*A Prairie-Schooner Princess*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE STRANGERS*
From under the curving top of a canvas-covered "prairie schooner" a boy
of about fifteen leaned out, his eyes straining intently across the
brown, level expanse of the prairies.
"Father," he called, with a note of anxiety in his voice, "look back
there to the northeast! What is that against the horizon? It looks
like a cloud of dust or smoke."
In a second prairie schooner, just ahead of the one the boy was driving,
a man with a brown, bearded face looked out hastily, then continued to
scan the horizon with anxious gaze.
Beside him in the wagon sat a blue-eyed, comely woman with traces of
care in her face. As the boy's voice reached her she started, then
leaned out of the wagon, her startled gaze sweeping the lonely untrodden
plains over which they were traveling.
Inside the wagon under the canvas cover a boy of nine, two little girls
of seven and twelve, a curly-headed little girl of five, and a baby boy
of two years, lay on the rolled-up bedding sleeping heavily.
The time was midsummer, 1856, and the family of Joshua Peniman, crossing
the plains to the Territory of Nebraska, which had recently been
organized, were traveling over the uninhabited prairies of western Iowa.
"Does thee think it could be Indians, Joshua?" asked Hannah Peniman, her
face growing white as she viewed the cloud of dust which appeared
momentarily to be coming nearer.
"I can't tell---I can't see yet," answered her husband, turning anxious
eyes from the musket he was hastily loading toward the cloud of dust.
"But whatever it is, it is coming this way. It might be a herd of elk
or buffalo, but anyway, we must be prepared. Get inside, Hannah, and
thee and the little ones keep well under cover."
In the other wagon two younger boys had joined the lad who was driving.
On the seat beside him now sat a merry-faced, brown-eyed lad of
fourteen, and leaning on their shoulders peering out between them was a
boy of twelve, the twin of the twelve-year-old girl in the other wagon,
with red hair, laughing blue eyes, and a round, freckled face.
Sam was the mischief of the family, and was generally larking and
laughing, but now his face looked rather pale beneath its coat of tan
and freckles, and the eyes which he fastened on the horizon had in them
an expression of terror.
"Do you suppose it's Indians, Joe?" he whispered huskily. "Did you hear
what that man told Father at Fort Dodge the other day? He said that
Indians had set on an emigrant train near Fontanelle and murdered the
whole party."
The boy on the driver's seat did not answer. With his wide grey eyes
focused intently on the cloud of dust in the distance, his tanned face
strained and set, he craned forward, every muscle of his body at rigid
attention.
Presently he handed the lines to the brother who sat beside him and
reaching up into the curving top of the wagon took down a heavy old
muzzle-loading musket.
"Do you think it is Indians?" the boy asked, his hands a bit tremulous
on the lines.
"I dunno. Can't tell yet. But we've got to be ready anyhow. Better
load up your rifle, Lige."
The brown-eyed boy wound the lines around the whip-stock and took from a
rack under the cover a long-barreled rifle.
They had seen many roving bands of Indians on their journey, but had
never been molested by them, but at the last settlement they had passed
through they had heard horrifying accounts of the scalping and massacre
of settlers and emigrants by the red men. On the old Overland Trail
between Fort Laramie and the South Fork of the Platte there had occurred
an Indian uprising a few days before, the terrifying news of which had
reached them at their last stopping place.
As Joe leaned forward with eyes fastened on the horizon he suddenly
uttered a cry.
"It's a wagon," he shouted,--"an emigrant wagon--like ours!"
From out of the cloud of dust that drifted across the prairie an object
could now be discerned, a large object, with a white canvas cover.
Joshua Peniman, who had never removed his intent gaze from the
approaching cloud, echoed the cry.
"It _is_ a wagon--an emigrant wagon!" Then as the dust drifted aside
and he could see more clearly,--"and they are driving at a fearful
pace!"
For many weeks now the family had been traveling over the desolation of
the prairies, for days at a time seeing no human creature but one
another. For miles all about them lay the prairies, brown, dry,
scorched by the hot summer sun, level as a floor, with never a tree, a
shrub, a bush, a hill, or a mound to break the dreary monotony of the
plains that stretched endlessly away all about them to the very horizon
in every direction.
It was therefore with the greater excitement and astonishment that the
family saw a wagon drawn by two furiously plunging horses emerge from
the cloud of dust that had concealed it, and come swaying and lurching
across the plains.
They had stopped their teams now, and the whole family were standing up
looking backward.
"Jerusalem! the folks in that wagon must be in a terrible hurry, whoever
they are!" ejaculated Elijah, more commonly called "Lige" by his family.
"They'll tip their old schooner over if they don't look out!" cried Sam.
"Look at her tilt!"
"Pretty risky driving, I should say," said Mrs. Peniman, shading her
eyes with her hand.
"Something must be the matter," cried Ruth, who, wakened by the talking,
had come to the rear of the wagon. "I don't believe anybody'd drive
like that if they didn't have to! Oh, Mother, do you suppose the
Indians are after them?"
"I think not, Ruthie, there does not appear to be any sign of any one
after them. What does thee make of it, Joshua?"
"I don't know what to make of it," replied Joshua Peniman, leaping out
of the wagon and keeping his gaze fixed on the approaching vehicle. "I
never saw such driving. What can they be thinking of to drive their
horses like that on such a day! The man must be drunk--or crazy! He'll
kill his team!"
The white-topped prairie schooner was now clearly visible, the horses
galloping madly, the wagon swaying and lurching from side to side, the
white curtain at the back streaming out on the wind.
"Something must be wrong there," cried Joe; "nobody in his senses would
drive like that! Do you suppose the team could be running away? No,
they're leaving the road! Look, they're turning in here! They must have
seen us! I wonder----"
With strained gaze the travelers stood motionless, every faculty
absorbed in watching the oncoming vehicle.
Suddenly Mrs. Peniman uttered a startled cry:
"Why, that isn't a man driving--it's a _woman!_"
Joshua Peniman, with hands bowed across his eyes, exclaimed
breathlessly, "My God, so it is!"
As the prairie schooner drew nearer the wonder and excitement of the
family increased.
On the high driver's seat in the front of the wagon they could now make
out a woman; a woman young, beautiful, white and livid as death; a mass
of hair that gleamed like molten gold in the sunshine blowing wildly
about her shoulders, her eyes distended, her arms bare to the elbows
extended far in front of her, one hand clutching the reins, the other
lashing the panting, staggering horses, that, lathered with foam and
sweat, were heaving and stumbling, ready to drop with exhaustion.
"Help, help, _help!_" her wild, piercing shriek came to them above the
clattering of the wagon.
