; that is, of journeying in a circle. Several times he found that he had unconsciously changed his direction; the utmost watchful- ness was necessary to guard against a mistake that might be fatal, He judged that he could not be far from the Black Hills, and that he must be very near, if not directly upon the 4aapping grounds of the whites. This fact nerved him with ‘hope, and gave him confidence in the chances before him, Az the sun had nearly reached the horizon, he came upon the banks of another stream of considerable size. This, he raw, ran from the direction he wished to follow. Instead of crossing, he determined to keep along its banks. There would thus be no danger of travelling in a wrong direction, and a certainty of going south. The stream had its rise in Masi Pe » A DREAM AND iTS CONSEQUENCES. 58 the southorn part Srates ef they showld git away from him now, and stic’x?e2: both some night. I’m sorry, but ’m sure now, to vit out ct hig way, we've got to git Lim out of our way fust.” A FORLORN HOPE, 113 Nothing worth recording transpized through the day. No - attack was made, and it was plain that Redzel intended to follow out his threat to tho very letter. The weather re- mained cold and windy, and finally a raw, gloomy night settled over the prairie. Redzel, feeling confident that no attempt would be made to escape during the night, had but one fire kindled; yet, with customary caution, a number of the Indians prowled around the rock to see that the fugitives endeavoured to carry out no plan they might have concerted. All but Summerfield took their stations again. He, seeing that his presence was not needed, seated himself beside Viola. While conversing with her, he noticed that the two hunters were talking together in a low and earnest tone. When they ceased, Vannoven stood a few moments buried in deep thought, and then facing around, said :— ‘¢ Boys, we’ve a chance, and it’s time to take it!” CHAPTER XIX. FRIENDS, AND SOMETHING MORE. SUMMERFIELD and Seth gazed up in astonishment. They knew that some new and unexpected scheme had been decided upon from his manner, and that immediate action had been determined. Wandaught commenced walking slowly and cautiously around the edge of the rock, scruti- nizing every foot of ground that was possible. “Yas, boys,” said Vic, ‘‘thar’s a new idea ’round. We’va got neighbours not far off, besides these chaps down here. Jist stand up here, and you kin see.” As he spoke, he arose and pointed out upon the prairie. Jt was so dark that they could just follow the line of his fnger ; and following this they saw, far away, a small bright 4 « burning, appearing in the distance but a small brand or pers cf flame; yet they knew it was the camp-fire of some boa vi yersons, for the rays from it came over the plain, like the moon’s light upo». the water, After gazing steadily Lie OM THE PLAINS. at this a moment or two, they turned their eyes toward the fire of Redzel, which was in a slightly different direction. Several forms were visible around this, stretched, in apparent sleep upon the earth, but all else was shouded in impene- trable darkness. “*Do yer see that, little one ?” asked Vie. ‘Yes, very distinctly,” she returned. “Wal, let’s squat agin, and I’ll tell yer what’s to be done.” And doing this, he proceeded :— “That fire off thar b’longs to either redskins or whites, and I opine to the whites, coz ef they war Engins, these down here would’ve found ’em out by this time ; but ef they war whites, they’d let ’em go, fur they’ve got thar hands full now, Jim says they’re white, too, and the idee is this—one of us can git away from here easy enough, and we must git out thar and bring ’em down here, and we'll have some tall times here to-morrer. As Crooked Pegs, here, is so good in gittin’ over the ground, I think he’s the chap to go.” ‘«Them’s my sentiments exactly !” responded Setn, enthu- siastically, starting up as though he were to go the next moment. “ Wait ; set down,” said Vic, ‘‘thar’s no need of bein’ in ahurry. Now, as you're goin’, we'll fix up matters. You kin git away from here easy ’nough, but in course you’ve got to be sly ’bout it. Wal, hyer’s what yer to do: When you git outside of these things, dig like mad fur the camp. I guess you kin see it from the ground, but ef you can’t, don’t matter, cause you know which way to go, and kin see it after trampin’ a little. When you git thar, ef they’re white, bring 7em down; ef they’re red, in course, let em go. Jist ’fore you start back with ’em throw some of the fire up, so we'll know all is right, and you’ve started ; and when you git out close by, jist give that whistle of yourn, to let us know you're ’bout ; we'll be ’spectin’ yer then.” While Vie was speaking, Seth stood panting like a re- strained hound, so anxious seemed he to be off upon his way. As the trapper paused, he started off like an arrow. SETH’S ARRIVAL AT THE CAMP FIRE, 11d “Hyer!” called Vic, impatiently, ‘‘ what’s the ae You don’t want yer shooter. Jist see that yer re all right, and then dig. You'd better not go down shag as they mought be lookin’ for some of us, but 3ist drop over by Jim.” Seth paused a second longer, waiting for what else was to -be said, and then, uttering a quick ‘‘ Good-bye,” leaped - and fearlessly over and disappeared. Wandaught azed down after him and saw him rise unhurt and steal a oneian away in the darkness; and as the fugitives lis- tened along time, and heard no unwonted commotion among the savages below, they knew that Seth was safely upon his way toward the distant camp-fire. In the course of half-an-hour he was as near the camp-fire as he durst approach. It was burning vigorously, but he could not detect a single being around it. He discerned several bundles, or imagined he did, partly in its light, bub he could not make out a single one. He made a complete circle around the camp, and even then had not seen a human being. This puzzled him considerably. Plunging his hands into his pocket, spreading his feet apart, and dropping his head, he commenced ruminating upon the wisest courgs to follow. Before he had formed any conclusion, he was startled by the commanding question :— ‘¢ White or red ?” ‘“‘White—white as gun-flints!” he retwmed, instantly ap- proaching the fire. As he did so, a couple of forms came from opposite directions in the darkness, and stood around him. One was a large, massive, loose-jointed, bony speci- mien, full six feet in height, who held a monstrous rifle in one hand. He had large innocent eyes, a broad but picasant mouth, a homely nose, and a few straggling yellow hairs upon his unshaven face. He was an individual, as he termed himself, ‘‘ extensively laid out.” - The other was a man of about the mediur: size, with a smooth, cheerful face, bright, pleasant eyes, und a peculiar ease and gracefulness of motion that made hi. impression 116 ON THE PLAINS. always favourable at first. Seth also noticed another person, who had risen to the sitting pesition as the others had - gathered around, and. he cbserved, too, that he himself was regarded with interest, and no evidence of mistrust. *‘Wal, friend,” said the second-mentioned individual, * what’s the story ?” ‘Well, quite a considerable one. In the first place, I will introduce myself. I am Seth Potter, Esq., and was born some years since in the town of Imbec, State of Maine. I am a delegate, or, more properly, a committee, elected by a unanimous vote, without a dissenting voice, to confer with you, and that is my business at present. The truth is this, friends: you have all seen that big rock some miles off, hayn’t you V7” “Yes,” returned thev, interested in his narration. “Well, three or four days ago, me and three other gentle- men got chased by Eng'ns, and were drove up there, where we have been ever sits. There’s thirty or forty of them camped around that rock, led on by a white devil. They have tried to get up among us two or three times, but can’t come it, and have made tp their minds to starve us out. They have got our horses, so we can’t run away, and, you see, we’re in a scrape. Well, woe’d concluded to do something mighty despirit, when one of our chaps happened to set eyes upon your fire here, and made up his mind you were white, and nominated me, on account of my superior qualities, to visit you; and I’m here for that purpose.” During Seth’s narration the third.yerson had arisen to his feet, a finely-formed middle-aged man, with a melancholy expression upon his countenance, who regarded Seth with niuch interest. ‘Wal, friend,” continued the smaller man, addressing Seth, ‘¢yow’re in trouble, and in course we’re bound to be in it too. We are ready to go with yer, ain’t we, boys ?” “* Y-a-s,” drawled the larger man, taking a huge