THE GIRL WITH THE RED-GOLD HAIR.
The glowing sun had set in the west--a huge ball of fire that seemed
to sink into the ground. The shade of night had fallen and darkness
veiled in the distant prairie. Supper had been prepared and eaten by
the emigrants and some had begun to arrange to retire for the night.
The moon, three-quarters full, was rising slowly, casting its clear,
pure light over the vast plain, chasing the darkness away and dancing
in little waves of light on the yellow and swift-flowing waters of the
Yellowstone.
The fires of the emigrants threw out their uncertain and flickering
light upon the faces of the little groups that surrounded them. All
were speaking of the dangers of the journey before them, and many a
tale of Indian warfare and border peril were rehearsed around the
watch-fires of the wagon-train.
By the wagon that stood nearest to the river’s bank a little group of
four people were seated; three women and one man. The man was called
Grierson; one of the women, the elder one, was his wife; the other, who
resembled her strongly in features, was her daughter, Eunice by name.
The mother and daughter were dark eyed and dark haired, presenting
a decided contrast to the last of the group, who was a young girl,
who did not look over sixteen. She had one of those sweet, innocent,
childish faces that win favor at the first glance--a face once seen,
never to be forgotten--there was something so odd, so striking about
it. The face was little, but a perfect oval, with a high, white
forehead, dark-blue eyes, full of life and expression, dimpled cheeks,
slightly tinged with a crimson flush, that relieved the white, pearly
skin, a little chin exquisitely shaped, full, pouting lips, red as
ripe cherries, a long, straight nose, and then, the great charm of
the head--the red-gold hair that hung in profusion, in little tangled
ringlets, clinging elfishly together almost down to her little shapely
waist. In figure she was a little sprite of a girl, exquisitely
proportioned, with the daintiest little feet and hands. In brief, she
was innocence and grace personified. Such was Leona Vender, the fairy,
who had tangled up the honest heart of Dave Reed, the guide, in the
silken meshes of her red-gold hair.
The Grierson family were neighbors of the Venders in Greenfield, and
hearing how well Daniel Vender had made out in the Far West, had
determined to try their fortune in Montana and had made preparations so
as to set out at the same time as Leona. Leona of course was very glad
of their company, particularly as Eunice, the daughter, had been her
school companion and was her dearest friend.
Leona, although looking like a mere child of fifteen, was in reality
nineteen years of age. Eunice, her friend, was one year older.
“Well, wife,” said Grierson, rising from his seat near the fire, “I
guess I shall go to bed. We start at four in the morning, and as we
make a long march to-morrow, we shall need all the rest we can get.
Girls, don’t sit up late.”
“No, father,” answered Eunice, speaking for both.
Grierson and his wife retired to the shelter of the wagon.
Leona was gazing dreamily out upon the surface of the rolling river,
whereon the moonbeams danced like so many silver sprites. Eunice
noticed her abstraction.
“A penny for your thoughts, Leona!” she cried, stroking down the
curling locks of her friend’s hair.
Leona started a little; a faint smile came to her lips, as she answered
in a low voice:
“Perhaps my thoughts are not worth a penny.”
“Oh, Leona!” cried Eunice, “what a little humbug you are! Not worth a
penny! Well, now, if I were thinking of what _you_ were thinking of,
and you should say what I did, I should have answered that my thoughts
were worth a great many pennies.”
Leona smiled again, then looked shyly at her friend.
“How can you know what I am thinking of? I hardly believe I know
myself,” said Leona.
“Let me word your thoughts, then, for you. A tall, manly figure; long
black hair, curling, oh! so romantically down over his shoulders;
a pair of jet-black eyes; an honest, handsome, earnest face--and
the--the--well, the wish that he might think of somebody as somebody
thinks of him. Come, confess, ain’t I right?” and Eunice put her arms
around the slender figure by her side and drew the shapely little head
with the silken curls down upon her shoulder.
“Yes,” came in a whisper from the lips of Leona.
“There!” cried Eunice, triumphantly, “I knew that I was right, and, you
little cheat, to try to deceive _me_!”
“But, Eunice,” rejoined Leona, “I don’t know that he cares any thing
for me.”
“Then you must be blind!” exclaimed Eunice, impulsively. “Why, I can
see that he worships the very ground you walk on. When we are riding
with him at the head of the train, he never takes his eyes from you
for a single moment. Now, he’s something like a lover; he’s never
obtrusive, yet always near at hand to do you service. If he don’t love
you, then you will never be loved by mortal man, and your fate will be
to die an old maid.”
“Are you sure that he loves me?” asked Leona, dreamily, her fingers
pushing the little curls back from her forehead.
“Of course I am! I only wish some such nice-looking fellow would fall
in love with me. I wouldn’t let him grieve himself to death for want of
a loving word.”
“But, he has never said that he loves me, although I own from his
actions that I thought he did,” replied Leona.