Joshua Peniman, Joe and Lige leaped from their wagons and ran forward to
meet her. As they reached her she threw down the reins and reeled and
tottered on the seat.
"My husband--my husband!" she gasped, and pointed to the inside of the
wagon.
Joshua Peniman took the poor exhausted beasts by their bits and led them
up to his own encampment.
"What is it? What has happened?" Hannah Peniman cried, running to the
woman and with strong, tender arms lifting her down from the seat.
The woman staggered, and would have fallen if it were not for her strong
support.
"My husband--Lee--my husband!" she cried again, and breaking from the
supporting arms ran to the rear of the wagon.
Joshua Peniman was there before her.
On the roll of bedding under the canvas cover he saw the figure of a man
lying. Springing into the wagon he bent over it, then lifting it in his
arms bore it to the opening at the rear, where Joe waited. Between them
they carried it to the shade of the wagons, where they laid it on the
grass.
As they did so Hannah Peniman stooped over it, then uttered a sharp cry.
"Oh, _look_, look what has happened to him!" she gasped.
Joshua Peniman bent over the prostrate figure. Protruding from the
breast, with a great pool of blood staining the shirt about it, was an
arrow, buried well up on its feathered shaft.
"_An arrow!_" whispered Hannah Peniman in accents of horror.
"_Indians!_" cried Joe, a creepy chill running down his back.
The strange woman had run to the body and precipitated herself upon it
with agonized cries.
"Oh, Lee, Lee!" she shrieked. "Oh, surely he isn't dead! Surely he
would not leave us all alone!"
Joshua Peniman motioned to his wife, and with gentle hands she raised
the frail, delicate figure of the young wife and bore it away to the
other side of the wagon. Mr. Peniman stripped off the coat and laid his
hand, then his ear, over the heart of the prostrate figure.
"He is not dead," he whispered, "his heart is beating faintly. Get me a
pan of water, Joe, and the spirits of ammonia. Hurry, lad, a life may
depend on our efficiency now!"
When he had sponged the blood away he tried to draw the arrow from the
wound, but it was too deeply imbedded. His efforts only succeeded in
starting a terrific flow of blood, in the midst of which the wounded man
moaned and opened his eyes.
"Marian!" his lips shaped rather than spoke the word. Surmising that it
must be the name of his wife, Joshua Peniman sent Lige running to call
her. Then he bent over the wounded man, saying distinctly, "Thee is with
friends, friend. Thy wife is safe, and with my wife back of the
wagons."
The wounded man rolled his eyes about, then whispered tensely, "Nina!
Nina!"
Not knowing what he meant, the Quaker nodded reassuringly.
"Indians?" he asked, pointing to the arrow.
The man slowly raised his hand and groped toward the wound. To the
intense astonishment of both father and sons he shook his head.
"Tell--Marian--watch out--watch out for--for----" his head dropped back,
the blood gushed from his mouth, and with a gurgling cry he sank back on
the grass.
Joshua Peniman knelt beside him.
"Gone!" he said solemnly, reverently removing his hat.
*CHAPTER II*
*THE GRAVE IN THE DESERT*
As Joshua Peniman and his two older sons stood looking down upon the
dead man, the delicate-featured, high-browed, thoughtful face of a
scholar, upon the hands, smooth, white, tapering, with well-kept nails
and soft palms, the body worn and thin almost to emaciation, the waxen
cheeks hollow and sunken under the blue-rimmed eyes, a strange sense of
awe and wonder passed over them.
What was this man--this delicate, scholarly-appearing individual with
his soft hands and emaciated body--doing in an emigrant wagon crossing
the trackless plains?
Who was the woman who was with him--that young, beautiful,
delicately-clad and delicately nurtured woman, whose sobs and moans they
could hear from the other side of the wagon?
As these questions forced themselves through the mind of Joshua Peniman
the woman came rushing around the end of the wagon and cast herself down
beside the body.
"Lee, Lee, Lee!" she shrieked. "Oh, he is not dead, he is not dead!
Surely God could not be so cruel as to take him from me! Oh, Lee, my
husband, my own, my only love!"
Her voice had risen into a high, wailing cry. Suddenly from the rear end
of the wagon from which they had taken the dead man a head appeared.
To the startled eyes of the boys who first saw it it seemed the most
beautiful head and face they had ever seen.
It was a small head, fine and delicate, set like a flower on a little
swan-like throat, and covered with short curls of sunny gold. Beneath
the shining halo of curls a face looked out, pitifully small and
frightened, with great terrified violet eyes, a quivering rose-bud
mouth, and a skin as fair and delicate as the petals of a flower.
"Father--Mother!" cried a quivering, childish voice, "oh, what is the
matter? what has happened? what are you crying so for, Mother?" Then,
as the terrified violet eyes caught sight of the body, she leaped to the
ground and threw herself upon it with a cry that Joe could never forget.
The children who had gathered about stood transfixed, but Hannah Peniman
moved swiftly to the child and took her in her arms.
"Thy father has gone away, dear child," she whispered in her soft,
motherly voice. "But thee must be very brave for thy poor young
mother's sake. Thou must help her to bear it."
The child uttered a wild sob, then fled to her mother and clasped her
arms about her neck.
They clung to each other sobbing bitterly for a time. The boys turned
away, and Joe found a lump too big to swallow choking his throat.
After a time Joshua Peniman bent to the woman tenderly.
"Was thy husband ill, my child?" he asked gently.
"Oh yes, yes, very ill," she answered between her sobs. "They told me
he had tuberculosis. He was a writer. You must have heard of him. The
doctors sent us out West. They told him to get a wagon and spend the
whole summer traveling across the plains. We were on our way to Colorado
for his health. We have been out three weeks, and he was better, oh,
very, very much better. And then yesterday we were driving along near a
creek and some Indians set upon us----"
"Indians?" cried Joshua Peniman, remembering that the dying man had
answered his question with a shake of the head.
"Yes, Indians--a whole band of them. They began shooting at us. Nina
and I happened to be inside the wagon, but Lee--my poor Lee--was on the
driver's seat. I don't know when he was hit. I don't know that he knew
himself. He shouted out to me to hide, and to hide Nina, and I did, I
hid her under the blankets beneath the seat----"
"And you are sure it was Indians that attacked you?" asked Joshua
Peniman, while a cold hand of terror clutched his wife's heart.
"Yes, I'm sure. I saw them. I heard them. Oh, they were horrible!