chew. “Will you go with us?” asked Seth of the man who had not as yet spoken, # l TIMELY AID—KIT CARSON ! I17 f * Of course,” he returned in a softened voice. ‘Tt would be criminal not to assist friends when hard pressed, as you say you are.” “¢ Well, s’pose we tramp, then ?” With this the four started, after replenishing the fire and visiting their animals. : An hour after, when there was a deathly stillness over the prairie, the fugitives heard the suppressed signal of Seth. Wandaught returned it, and a few minutes after be and Summerfield saw several dark forms at the base of the soci. ‘¢ All right !” whispered Wandaught. An instant after, Seth with two or three bounds steod ainong them ; then came the tall hunter, Hoosier, who ap- peared to absolutely take but one straddle to reach the top ; then the elderly one, who clambered noiselessly up; and finally the smaller person, who came up as nimbly and quickly as a panther. ‘Wal, friends,” said the latter, cheerfully, as he stood f among them, ‘‘ we’re here to help yer.” “¢ And we're most mighty glad you’ve come,” said Vie, ap- proaching and extending his hand. : As the person address-d took his hand, he looked closely at him, and asked :— “¢ Ain’t this Vic Vannoven ?” ‘“¢That’s my handle, but you’ve got the best of me. J don’t know yours.” “Now, don’t yer?” asked the stranger, in a clear, half feminine voice, and with a suppressed laugh. Vic bent forward, and scrutinized his features as closely as he could in the darkness. ‘¢P’ve heard that voice,” he repeated, slowly. ‘‘ Yes, skin me,” he exclaimed, starting back. “Is that you, Kit hy Carson ?” “That’s my name,” he returned, enjoying the start of wonder among the others. ‘What, are you Kit Carson ?” asked Seth, hardly believing his senses. Atanas, is ON THE PLAINS. “Yes; that’s my name, I b’lieve.” *Darned if I hain’t read about you in the newspapers, Guy! I didn’t think I’d ever see you. They say you’re something uncommon.” “Let me make you ’quainted with my friends,” said Carson. ‘This feller is Jake Gavin, from Illinois; and this is a friend that’s goin’ back to the States.” Vannoven grasped each of their hands and returned the cordial pressure, and in turn introduced his own company. “*T s’pose you know this chap,” said he, alluding to Seth, “so [ll pass him. Do you know Jim Wandaught, Kit?” “*T b’lieve not.” ‘¢ Wal this is him. He’s a good beaver, but won’t shako paws.” Wandaught returned the salutation of each, and then re- sumed his place as sentinel. **This is George Somefield.” **Glad to see you!” said Carson, taking his hand. Sum- merfield felt honoured, indeed, as he grasped the soft palm of the most renowned Indian fighter the world ever pro- duced. He answered him gracefully, and then shook hands with Jake Gaviu, who gave a brief ‘* How’r yer?” and with the other man, who seemed little disposed to converse. **How do you do?” said Seth, approaching Carson, determined to enjoy the privilege the others had, Carson answered him good humouredly, and shook his hard warmly. Vic turned to introduce Viola, but she had withdrawn to her nook, : “Wal, Vic, what’s to be done?” asked Carson, turning toward him. : “We're treed, you see, Kit 7” “You four fellers treed by a few red-skins!” repeated Carson, with sarcasm in his tone. “We woruldn’t ’ve been if we war alone; but, you sce, a woman's in the matter,” answered Vic, pointing toward Viola. “Ok, that’s it!” said Carson, lowering his voice, with his natural gallantry, and gazing toward her. A DISCOVERY—FATHER AND DAUGHTER ! 119 r _ You see,” said Vic, speaking confidentially, ‘‘we’re bound to take care of her. We got her away from that . cussed white snake, and he’s been follerin’ us a week to git : her. Ef we’d bin alone, we’d ’ve blowed him to blazes ’fore this, but we darsen’t leave her to do it, the way ae stand now. But, bein’ yow’re here, we’ll drop down on ’em in the mornin’, and there’ll be the tallest kind o’ fun.” Carson, Vic, and Wandaught remained on duty during the night, while the others disposed themselves as best hey f could. . And so the night passed, and finally morning dawned upon . them. There was a movement among the Indians below ; but as they beheld the forms upon ihe rock, they concluded f that all was right, and sank back again into a sort of half- sluggish, indifferent slumber. Redzel was not seen. _ As Summerfield was standing