“Very likely. He’s bashful; he’s not one of your city chaps, that have
such a good opinion of themselves that they think every woman they meet
is in love with them. He’s an honest fellow--as brave as a lion and as
true as steel. I tell you what it is, Leona, if you don’t give the poor
fellow some encouragement, I shall set my cap for him myself, for I
give you fair warning that I am half in love with him already.”
“Why, Eunice!” and Leona looked into her friend’s face, half in
reproach.
“There now, don’t be frightened. I shan’t take your lover away from
you--probably for the best of all reasons, and that is, that I couldn’t
get him if I wanted him!”
“But, if he loves me, why don’t he tell me so?” demanded Leona.
“Why?” cried Eunice. “Because he’s a bashful goose like you are. When
we are riding at the head of the train, you and he say scarcely a word
to each other, while the other guide, the one they call Abe, and I,
have had fine chats together.”
“Why, no!” said Leona, in her earnest way, “you are quite wrong; he has
told me all about his life--how he was born here on the frontier and
has always lived on the prairie--how he has hunted buffalo, and some
dreadful stories about the Indians.”
“And I dare say that you listened to him with those large eyes of yours
opened to their widest extent, and that, with every word he spoke, you
loved him more and more.”
“Yes,” murmured Leona, softly. “I do love him, and I know I shall never
love any one else as I love him.”
“Well, then, the sooner you understand one another the better; but,
Leona, do you think that your father will consent?”
“Oh, yes!” answered Leona, “I am sure of it; he loves me too well to
refuse. Besides, when he sees Mr. Reed, I feel sure he can not help
liking him.”
“Oh! you poor little kitten!” cried Eunice, twining Leona’s red-gold
ringlets around her fingers; “because you like him, you think everybody
else must.”
“Here is Mr. Reed coming,” added Eunice, quickly. “Now you have a fine
chance for a walk along the bank of the river--a moonlight walk--and if
you are not both great gooses, you ought to be able to find out whether
you like one another or not.”
The manly figure of Dave came into the circle of light thrown out from
the fire.
“Good-evening,” he said, as he advanced.
“Good-evening,” replied both the girls.
“Oh, I’m glad you have come, Mr. Reed. Leona has been wanting an escort
for a walk up the bank of the river in the moonlight, and I am too
tired to go.” Eunice cast a merry glance at Leona’s scarlet face as she
spoke. Dave did not notice Leona’s confusion; he was only too happy to
be able to enjoy the society of the fair young girl, to him the dearest
girl in all the world.
“I shall be happy to offer myself for an escort,” he answered.
“And she would be happy to accept the offer,” cried Eunice, “and you
too,” she added, mentally, “if you would offer your_self_.”
“There is no danger, I suppose?” Leona said.
“Oh, no!” replied Dave, “we will only go a little way beyond our
picket-line, and then we can return.”
Abe, as captain of the train, had thrown out regular pickets, as though
on the prairie.
Leona got a cloak of dark cloth from the wagon, wrapped it around
her, took the offered arm of Dave, and the two walked off in the path
leading up the river.
“Now, if they don’t discover whether they love each other or not,
before they come back, then they ought to be ashamed of themselves!”
cried Eunice to herself, as she looked after their retreating figures.
Leona and Dave walked on arm in arm; they passed the picket-guard by
the river, and got beyond the limits of the camp.
Dark clouds had begun to gather on the hitherto clear sky, and every
now and then one would sail across the moon, shading the earth in
darkness for a few moments; then the moon would shine out clear again
till another cloud followed.
No sounds were stirring on the still night-air save now and then the
shrill cry of some little earth insect, burrowing beneath the feet of
the lovers.
“Do you think there is danger of the Indians attacking us before we
reach Montana?” asked Leona.
“It is difficult to say,” replied Dave. “We are a large party, and
the Indians seldom attack unless three to one. They don’t care about
fighting if they can help it. If a large war-party should happen to
come across our trail, why then of course they would trouble us; but we
are not likely to meet any large parties; and the small ones will try
and run off our stock if they can, but they’ll keep out of rifle-range.”
“If there should be an attack, you would be exposed more to the savages
than any of the rest, would you not?” asked Leona.
“Of course, my partner Abe and myself, being captains of the train,
are expected to front all the danger--that is what we are paid for,”
returned the guide.
“It is a terrible risk you run,” said Leona, with a half-shudder at the
thought of the possible danger.
“Well, Miss Leona,” said Dave, in his honest, straightforward way, “we
must all die some day, and from what little I have seen of the world, I
should say that we were always in danger. When a train is attacked that
I’m with somehow I never think of the chance of my getting killed. The
fact is, I’m always too busy looking out for the safety of the train.
And if there’s anybody got to die by the hands of the red devils, why,
better me than a man who has wife, sisters and daughters that love him.
You know, for I have told you, that I am alone in the world, and if I
should go under and these red heathen take my top-knot, there wouldn’t
be any one in the world to grieve for me.”