Lee never made a sound when he was struck. All at once I saw him reel
and totter on the seat, then he came tumbling backward, and I saw the
arrow in his breast. I tried to pull it out, but I couldn't, and it
bled fearfully, so I stopped. He was conscious then, and said,
'Drive--hurry--wagon ahead!' I got up on the seat and whipped up the
horses and drove and drove as fast as I could make them go. The heat
was terrible. I thought I should die. But I saw your tracks, and at
last I saw the smoke of your fire and knew there was help at hand. I
thought I should kill the horses, but I didn't care, all I could think
of was help--help for my poor Lee!"
As she said the last words she uttered a long wail, threw her arms above
her head and plunged forward over the dead body.
Joshua Peniman lifted her tenderly and bore her in his arms to their own
wagon.
All night they worked over her, with every remedy at their command, but
before the grey dawn of morning they knew that she would join her
husband before many hours.
Heat, exhaustion, terror, the strain of agony and fear, the shock to an
already weakened and overstrained heart, were more than nature could
bear.
Shortly before daylight she opened her eyes and looked up into the face
of Hannah Peniman, who bent above her.
"Who are you?" she asked faintly. "Where do you come from?"
"Our name is Peniman, Hannah and Joshua Peniman. And these are our
children. We come from the Muskingum Valley in Ohio."
"You are Quakers?"
"Yes. My husband was a leader in the Society of Friends."
"Then you are good--good and kind, I know," she whispered brokenly.
Then clutching Hannah Peniman's hand and fixing her beautiful, burning
eyes upon her face she hurried on: "My child--my little Nina--what will
become of her? I am going--going to Lee--I could not live without him.
Our name is Carroll. My husband was Lee Carroll--a writer--and I am
Marian Carroll. The little girl's name is Nina. Will you take
her--will you take her with you to the nearest Mission? I know it is
asking a good deal with your big family--but you will do it--I know you
will do it--for my poor little orphaned child. I will explain to
her--give her papers and addresses and all--and they can send her home
from there. Our people are all--all----"
She stopped, gasping and struggling for breath. Joshua Peniman lifted
her and held a heart stimulant to her lips. After an interval, when
they feared all was over, she again opened her eyes. Mother love was
stronger than death. "Send--her--to me," she gasped--"I have not
long--to--be--with--her."
They laid her back upon the bed, then sent the child to her.
For some moments they heard the low murmur of voices, the sobbing of the
child. Then when there had been silence for some time Hannah Peniman
quietly parted the curtains of the wagon and looked in.
The young mother lay white and still, her beautiful delicately carved
face looking like sculptured marble in the dim grey light of morning,
the child with her arms tight clasped about her neck, her cheek on the
fast-chilling cheek of her dead mother, sobbing by her side.
Hannah Peniman took her in her arms and carried her out of the wagon.
Apart from her own brood of little ones she sat down, the little girl
still in her arms, and rocked and crooned to her, talking to her in
gentle, soothing tones, telling her of the great happiness her young
parents would feel in their reunion, in that place where there is no
more parting, no more sickness or suffering or death.
When the sun had risen they buried the man and woman side by side in a
grave dug in the virgin soil of the prairie. Over it the sun rose,
shining down upon the two pitiful mounds of earth in the loneliness of
the desert land, and bringing out upon the two wooden crosses at their
head the inscription Joshua Peniman had painted upon them, "Lee and
Marian Carroll. Died July 20th, 1856. Buried by Joshua Peniman,
emigrant, on way to Nebraska."
Below in smaller letters he had printed the cause of the death. That
was all that he knew about them.
He had drawn the arrow from the breast of the dead man before wrapping
the still form in the blanket that was its only coffin and shroud, and
without asking himself the reason why he preserved the arrow carefully,
putting it away in a chest under the seat of his wagon.
The whole family gathered about the graves, while the gentle Quaker said
over them the simple, earnest prayer of the Friends, then turned sadly
toward the wagons, which were ready to start again on their westward
journey.
As they turned away from the lonely graves the child broke from them and
with a wild cry ran back and threw herself face downward upon them.
Ruth and Sara broke into loud sobbing, and even the boys were obliged to
turn aside.
Hannah Peniman went to the child and raised her.
"Come, little one," she said with tear-wet eyes, "thee must come away.
Thy dear parents are not there. That is only the old garments they have
laid down to go to the new home that awaits them. They are together
now, and will always be happy and well. They are not far away. They
will watch over thee. Their spirits will always be near thee. Thou art
young, life will bring many joys to thee, of which thy parents will be
glad. Come now, little girl, the sun grows high, the day will be hot,
and we must be on our way."
As the child, sobbing bitterly and clinging to her, turned toward the
wagon that had belonged to her parents, which was hitched on behind the
one driven by Joshua Peniman, Mrs. Peniman drew her away.
"Will thee ride in the big wagon with my little girls?" she asked
gently; "they would be very glad to have thee."
The child raised her pretty head, looked at the Peniman children with
her beautiful, tear-filled eyes, then slowly shook her head.
"I will ride with that boy," she said, pointing to Joe, who, seated on
the driver's seat of his own wagon, was valiantly striving to appear
manly and keep back his tears. He blushed up to the roots of his fair
hair, then leaped down from the seat and very tenderly lifted the little
stranger up on the seat of the wagon.
As the cavalcade started forward, now quite a procession with the three
teams and wagons, the cow following behind, the collie dog leaping and
barking beside the wagons, the faces of all were turned backward and
their eyes rested on the lonely mounds on the prairie as long as they
were in sight.
The little girl, sitting beside Joe on the high seat with her
trimly-dressed little feet swinging far above the wagon-bed, kept her
head buried in her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Gentle-hearted Ruth cried with her, Lige beat a hasty retreat to the
back of the wagon, while tender-hearted Sam slipped a sympathetic
freckled hand into hers and wept openly as he smoothed and patted it.
Joe could do nothing but sit soddenly, with a lump in his throat so big
that he could neither speak nor swallow. But his eyes had in them all
the sympathy that his lips could not speak, and when the little girl at
last looked up it was straight into those bright, wistful, moist grey
eyes, after which she snuggled up against him and laid her head against
his arm.
*CHAPTER III*
*PRINCESS*
As the wagons creaked slowly along over the burning, dusty prairies the
little stranger cried more quietly, while the children stared at her
with growing interest and wonder.
They had never seen any one quite like her before.
Living as they had in the quiet Friends settlement on their farm in
Ohio, they had seen but little of the outside world, and that little had
contained nobody in the least like this fairy-like creature, with her
dainty clothing, her delicate features and coloring and her sunny golden
hair.
"Say," whispered Sam, who was a great devourer of juvenile literature;
"she looks just exactly like the fairy princesses you read about in
story-books, don't she? Look at her little feet, and her little teenty
white hands, and how her hair curls, and how little and white her neck
is!"