apart from the rest, he felt a j hand laid upon his shoulder, »ud, looking up, saw the middle- r aged man spoken of standing by his side. There was a Jeathly paleness upon his features, and his whole system was terribly convulsed by emotion. ae “What is her name?’ he asked, pointing his quivering Inger toward the sleeping form of Viola. “¢ Viola Vennond,” returned Summerfield. *“*O God! so I thought,” he adidled, turning yet paler, ag fainting. Summerfield sprasg forward and caught him. “ What is the meaning of this } What is she to you?” he wked eagerly. “She is my daughter !” he returned, recovering himself. * How is this?” asked Summerfield, hardly knowing what he said. ‘“‘Why, plain enough. I am her father.” ‘ At this point Viola awoke. } ‘¢ Ask her to come here,” said the man, in a pleasing iiss at the same time turning his back toward her. “Viola, step this way a moment,” called Summerfield. She tripped lightly forward, ee radiant form all aglow with pleasure. mmm 120 : ON THE PLAINS. “ Let me introduce you to your father.” *¢ What is that !” Summerfield made no reply, for her father had turned his face toward her. _ Viola’s face flushed a moment as she gazed bewilderingly into his face, and the next instant she sprang forward and was clasped in his arms. ‘Their joy was too great for utterance, and their mutual sobs were all that was heard. Summerfield turned away, not wishing to inter- fere with or interrupt such a scene. The others, who had witnessed it, comprehended its meaning, and showed their participation in their pleasure by a respectful silence. As the father released the daughter, the others removed their gaze, and permitted them to seat themselves without being interrupted by any rude stare of theirs. They re- mained seated full an hour, engaged in earnest, thrilling conversation. Viola related the whole particulars of her life since their mutual separation up to the present moment, not omitting a single particular that she could recall; and the father stated the principal incidents of his. A short time more was spent in conversation. “Tt seems to me,” observed Seth, “‘ that it’s getting time to do something. The Engins down below, and Mr. Redzel, will get out of patience.” Mr. who?’ asked Vennond, with a start. “Mr. Sam Redzel, the gentleman that’s trying to cut me and Mr. Summerfield out of your daughter’s affections.” “‘Ts he the one who has pursued her thus far, and to whom she has referred, without mentioning his name ?” ‘The same.” ; ‘¢T understand everything now. It was not all love and passion that has led him to follow you thus far. It was vindictive natred, revenge !” “ Wiat do you mean, father ?” asked Viola, eamestly. © Never mind, darling. It is not a story for your ears. Ai any rate, not until Sam Redzel, your mortal enemy, is dead. But go on, friends. What is the intention, Carson ?” ‘* We’re goin’ to make a rfish down among ’em—” Pd ‘ THE RENEGADE MURDERS WANDAUGHT. L21 * Hallo! up thar!” came the voice of Redzel at this. moment. Carson paused, and Vic gazed down to see what was wanting. ‘Whar's Jim Wandaught ?” he asked. “ He’s here. What do you want to know fer?” ‘| want to talk with him a rorené.” Accordingly Sumniecfield siooped and woke Wandaughs, who was asieep, avd conmiumsnicated tLe zatwhig nee to him, CHAPTER XX. REDZNL’S LAST CRIME, AND RETRIBUTION. Ag soon as Wandaught understood what was wanted, ho sprary without hesitation upon the wall, his fine muscular form standing out in relief against the sky. Seth, out of variosity, looked over, and seeing that Redzel held his rifle in his hand, whispered :— “ Jim, make him drop that gun before you talk to him.” “ You'd better do’t,” added Vic. “ Sartainly, friend, don’t stand that,” joined Carson, and Summerfield also said :— ‘For Heaven’s sake, Wandaught, don’t run into such danger as that.” Ent Wendaught, instead of receiving these friendly warn- ings as he would at any other time, appeared slightly touched sud displeased that all should offer advice to him, and, with- out following their entreaties, simply returned : ‘‘Sam won’t de nothin’ mean to me.” Redzel engaged him for some time in conversation. Wan- aaught was answering one of his questions, when his words were interrupted by the sharp crack of a rifle, and placing his hand to his breast, he stepped quietly down, saying :— ‘¢’m done for, boys !” As they