They called her Mrs. Durade. The girl was her daughter Allie. She appeared about fifteen years old, and was slight of form. Her face did not seem to tan. It was pale. She looked tired, and was shy and silent, almost ashamed. She had long, rich, chestnut-colored hair which she wore in a braid. Her eyes were singularly large and dark, and violet in color.
“It’s a long, long way we are from home yet,” sighed Mrs. Jones.
“You call East home!” replied Mrs. Durade, bitterly.
“For land’s sake! Yes, I do,” exclaimed the other. “If there was a home in that California, I never saw it. Tents and log cabins and mud-holes! Such places for a woman to live. Oh, I hated that California! A lot of wild men, all crazy for gold. Gold that only a few could find and none could keep! … I pray every night to live to get back home.”
Mrs. Durade had no reply; she gazed away over the ridges toward the east with a haunting shadow in her eyes.
Just then a rifle-shot sounded from up in the ravine. The men paused in their tasks and looked at one another. Then reassured by this exchange of glances, they fell to work again. But the women cast apprehensive eyes around. There was no life in sight except the grazing oxen. Presently Horn appeared carrying a deer slung over his shoulders.
Allie ran to meet him. She and Horn were great friends. To her alone was he gentle and kind. She saw him pause at the brook, then drop the deer carcass and bend over the ground, as if to search for something. When Allie reached his side he was on his knees examining a moccasin print in the sand.
“An Indian track!” exclaimed Allie.
“Allie, it sure ain’t anythin’ else,” he replied. “Thet is what I’ve been lookin’ fer. … A day old—mebbe more.”
“Uncle Bill, is there any danger?” she asked, fearfully gazing up the slope.
“Lass, we’re in the Wyoming hills, an’ I wish to the Lord we was out,” he answered.
Then he picked up the deer carcass, a heavy burden, and slung it, hoofs in front, over his shoulders.
“Let me carry your gun,” said Allie.
They started toward camp.
“Lass, listen,” began Horn, earnestly. “Mebbe there’s no need to fear. But I don’t like Injun tracks. Not these days. Now I’m goin’ to scare this lazy outfit. Mebbe thet’ll make them rustle. But don’t you be scared.”
In camp the advent of fresh venison was hailed with satisfaction.
“Wal, I’ll gamble the shot thet killed this meat was heerd by Injuns,” blurted out Horn, as he deposited his burden on the grass and whipped out his hunting-knife. Then he glared at the outfit of men he had come to despise.
“Horn, I reckon you ‘pear more set up about Injuns than usual,” remarked Jones.
“Fresh Sioux track right out thar along the brook.”
“No!”
“Sioux!” exclaimed another.
“Go an’ look fer yourself.”
Not a man of them moved a step. Horn snorted his disdain and without more talk began to dress the deer.
Meanwhile the sun set behind the ridge and the day seemed far spent. The evening meal of the travelers was interrupted when Horn suddenly leaped up and reached for his rifle.
“Thet’s no Injun, but I don’t like the looks of how he’s comin’.”
All gazed in the direction in which Horn pointed. A horse and rider were swiftly approaching down the trail from the west. Before any of the startled campers recovered from their surprise the horse reached the camp. The rider hauled up short, but did not dismount.
“Hello!” he called. The man was not young. He had piercing gray eyes and long hair. He wore fringed gray buckskin, and carried a long, heavy, muzzle-loading rifle.
“I’m Slingerland—trapper in these hyar parts,” he went on, with glance swiftly taking in the group. “Who’s boss of this caravan?”
“I am—Bill Horn,” replied the leader, stepping out.
“Thar’s a band of Sioux redskins on your trail.”
Horn lifted his arms high. The other men uttered exclamations of amaze and dread. The women were silent.
“Did you see them?” asked Horn.
“Yes, from a ridge back hyar ten miles. I saw them sneakin’ along the trail an’ I knowed they meant mischief. I rode along the ridges or I’d been hyar sooner.”
“How many Injuns?”
“I counted fifteen. They were goin’ along slow. Like as not they’ve sent word fer more. There’s a big Sioux camp over hyar in another valley.”
“Are these Sioux on the war-path?”
“I saw dead an’ scalped white men a few days back,” replied Slingerland.
Horn grew as black as a thundercloud, and he cursed the group of pale-faced men who had elected to journey eastward with him.
“You’ll hev to fight,” he ended, brutally, “an’ thet’ll be some satisfaction to me.”
“Horn, there’s soldiers over hyar in camp,” went on Slingerland. “Do you want me to ride after them?”
“Soldiers!” ejaculated Horn.
“Yes. They’re with a party of engineers surveyin’ a line fer a railroad. Reckon I could git them all hyar in time to save you—IF them Sioux keep comin’ slow. … I’ll go or stay hyar with you.”
“Friend, you go—an’ ride thet hoss!”
“All right. You hitch up an’ break camp. Keep goin’ hard down the trail, an’ I’ll fetch the troops an’ head off the redskins.”
“Any use to take to the hills?” queried Horn, sharply.
“I reckon not. You’ve no hosses. You’d be tracked down. Hurry along. Thet’s best. … An’ say, I see you’ve a young girl hyar. I can take her up behind me.”
“Allie, climb up behind him,” said Horn, motioning to the girl.
“I’ll stay with mother,” she replied.
“Go child—go!” entreated Mrs. Durade.
Others urged her, but she shook her head. Horn’s big hand trembled as he held it out, and for once there was no trace of hardness about his face.
“Allie, I never had no lass of my own. … I wish you’d go with him. You’d be safe—an’ you could take my—”
“No!” interrupted the girl.