Lige looked and nodded. "An' look at her clothes, too! City folks'
clothes. Wonder why her mother let her wear clothes like that in the
wagon? Our mother wouldn't let Sara and Ruth."
"You bet she wouldn't. She makes 'em wear calico aprons."
They glanced again at the little figure on the seat in front of them; at
the dainty white dress, the little lace-trimmed petticoat that showed
below its edge, the white stockings, the dainty little kid slippers, and
then at each other and their own rough clothes and rough red hands.
"Makes you feel kind of like a tramp, don't it?" muttered Lige, and
privately resolved to get out his second-best suit and put it on in the
morning.
Joe meanwhile was casting sympathetic glances at the little figure
beside him, and trying hard to think of something to say or do to
comfort her. The sight of a meadow-lark flying up from a little bunch
of grass near by gave him an opening.
"Bet there's a nest and some eggs in that bunch of grass," he remarked
nonchalantly, and was rewarded by seeing the big violet eyes come up
from the little monogramed handkerchief, and the golden head raised to
see.
"Where?" she asked, with a child's readily aroused interest.
Joe was enchanted.
"Right over there," he explained, pointing with the whip. "Want to see
if there ain't?" He stopped the horses and all the children sprang out
and ran to the patch of grass.
Sam reached it first, and made emphatic signs to the others to come
quietly. When they had all crept up they found a nest indeed, but
better than eggs in it, for there were four big-headed, wide-mouthed
speckled little birds, that, when they felt the stir in the grass near
them, stretched up their skinny necks and peeped industriously.
The boys laughed, and even Nina managed a little smile. When they went
back to the wagon she was not crying, and her three anxious escorts
exerted themselves to their utmost to keep her busy and interested for
the remainder of the day.
After a time Sara and Paul joined them, and Mr. and Mrs. Peniman, riding
in the other wagon with the younger children, were pleased and glad to
hear as the day progressed that the voice of the little stranger joined
in their talk and laughter.
"What shall we do with her, Hannah?" asked Joshua Peniman anxiously.
"Somehow it weighs heavily upon my heart to think of leaving this little
orphaned child among strangers at a Mission. I presume they would be
kind to her, and perhaps would exert themselves to get her home to her
own people, but----"
The sigh with which the sentence ended found an echo in Hannah Peniman's
heart. She had been thinking of the matter all day, wondering in what
direction lay their duty.
"I agree with thee, Joshua," she answered. "A Mission is no place for a
little girl like her. She bears every evidence of delicate and tender
rearing, and gives promise of great beauty. She is thirteen years old
now, her mother told me, and in a very few years will grow into a
beautiful young maiden."
For many miles the couple drove along in silence, the voices from the
other wagon coming frequently to their ears. After long and earnest
thought Hannah Peniman spoke:
"Joshua," she said, "my heart cannot forget that the hand of the Lord
was laid upon us, too, in crossing these prairies. There is always
before me the picture of that tiny mound we left behind us in this great
trackless desert when our own little girl was taken from us. Perhaps
God has intended to comfort us by sending to us this other child, whose
sorrow has linked her to us. Somehow I cannot find it in my heart to
abandon her to such care as she would find at a Mission."
Joshua Peniman turned to her, love and approval beaming in his eyes.
"Spoken like the true woman thee is, Hannah," he said, clasping her
hand. "But I would not that an added burden should be laid upon thee.
Thou hast many little ones to attend to, and this stranger child----"
"--Would not make me any more care, dear. She can run wild with Ruth
and Sara out there on the plains, and I believe that our boys are kind
and chivalrous enough to take care of her."
"But her clothes, Hannah? With eight children of our own to keep
covered----"
"One more would not matter. Beside, the child is thirteen years old,
and should learn to sew. Soon she will be able to attend to her own
clothes. And"--with a little smile that had in it a tinge of pain,--"I
imagine few clothes will suffice in the country to which we are going."
"But the cooking----"
"She would be a help to Ruth and Sara in their share of the work. And
as for the food she will eat----"
"We must not think of that," cried Joshua Peniman hastily. "The
Providence which threw her into our hands will see to it that we are
able to feed her. When we reach another town of size I will write to the
relatives of which her mother spoke. Until that time----"
"--Until that time," interrupted Mrs. Peniman, with her motherly smile,
"she shall be even as our own, and we will care for her as her poor
young parents would have wished her to be cared for."
"God bless thee for a good and noble woman, Hannah," said her husband;
and so the fate of the little stranger was decided.
Meanwhile as the wagons jogged on through the long, hot, silent
afternoon the children grew better acquainted, and presently began to
talk of themselves and one another.
"How long have you been on the way, Princess?" asked the irrepressible
Sam. "We been out eight weeks now."
The little stranger looked up at him quickly.
"My name isn't 'Princess,' it's Nina," she said.
"But you look just like a princess--like the princess in the fairy
stories, don't you know?"
Nina, who had been an indefatigable reader of fairy tales herself,
recognized the compliment.
"Aw, no I don't, either!" she ejaculated scornfully. "The princesses in
fairy stories are always beautiful."
"So're you," urged the gallant Sam. "You do, too, look like a princess,
don't she, Joe?"
Joe glanced up shyly. "I've never seen a princess," he admitted, "but I
_think_ you do. I think you are beautiful. You are the most beautiful
person I have ever seen."
Long years after, when time and fate had wrought many changes in their
lives, Joe remembered the speech and thought no differently.
The little girl blushed and hung her head.
"You're a silly boy," she told him. "I don't look a bit like a
princess. What makes you boys say such foolish things?"
Joe seldom said anything that he had not thought out pretty thoroughly,
and he now puckered his forehead and searched for the reason in his mind
that made this little girl seem different from any other he had ever
seen.
"I guess," he began thoughtfully, "it's 'cause you're kind of different.
You see we've always lived on the farm, and the folks we knew were just
plain Friends, who didn't think much about dress or looks, just work and
service, you know. But you--well--I dunno, I don't know how to say
it--but you look like--like something out of the sky, or the air, or a
book or something. Not like us--like you were meant for work and
service, but kind o' like the birds and flowers an' the pretty things of
life. I guess that's what Sam means when he says you look like a
princess."
"W-ell, partly," admitted Sam. "Anyhow I'm going to call you
'Princess.'"
"I don't care what you call me," cried the little girl, with a smile
that brought little sparkles into her eyes and made a dimple play
hide-and-seek in either rose-hued cheek. Then turning again to Joe,
"You're Quakers, aren't you?"
"Yes," he replied, "all our people have been Friends for generations
back. Father was the founder of a sect where we lived."
"But you boys don't talk like Quakers!"
"No, we don't use the plain language any more. You see we have been at
school with other boys who didn't use it, so we got out of the way.