saw the deathly ghastliness of his face, and the crimson blood dribbling through his fingers they understood. all, Summerfield sprang forward, and, catching him in his - arms, asked, what he knew was the truth :— v ae 122 ON THE PLAINS. ‘¢My God! Wandaught, are you shot ?” “Yas; ve got my last shot; but don’t make any fuse over it. It can’t be helped.” And the trapper, refusing all assistance, seated himself npen his blanket, and reclining a second, finally lay down with one hand beneath his head, as though he were sleeping. Viola tried to tend him, and saw him die. She did not realise it, and looked up inquiringly to her father, as she saw how filmy and glassy Wandaught’s eyes had become, ’’* He is dead,” he answered softly. During all this time, Seth stood with his arms fol'e? aver the muzzle of his rifle, gazing stoically at Wandaugh*+ Snd- denly he turned around and spoke :— ** Boys, I’ve one favour to ask of you. Jim was mz friend Sam Redzel has killed him, and swore that he’ll have ~ » lifo too. The first chance you see to shoot that vire’, 1.4 me know. Let me do it, and that will be all I ask.” All promised that his wish should be gratified. J: was hardly five minutes before a voice exclaimed :— “¢ Ha’r’s yer chance !” Seth sprang forward. There, directly before his vision, he saw Sam Redzel standing and pointing toward the rock, and gesticulating madly, as though giving directions to his savage allies. With hardly the slightest quiver, he pushed his rifle through, and, dropping upon his knee, took de- liberate. aim at the villain’s breast. Every breath was held as his finger pressed the trigger. Seth fired quickly, and waited to sce its effect. .His nerves, in spite of his forced calmness, were somewhat unsteady, and the shot was not as good as he expected. Yet it was mortal! As the smoke cleared away, he saw Redzel stagger a moment, fling his arms wildly above him, | and, with a half howl and shriek, and an awful oath, pitch forward upon his face ! “ Vve killed him! What are you going to do next ?” “We're goin’ to kill the rest,” returned Vic, ‘ Sposen we imbibe, friend.” . <—eio” RETRIBUTION AT LAST! 123 Gavin produced a spirit flask, and each took a long draught. Vannoven then stepped to the opposite side, and, with the assistance of Carson, rolled a large stone from its place. This done, he spoke :— ‘* We must hop down thar and make a rush. See that yer knives and shootin’ irons are ready.” Pe All signified their readiness, and, without more words, Vic dropped silently to the earth. Then came Carson, fol- lowed by Gavin, Vennond, Seth, and Summerfield. The latter paused a moment to speak to Viola. He assured her that the deciding blow had been giveu in the death of Redzel, and they were but going to finish the work, and that there was no fears of the result. He then leaped over. The leadership, by mutual consent, had been given to Carson. He stood as calm and collected as though he were no wyenger! Gazing around upon each, he spoke in that low musical voice of his. **See that all is right. Blaze away as soon as you see’em. Now !” As he uttered the last word, he bounded away, and almost simultaneously six human forms shot around the rock, six rifles were discharged, and as many savages rolled writhing in their own blood! The battle was short, but so terrible that no pen can describe it. The savages, instead of withdrawing upon the fall of their leader, maintained their ground with determined chstinacy ; and, at the moment the six whites burst upon them, were preparing for another attempt to dislodge the fugitives. The onslaught of the latter was so sudden that it was fatal. They were thrown into confusion, yet, in spite of it, made a bold stand, and struggled with the fury of des- peration. Vennond and Summerfield remained side by side, and fought with more coolness than any ; yet there was a.fierce- ness about their movements that never before possessed them. Gavin went at it like some ponderous machine, work- 124 ON THE PLAINS. ing wildly from the excess of power that was driving hiza forward. Vic and Seth, for the time being, were demons in their fury, The first blow Vic made, he drove his knife through and ~ through the body of an Indian ; and, as it slipped from his grasp, he wheeled around and brought a blow with such force in the face of another, that it was absolutely crushed to a jelly! A