A cloud at the moment was passing over the moon, which shaded the earth
in darkness, or Dave, if he had looked at Leona’s face, would have seen
that her eyes were filled with tears.
“You are wrong,” Leona said, in her low, sweet tones. “There is some
one in the world that would mourn for you.”
Dave thought for a moment, then he spoke:
“Yes, I forgot the ‘Crow-Killer.’ I believe he does love me like a
brother, although he is old enough to be my father, and until a short
time ago we had never met.”
“Then there are two that would mourn for you, for there is another
besides him.” Leona was blushing scarlet at her own boldness. Dave
detected a meaning in her tone and words that sent a thrill of joy to
his heart; and Leona, feeling his arm tremble within hers, knew that
she was understood. When two people love each other, and wish each
to know of that love, as a general thing it don’t take very long for
them to discover the truth, and so, as they walked on in the darkness,
walked on beside the winding river, Leona and Dave knew that they
loved. Oh, happy moment, when the first love fills the heart, that
before had been vacant!
Dave was the first to break the silence.
“Leona,” he said, “I’ve wanted for a long time to tell you how much I
cared for you, but I never found the courage to do so until now. I’m
only a poor guide, but if you’ll give me your love, I’ll work hard and
build up a home for you that one day you won’t be ashamed to share.”
“I should never be ashamed of any home where you are, David,” replied
Leona, looking up into her lover’s face, with those trusting blue eyes,
so full of innocence and love. “I can not give you what you ask, for it
is not mine to give--it is yours already.”
David Reed had never felt so happy, and so the lovers walked on,
weaving bright hopes for the future--that future which always looks so
bright to those who love.
Dave, so engrossed by the sweet girl at his side, had not noticed a
dark figure that moved when they moved, and halted when they halted;
and now, as the lovers sat down by the river-bank, hand in hand, and
whispered low words of love and of eternal faith, the shadowy figure
extended itself flat on the prairie a hundred yards or so from them,
and became invisible in the gloom.
A few hundred feet from where the lovers sat was a little thicket of
dwarfed oak trees. Concealed behind the thicket from the view of the
fort and the wagon-camp, stood a white horse, spotted on the flanks
with patches of black. ’Twas the horse of the Indian who had called
himself a chief of the Yancton Sioux. As the moon was again obscured
by clouds, forth from the little thicket came the Indian himself.
Snake-like he crawled toward the lovers, who, listening only to
each other, did not dream that danger was nigh. On came the savage,
noiseless as a cat. In his hand he carried a long scalping-knife; his
face was bedaubed with war-paint, vermilion and white. Every second
brought the creeping savage nearer and nearer to the unconscious pair.
He had accomplished half the distance between the thicket and the
lovers, when for a few moments the moon again struggled forth and threw
its beams over the prairie; the savage sunk down in the grass. When
the moon was again obscured, he recommenced his onward passage. But
if his approach had been unnoticed by the lovers, ’twas not so with
the shadowy form on the prairie. That watcher evidently had seen the
Indian, for, imitating his motions, he made his way noiselessly through
the grass, also toward the lovers. When the savage got within ten feet
of Leona and Dave, he paused for a moment, gathered himself together
like a cat--he had not noticed the dark form in his rear, so intent
was he on his prey--sprung upon Dave and aimed a lightning stroke at
his back; but, at that very moment, Dave moved a little to the right,
to kiss, for the first time, the upturned lips of Leona--a movement
that saved his life, for the knife of the Indian, missing his body,
only cut through the loose red shirt. The force of the shock, though,
sent Dave headlong off the bank into the river. In a moment the Indian
seized Leona, raised her in his arms and was about to fly across the
prairie, when the dark shadow which had trailed him in the grass, and
which was none other than Abe, the “Crow-Killer,” sprung upon him. The
Indian relinquished Leona, who sunk to the ground, to grapple with the
“Crow-Killer.” His only object now was to escape, but the grasp of the
old Indian-fighter was not easily shaken off. They closed in a fearful
struggle; the moon once more shone forth, and they beheld each other’s
features; the surprise was mutual.
“The ‘Crow-Killer’!” cried the savage, in the Crow tongue.
“White Vulture!” exclaimed Abe.
“Yes, son of ‘Little Star’,” cried the Indian.
For a moment the grasp of the “Crow-Killer” relaxed; the savage tore
himself away and fled across the prairie toward the thicket, where
stood his horse. Abe drew a revolver and leveled it at the flying
Indian; a moment he covered him with the shining tube; he was in easy
range, and the “Crow-Killer” was a dead shot; a moment he held the life
of the White Vulture at his mercy; then he slowly dropped the revolver
from the poise, muttering:
“Not by my hand! his blood must not be on my head!”
Dave speedily gained the bank, nothing hurt by his involuntary bath,
and they all returned to the camp. Abe charged both Leona and Dave to
say nothing of the attack as it would only create useless alarm. The
Indian having gained his white steed fled in the darkness.