Father doesn't use it to people of the world, either; we only use it at
home. We've always lived in Ohio. Where did you used to live?"
The sadness which the conversation of the last few minutes had driven
from the face of the little "Princess" returned.
"We really lived in New York," she said. "But we traveled about so much
I don't know just where our home really was. You see Papa was a
writer--wrote books, you know, and he had to travel about a lot, and
Mama and I always went with him. She could never bear to be away from
him, and they always took me. We lived in France and Italy and Germany
and Russia, and it was awful cold there in Russia, and Papa took sick.
He was awfully sick, we thought he was going to die. The doctors sent
us back to America, and we came out West for his health. We got a wagon
and team in Chicago and were on our way to Colorado. He was
better--lots and lots better, and he might have got well, but
then--then----" Her voice broke and the tears welled up into her eyes.
"Oh," broke in Lige, who could not bear to see the clouds obscure the
sunshine of the past few minutes, "you ought to see what we've been
through! I tell you we've had adventures! We came all the way from
Ohio in these wagons, and I tell you what we've had some lively times!"
"What kind of adventures?" queried the Princess, the natural curiosity
of a child aroused by these allusions to incidents of a thrilling
nature.
"O Jerusalem, all kinds of 'em!" cried the delighted Lige, fairly
swelling with importance. "We got into a flood an' nearly lost our
wagon, and coyotes got after the horses, and little David got lost an'
fell into the river, an'--an'--oh, all kinds of things!"
"Tell me about them," demanded the Princess, who dearly loved a story.
Lige looked at Joe. He was a handsome boy, who was fond of occupying
the centre of the stage, but he knew that his brother could do greater
justice to the thrilling adventures they had been through than he could.
"You tell her, Joe," he said. And as Joe pulled the horses into a
smoother place in the road and threw one leg over the other, the little
Princess settled down beside him, her chin in her hand, her great violet
eyes fastened upon his face, as he proceeded to tell their story.
[Illustration: The little Princess settled down beside him, her chin in
her hand.]
That the reader may know as much about the Peniman family and their
great adventure of crossing the plains as did the little Princess, we
will leave the wagons lumbering slowly along over the baking plains and
return to the Muskingum Valley in Ohio from whence they made their
start.
*CHAPTER IV*
*LEAVING THE OLD HOME*
It was on the morning of May 15, 1856, that Joe Peniman awoke as the
first grey streaks of morning were coming in the sky. In the yard
beneath his window he could hear the sound of voices, footsteps going to
and fro. Inside there was the sound of bumping and thumping of
furniture, of much talking, the hurried noises of preparation for some
great event.
He started up and glanced at the window. Day was coming! _The Day_!
The day he had been dreaming of and hoping for and longing for for
months!
He leaped out of bed with a shrill yip of joy and pulled the bedclothes
off his slumbering brother.
"Hi, Lige," he shouted, "wake up! It's to-morrow--I mean it's
to-day--it's _The Day_ at last!"
Lige raised a sleepy face from the pillows, blinked once or twice,
rubbed his nose, then sat up with a jerk.
"Jerusalem, is it _morning_?" he ejaculated. "Why, I never slept a wink
all night. Couldn't, I was too excited. Oh, golly, this is to-morrow,
isn't it? No, it's _to-day_ now--and we're going to start right after
breakfast! Ki-yi, _ain't I glad_!"
He did an extemporaneous war-dance around the room, then brought up
beside the bed where Joe was hastily getting into the new gingham shirt,
the dark suit, and strong copper-toed shoes that had been laid out upon
it.
Outside in the yard they could hear the sound of talking, of men going
to and fro. There was the sound of rumbling wheels, the regular strokes
of a hammer, and many directions given in the mild but decisive voice of
their father.
It was very early still. In the shadows it was still dark, and over the
whole earth there lay that hush, that sense of mystery and silence that
comes with the early dawn. The sky above the east pasture showed faint
streaks of pink and mauve, and the fragrance of the apple and peach and
plum and cherry blossoms in the old orchard came up to them, mingled
with the scent of wet grass and clover, the lowing of the cows in the
pasture, the crowing of the roosters in the barnyard. It was with
something like a pang that Joe recognized the shrill and strident voice
of little Dicky, his favorite bantam rooster.
Under the old elm-trees two heavy new wagons were drawn up, and their
father, mounted on the dash-board of one of them was fastening in place
the white canvas cover, stretching it taut over strong ash bows that
were bent from side to side of the wagon.
A thrill passed through the hearts of the boys as they leaned
half-dressed out of the window.
The _Prairie Schooners_!
The romantic craft in which they were to embark that day on the most
wonderful adventures of their lives!
They had talked of and dreamed about and anticipated the coming of this
day for many months. Now it seemed almost too good to be true that it
was really here at last.
It seemed to the boys as they hung out of the window that the yard was
full of men, and that they all seemed in a great hurry and bustle of
preparation, going to and fro between the barn and the house and the
wagons carrying boxes and bundles and bedding and furniture and stowing
it away in the wagons beneath the canvas covers.
They recognized their Uncle Jonathan among them, and sent forth a loud
and triumphant hail to their Cousin Fred, who was standing about
wistfully watching the loading of the wagons. Bill Hale, the "hired
man," was there, and Uncle Charles, and Friend Robinson, and neighbor
Hines, and many more. A queer sort of a sinking sensation seized the
pit of Joe's stomach as he saw Friend Robinson carry out his mother's
old rocking-chair and the baby's cradle and put them into the wagon.
Through the trees across the creek he could see the red roof of his
grandmother's house, the old Quaker homestead where his mother was born
and had grown to womanhood, and nearer the woods and stream and lanes
where his brothers and sisters and himself had played all their lives.
In the tree outside the window he caught a glimpse of the robin that had
nested in that same crotch of a branch for five summers. She was
sitting now. The young birds would be out in a few days. Joe turned
his eyes hastily away from the bright glance of the little mother as she
peered up at him.
"Come, boys--come, Joseph, will thee stand staring out of that window
all day?" a voice cried behind him, and he withdrew his head quickly and
turned around to see his mother standing in the doorway. She was all
dressed and ready for the journey, in a dark grey worsted dress with a
white collar, her brown hair neat and shining, her face a little pale,
and her sweet blue eyes reddened by recent tears.
"Come, come, boys, thee must hurry," she cried. "Thy father has been
afoot for an hour or more, and breakfast is nearly ready. Elijah, did
thee put on the new stockings I laid out for thee? Tie thy necktie
neatly, Joseph. And hurry, now, the day that thee has been looking
forward to so long has come at last, and thee must begin right now to be
brave young pioneers."