terrific kick sent another a dozen feet, doubled. up like a knot in his agony ; and as he drew his other knife, he plunged deliriously at the others. And yet Kit Carson, the small, gentlemanly agent at Santa Fe, performed more incredible wonders than this! There was not the wild impetuosity in his movements that characterized those of Vannoven; but there was an incor- ceivanie celerity and quickness, more fatal in its resulés than his. He fought with a knife in either hand, leaping in ever; direction with an agility that was astonishing, and unequalled by the others. Such terrible slaughter could not last long. In a few moments the remaining savages broke and fled. Summerfield, Vennond, and Seth halted and drew breath as they saw not an Indian upon his feet. All were stretched befere them, either dead or dying ! When they had rested, Summerfield arose and gazed after his companions ; but the pursuit of the Indians had carried them beyond his sight, and he proposed to the others to await their return upon the rock. As Summerfield pasyed around the rock, he recoiled with shivering horror at the sight that met his gaze. There, stretched upon the earth, lay the still gasping form of Redzel ! ‘¢ Kill the infernal snake !” exclaimed Seth, clubbing his rifle, and raising it to brain him upon the spot. Summerfield caught his arm. “You aro saved that trouble. He is just dead !” “He is with his Maker,” said Vennond, solemnly. ‘ We have nothing more to do with him.” BURIAL OF WANDAUGHT AND REDZEL. 125 As they reached the top of the rock, they looked out, and far away could see Vannoven returning. But he was alone, on horseback, and leading four others. This occasioned mich wonderment, and none could account for it, except by the s:pposition that Carson and his companion were return- ing at some distance behind. But when Vic reined up beneath them, no other person was in sight. “« Where’s Carson and Gavin ?” asked Summerfield, looking dow:: upon him. ‘Half way to Independence by this time. Kit came ’cross some ictlors, who said he war wanted out thar, and he cluded to start without raitin’ for us.” “Well,” continued Summerfield, ‘how soon shall we ~ leave ?” * Right off.” ‘We must bury Wandaught, you know, first.” At this Vic dismounted, and, securing his animals, ascended the rock. The form of the dead trapper was then lifted and borne gently down, followed by Viola. After a few minutes’ consultation, it was determined to bury him within a few feet of where he had been slain. Accordingly all set to work, and with much labour, scooped out a grave sufliciently deep to contain him. Into this he was placed, and, while the others bowed their heads in sorrow and reverence, Summer- field knelt and uttered a petition to high heaven. This done, they commenced covering his body, and as in a few minutes it was hid from their sight, not one could repress the tears that rose to his eyes. Nota word was spoken as the earth was packed over him, and when finished they turned toward Vannoven. — “‘ Now git on,” said he, ‘‘ and let’s leave this place.” ‘¢ Wait a minute,” said Summerfield ; ‘‘let us give Redzel a burial also. We shall never regret it.” As he spoke, he passed around the base of the rock, and the others instinctively followed. Vie gave a perceptible start when he saw the frightful appearance the deat hody presented. All set to work vigorously, and in a shert time 126 ON THE PLAINS. another grave was dug, into which Vennond and Summer- field deposited the form of Redzel. Neither Seth nor Vie would touch it. It was now near noon, and, without waiting to partake of any food, the company were soon en voute for the States. Vic had found a good quantity of meat among the savages, which he hesitated not to appropriate to the use of his friends, so that there was nothing to fear in that direction. CHAPTER XXI. THE CONSUMMATION. Waar more is to be said? ‘* To all good stories there is a happy end,” says the proverb. Perhaps it is so ; at least, we shall not say it is not so, even if by saying this we claim that our story isa good one. For, what could come out of these perils, these races for life, these episodes of hunter’s life, and of heart life, if not a happy consummation ? A few episodes, and all is told.” “¢ Viola; do you remember a little talk we once had, undez not quite so favourable circumstances ?” “Oh ! yes, we had