Her voice quivered a little but she smiled at them bravely, then hurried
away.
Out under the elm-trees the boys found preparations for the journey
rapidly approaching completion. The great white canvas covers of the
wagons were now in place, making a domed shelter for the interior of the
wagons, and most of the household goods that the family were going to
take with them to their far western home had already been stowed away
inside.
As Joe stood watching these preparations something of the finality of
the change was borne in upon him. Up to this moment he had thought of
nothing but the wonderful journey across the plains, the romance, the
adventure, the strange, novel, and interesting things he would see and
do along the way. Now it suddenly came over him that he was leaving his
childhood home forever.
He thought of the boys, the playmates of his whole life, whom he was
leaving behind; of the swimming-hole down under the willows; the nest of
young kittens under the barn; the sunfish and croppies in the stream. He
thought of his playmates at old-fashioned "round ball," and wondered,
with just the suggestion of a pang, who would play in his place this
summer.
Just below the house the creek murmured musically over its pebbly
bottom, and near it was the old willow-tree in which he could see the
platform of their playhouse--all that was left of it--most of it having
been torn down and the lumber used for crating furniture and covering
boxes.
His thoughts were beginning to grow a bit sombre when a call to
breakfast interrupted them. He hurried into the big sunny kitchen, in
which he had eaten his breakfast every morning of his life.
It did not look natural this morning. An extemporaneous table had been
arranged of planks set on sawhorses, and upon it was spread the
breakfast, with odds and ends of dishes and crockery that were to be
left behind. About this board the family was gathered, while the
kitchen was filled with relatives, neighbors, and friends.
Mrs. Peniman's mother, Mrs. Jennings, sat at the head of the table, with
little David in her lap, and her noble placid face looked withered, wan
and pale, as if she had not slept for many nights. Mrs. Peniman sat
beside her with baby Abigail on her knee, and Joe noticed with a queer
constriction in his breast that her face was very pale and her white
lips pressed together as if to keep them from trembling. Aunt Sue stood
behind her, her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, and Aunt Jenny, his
mother's youngest sister, sat on the floor at her feet, her face hidden
in baby Abigail's dress, crying as if her heart would break.
Back of them against the wall Uncle Charles and Uncle Henry were biting
their lips and surreptitiously blowing their noses, and Uncle Jonathan
and Uncle Benjamin, while pretending to be very busy passing around
trays of coffee, occasionally found time in a corner to mop their eyes
with their handkerchiefs. Old friends and neighbors whom he had known
all his life stood about the room looking grave and sober, while there
were tears in all the women's eyes.
Joe and Elijah stood in the doorway, loath to go in, but their father
beckoned them to him. He was a tall, thin man, with a broad brow upon
which waved thick dark hair just tinged with grey. His eyes were dark,
with a keen yet very gentle expression, and the almost womanish beauty
of his mouth and the square masculinity of his chin were lost in a heavy
dark-brown beard which grew high on his cheeks and was trimmed square
below the points of his collar.
The boys noticed as they came to him that his eyes were red, and the
hand that he laid on Joe's shoulder trembled slightly.
When the breakfast was over and the last preparations being made on the
wagons Friend Robinson turned to Mr. Peniman with a heavy sigh. "I tell
thee it is a pretty serious business, friend Joshua, to break up a home
like this and go away into the wilderness with a family like thine. I
don't blame Hannah for feeling sad about it."
"_Blame_ her?" cried Joshua Peniman. "Who could blame her? She is the
bravest woman in the world. Many women would be prostrated at leaving
the home in which they were born and had lived all their lives, their
mother, sisters, brothers and all the friends of a lifetime to go away
into a wild and unknown country to encounter the dangers and hardships
of the life of a pioneer. But she has been our inspiration, she has
given courage to us all." After a moment he cleared his throat and went
on huskily, "I don't know that any of us particularly enjoy the prospect
before us."
"Why does thee persist in going then, Joshua?" broke in his brother
Henry. "There is time even yet to reconsider thy decision. It is a
great undertaking, a great responsibility thou art laying on thyself.
Think of Hannah--think of the children--think of the dangers and the
hardships and privations that thee and thine will have to undergo in
that desert country----"
"I have thought of nothing else for months, Henry," replied Joshua
Peniman solemnly. "I cannot tell thee the struggle I have been through.
I fully realize what this breaking up of her lifelong home must mean to
Hannah. I know what it will mean to the children--and," with a sudden
twitching of his gentle face, "what it will mean to myself. But I feel
that it must be done. It is a duty we owe our little family. It is a
duty I owe to my religion and my God. Thee knows the condition of the
country, Henry. Thee knows that war is inevitable between the North and
South. It will be a terrible war, a war of brother against brother,
father against son, neighbor against neighbor; one kindred pitted
against another. Thee knows our faith, our principles. Could I stay
here with my five sons and have them brought up to human slaughter?
Could I stay here and have them sent forth to shoot down their
fellow-men?"
"But that is all nonsense, Joshua, thy boys are but children yet."
"Joe is almost sixteen. In five years he will be twenty-one. Tell me,
brothers, at the rate things are going in this country now how will
things stand between the North and South in five years?"
"Well," put in Bill Hale, "there ain't no signs of war _yit_; the
trouble between the North and South hain't got no further than shootin'
off their mouths, an' so long's they confine themselves to that kind of
warfare I reckon you an' th' boys would be middlin' safe here."
"It isn't a question of safety," retorted Joshua Peniman with as near to
a flash of anger in his eyes as Joe had ever seen. "It is a question of
_principle_. Suppose this country does get into war and there should be
a draft. My boys are Quakers. How could they go? And how could they
avoid going if they were drafted? Even should there be no real fighting
for years to come still those boys would be brought up in an atmosphere
of rancor, hostility, and controversy. Hannah and I do not want our
children to grow up with hatred in their hearts. We want them to grow
up in love and brotherly kindness to all men."
"But thee could keep the children out of it all, Joshua," put in Uncle
Charles. "Here on the farm they would not come in touch with the
political controversy to any great extent, and both thee and thy boys
could keep thyselves entirely aloof from the trouble."
Joshua Peniman shook his head. "No, brother Charles, thee knows that
that would not be possible. Thy affectionate heart is speaking now, not
thy reason. Thee knows how I stand on this matter of slavery. Thee knows
that already I have embroiled myself, have made many and bitter enemies
for myself by my connection with the underground railway. I _have_ run
off runaway slaves, and I will run them off again every chance I get;
for I believe it to be a wicked and iniquitous business. No man has a
right to own and control another human being. I am a man of peace, who
loves my fellow-man, and yet"--he paused and turned his eyes upon Joe,
who crimsoned under the scrutiny,--"no longer ago than yesterday I found
my oldest son, an offshoot of good old Quaker stock, drilling a company
of boys in the manoeuvres of war."
"I didn't mean any harm, Father," burst forth Joe, "thee knows that I
would not hurt any one! It is only that it is fun to drill. I love to
march and counter-march my men about."
His father nodded. "I know, my son. And therein lies the danger. Thou
art breathing in the spirit of warfare with the very air. I do not
blame thee, lad; how could it be otherwise? The minds of men are full
of it. The papers are full of it, and people talk of little else. I
tell thee, friends, war is inevitable, and I will not have my young lads
filled with the spirit of it. Hannah thinks as I do, and long before the
red carnival of blood-lust is let loose in the land we will be far away,
out on the clean, wholesome prairies, where our boys and girls can grow
up to noble man and womanhood untouched and untainted by the unholy
slaughter."
"But thee should think of the material prosperity of thy children as
well as their spiritual good, brother Joshua," argued Charles. "Thee
knows that out there in that untrodden wilderness they will have little
or no opportunity for education----"
"We are thinking of their material prosperity. What chance in life would
our nine children have here? I would be a poor man all my life, and
could do nothing to establish a future for them. With a big family like
ours we need room, more opportunity for development, and that we will
find in the new country. If we go west now, while the children and the
country are both young they will have great opportunities. I will take
up a homestead and make them a good home, and as the boys grow old
enough they can take up timber-claims and homesteads so that by the time
they reach manhood they will each have a valuable property, a good start
in life, and a chance to make of themselves whatever they see fit."
"Yes, but their education----" urged Charles, whose heart was sore at
the thought of seeing his brother and his young family set forth for
that strange, far land, and hoped even now at the last moment to turn
him from the purpose.
"That does not trouble us, Charles. Thee knows that I was once a
teacher in a college, and that Hannah has also had a good education.
There is nothing to prevent us from conducting a little school of our
own for our children until such time as there will be good schools in
that growing country for them to attend."
"But what good'll schoolin' do 'em if they was all to get skulped by
them bloody Injuns out there?" put in Bill Hale. "My wife's
sister-in-law's cousin went out west onct, an' he never come back. The
Injuns got him. Like's not they made soup of him. But I'm bound to say
that if he was anything like the rest of that family he'd 'a' made dern
poor soup, even fer a cannibal."
Joshua Peniman did not join in the general laugh that followed Bill's
remark. He glanced uneasily at his watch, then at the house.
"Call thy mother, Joe," he said; "it is growing late, the sun is up, and
we should be on our way. Ah, here they come now!"
As he spoke Mrs. Peniman came down the steps, the baby in her arms,
leading little David by the hand. Her sister Jenny followed with Mary,
and Ruth and Sara walked on either side of their grandmother, their
hands in hers, while Sam and Paul, with red noses and watery eyes,
followed.
The powerful bay team, Jim and Charley, hitched to the big wagon, were
prancing and fidgeting, and the sorrel team, Kit and Billy, hitched to
the lighter wagon, which it had been decided that Joe should drive, were
harnessed and ready, when Bill Hale came racing from the house waving a
bundle in his hand.
"What's the matter?" cried Joe, checking them up. "We must have left
something behind!"
"Couldn't have forgotten the baby, could we?" queried Sam.
By this time Bill Hale had reached them, carrying a large bundle tied up
in a napkin in one hand, and in the other swinging a pair of squawking
chickens by the legs.
"Ye 'most missed it, I tell ye," he grinned. "Ol' Mis' Perkins brought
ye over some things t' take on your journey, an' she never got here
until jist now. I've et Ma Perkins' pies an' things an' I couldn't abear
fer ye to miss 'em."
He handed the package tied up in the napkin to Mr. Peniman.
"Mis' Perkins 'lowed she wanted to send some chicken along fer yer
lunch," he went on, looking down at the squawking fowls in his hand,
"but hearin' that the Friends had cooked up s' much fer ye she figgered
she hadn't better cook hern, but send 'em along on th' hoof like, so's
ye could have 'em any time ye liked."
The children all laughed, and even Mr. Peniman smiled.
"That was very kind of Friend Perkins," he said. "Thank her for us,
won't you, Bill? But I declare I don't see how we are going to take
those live chickens! We've got about all the live stock we can handle
now."
"Oh, we must take them, Joshua," said Mrs. Peniman. "It would never do
to send them back when she was so kind. We can manage to take care of
them somehow."
"I've got a box in my wagon that hasn't much in it, Father," said Joe;
"we could turn the things out and put them in that."
"You can kill and eat them any time they get to be a bother, you know,"
said Uncle Charles, who stood by.
Ruth, who loved every living creature, and who would have fed and
mothered any number of pets, protested loudly.
"Oh, we will _not_ kill them, Uncle Charles!" she cried. "Look at them,
Father, aren't they perfect darlings? Let's take them along for pets,
Father, I'll take care of them!"
By this time Joe and Lige had cleared the box of its contents, and with
Bill Hale's help soon had the struggling fowls shut up in it, with slats
nailed up in front to keep them in.
"Oh, aren't they _lovely_ chickies?" cooed Ruth, who had jumped out of
the wagon to watch the operation. "We'll call this one Dicky, and this
one Mother Feathertop, to always remind us of our old Mother Feathertop
at home."
"All right; ready there?" called Mr. Peniman.
Cherry, the red cow, that was tied behind the big wagon, looked back and
gave a mournful bellow, as if she knew that she was leaving her old home
forever; Spotty, the collie dog, leaped forward with a bark, and the
children scrambled to their places in the wagons.
Joe never liked to remember the few moments that followed, as relatives,
friends, neighbors, chums, and playmates of a lifetime crowded close
about the wagons to bid them good-bye. There were sobs and tears, close
embraces, choked words of love and farewell; hands were shaken, tears
shed, husky good-byes spoken. But it was soon over.
The boys sprang to their places, the reins were gathered up, the word of
command spoken, and the prairie schooners drove slowly out of the
farmyard, en route for the Golden West.
*CHAPTER V*
*WESTWARD HO!*
The road over which the Peniman family set forth led through southern
and eastern Ohio, where the roads were good, shade and water abundant,
and where pretty towns and villages lined the way, so that their larder
was always plentifully supplied with fresh meat, fruits, and vegetables.
The wagons in which they were to make their long overland journey to the
new territory of Nebraska had been carefully prepared for the comfort of
the travelers, and the first part of the trip was like nothing so much
as a prolonged family picnic. Their night camp was made in beautiful
woods beside murmuring streams, and if bad weather came a town or
village was always within easy reach, where the wagons could be put in a
stable and the family repair to a hotel until the storm was over.