a great many pleasant chats, for ail cur gituation was not as we might have wished,” she replied, blushing slightly, and pretending not to comprehend hina. *¢ That is true ; but I refer to that one in the cave.” ‘¢ When we made our way out. I don’t think it was very pleasant.” : “No, no, you little witch, I mean when we were ail alone, and Iasked you whether you would be my wife, and you said you would some day. “Don’t remember that, 1 suppose ?” » though endeavouring to call up some forgotten circumstance, and yet unable to repress a smile at Summerfield’s quizzical appearance. Ah! there was no danger of her forgetting that conversation. He waited a second, and then catching her impulsively in his arms, he added— h | 6€ ALL’ WELL THAT ENDS WELL,” 127 “You remember well enough; but it doesn’t make much difference whether you do or not. I do, and, of course, wiil hold you to your promise.” Then releasing her, and unprinting a warm kiss upon a warmer cheek, he continued, in an earnest tone— “¢ Viola, your father has given me his consent, and you have. To-day I shall leave for home, and if I find my sister alive and well—as God grant I may—TI shall visit your home, and claim you at once. At any rate, you shall soon hear from me.” At this point the litile foolish creature went to crying. In a few moments, however, she looked up, more beautiful than evér, and smiling through her sparkling tears, asked— “© Yon will come, will you ?” “‘T gness so,” returned Summerfield, givin ing kiss, which was returned. Shortly after they were joined by Vennond, who under- stood everything, and laughed and joked*them greatly, won- dering what had grieved Viola so much, and made Summer- field so aclow with pleasure. And Viola tried to pout, and couldn't to save her life ; and at last Summerfield laughingly bade them good-bye, and departed, he for Eastern Missouri, they for Louisiana. ° . . . . . . ° . g@ another Lurn- In the morning, Summerfield, accompanied by his sister, set out for Louisiana, and reached the residence of Viola the next day. As might be supposed, she and Marian were ardent friends at once. There was a great deal of unim- portant talk, as there always is at such times, and at last the great wedding day was fixed by Marian and Viola. And of the wedding it is perhaps useless to speak. Hun- dreds of others are daily taking place, which are as much as was this one. The nuptials were celebrated at Viola’s residence. Vic Vannoven, the hardy trapper, and Seth, the eccentric fellow, were two important personages who were present. The former, at first, was embarrassed by the gorgeous splendour of the scene; but the others understood ON THE PUAINS, his nature, and succeeded in making him feel perfectly at home. He grew very loquacious, declaring that Viola “ war as purty as a young beaver,” and Summerfield, “‘ Wal, thar, he allers thought he’s a very fine chap.” Probably the ex- cellent wine had some effect upon him, for, before the company broke up, at Seth’s suggestion, he performed for the com- pany a genuine Sioux war-dance, without omitting a single howl or yell, and ended the matter by hugging Viola some- what after the fashion of a grizzly bear, and kissing her eyes! His performance created much merriment, for they all knew his rough but generous nature. Seth never remembered that he himself had once enter- tained a tender feeling for Viola; but joined in the proceed- ings with a gusto and heartiness equal to the trapper. He executed some marvellous gyrations in the dances he under- took, and showered his congratulations upon every one he spoke to. Nothing occurred to mar the pleasure of the evening, except an inadvertent remark of Vannoven’s that, “ef Jim war thar, thar’d be a tall time, no mistake.” This preught a tear to more than one eye. Summerfield has just informed us that Vannoven has con- sented to give up his trapping life after one more journey. He says the plains have too many whites upon them, and the overland mail is spoiling the country, and there is not enough of beaver to pay for the trouble. Ho starts upon his journey in a few weeks, so that if our readers wish to know his whereabouts, they may conclude that, hy the time this concluding chapter reaches them, he is somewhere up among the Rocky Mountains, pursuing his exciting and dangerous vocation, And here we take leave of our readers. THE END.