On their seventh day out they reached Columbus, and during the week that
followed traveled across the western part of Ohio and crossed into
Indiana, where they made a stop of a few days with old Quaker friends.
Their progress was necessarily slow, averaging not more than fifteen to
twenty miles a day. On June seventh they arrived in Indianapolis, then
but a small and inconsequential town, where they made a stop of a few
hours to lay in a fresh suppy of meat, fresh fruits, bread, butter, and
vegetables, then struck into the main road leading north and west to
Crawfordsville, where they stopped long enough to buy a doll for little
Mary, a tin trumpet for David, and ice-cream for the rest of the family.
This part of the journey, while pleasant and interesting, was
uneventful, and though the boys enjoyed it, much as they would have
enjoyed a prolonged picnic, they were looking eagerly forward to the
adventures which lay in the wild and untrodden land beyond the Missouri
River.
On June fourteenth they arrived at the beautiful Wabash River, and made
their camp upon its banks for the night, where the whole family had a
refreshing bath in its sparkling waters.
Up to this time the weather had been fine, the roads excellent, and the
traveling pleasant. But the day they began their journey across the
State of Illinois the weather changed and a heavy rain set in which
materially interfered with both their comfort and their progress.
At first the children found it rather fun sitting snug and dry under
their canvas roof while the rain pattered down upon it. But when day
followed day and the rain continued to fall, when they had to make camp
at night in wet groves with a fire that would not burn and clothes and
shoes that were never dry, it was not quite so pleasant.
Betrayed into neglecting his canvas covers by the long dry spell Mr.
Peniman now found that they had shrunken from the sun and were beginning
to leak, and the family woke morning after morning to find the rain
spraying down into their faces, and to crawl out of damp beds to find
the ground a mush of wet grass and mud, and no dry wood obtainable with
which to start their fire.
There was no running before or behind the wagons these days, no playing
in the fields, picking wild-flowers or frolicking on the road as the
white-topped wagons crawled along; all day long while the horses plodded
monotonously along through puddles of water or mud that went over their
fetlocks and ruts that let the wagons down almost to the hubs of the
wheels, they sat tired, bored, and hoping for fair weather and sunshine.
On the fourth day of the rain, when the wagons had become so damp that
they were decidedly uncomfortable, they came to a house toward evening,
and Mr. Peniman alighted to ask if the people who lived in it would give
them shelter for the night. They found both husband and wife down with
the ague, and little cheer or comfort in the neglected house, but were
glad to accept the shelter of its roof and the chance to dry their
clothes by the fire. When they were starting on in the morning Mr.
Peniman tried to buy some hay and grain from the owner of the place,
whose name was Grigsby, but he refused to sell.
"Nope," he said, drooping listlessly against the door-post with a shawl
over his shoulders, "I cain't sell you no grain nor hay. Had th' shakes
so bad this spring I hain't got to do much farmin', and I hain't got
hardly enough to feed my stock." Then, as a shrill squeal pierced the
air his eyes brightened and an idea seemed to strike him. "But I tell
you what I will do," he drawled, "I'll sell you two of the nicest little
suckin' pigs you ever see. Their mother up an' died of the cholery a
few nights ago, and they ain't old enough to eat yit. Me an' the old
woman, havin' th' shakes so, cain't bother to feed 'em, so I'll let you
have the pair of 'em for two dollars. Goin' off in th' wilderness like
you be they might come in handy."
He shuffled off to the barn, and soon returned carrying a basket in
which were two tiny pigs only a few days old. With a grin he drew from
his pocket a nursing-bottle filled with warm milk and held it to the
little white pig's mouth. It took hold like an old hand at the
business, and the children shouted with glee while the little spotted
brother squealed shrilly with envy.
When the nursing-bottle had been refilled Ruth demanded the privilege of
feeding the protesting young porker, and sitting down in the straw took
the little pig in her lap and fed it so dexterously that her brothers
yelled with delight.
Of course that settled it.
With one accord the children demanded the possession of the two little
pigs, and with a long-headed thought for the possible needs of the
future Mr. Peniman agreed, and the listless Grigsby filled a box with
straw and packed the little fellows cosily into it.
"What shall we name them, Father?" cried Ruth, hanging lovingly over
them. "They are such darlings they ought to have real lovely names."
"Call them Romeo and Juliet," said Mr. Peniman, with a twinkle in his
eyes.
In talking with the Grigsbys Mr. Peniman had learned that they had
chosen a bad road, and were traveling through a poor and swampy part of
Illinois, where the roads were all bad and chills and fever prevalent,
and by their advice had left the road over which they came and striking
north and west came out upon a much better road, that in the course of a
few days' traveling brought them to the Sangamon River, and a few days
later to Decatur. Here they remained a few days to dry out their
clothes and wagons and renew their supply of provisions, being regaled
at supper that night with sweet corn and watermelons.
It was now July first, and very hot weather. The travelers were burned
and tanned as brown as Indians, and were beginning to feel like real
pioneers. They drove into Springfield, the capital of the State, on the
evening of the third of July, and Joshua Peniman suggested to his wife
that the wagons be put up in a livery stable and the whole family go to
a hotel, where they could all have a good tub bath, a night's rest in a
real bed, and a few meals at a real table.
"We are going far away into the wilderness," he said, "and it may be
years before our children will have a chance to see a Fourth of July
celebration again. I believe that all young Americans should love and
honor that day. I think we had better stay over to-morrow in
Springfield, let the little ones have a good time, and take the boys to
see the celebration we see advertised, while thee has a good rest at a
hotel."
When told of this plan the young Penimans were delighted. The novelty
of traveling in the wagons had begun to pall a trifle, and the thought
of a day in a city, a night at a hotel, and the exciting events promised
by the great posters that lined the roads, gave them great pleasure.
It turned out to be a great day for them. They started out immediately
after breakfast, and firecrackers, torpedoes, flags, and rockets were
purchased at the first store they came to, and in the intervals of other
excitement the boys revelled in pops and bangs and explosions, while the
girls exploded their torpedoes on the sidewalks, and they all marched
gaily to the music of many bands.
There was a great parade in the forenoon, in which the Whigs and
Democrats vied with each other in the exhibition of floats, bands, and
flower-decked carriages. Long columns of men of both parties marched and
shouted, bearing transparencies extolling the virtues of their
particular candidates. The Buchanan men wore white coats and caps, and
carried huge portraits of their candidate.
There was to be a great political rally at the park in the afternoon,
and after dinner the boys and their father followed the crowd to the
pretty shaded inclosure, where a great pavilion had been erected,
gorgeously decorated with flags and bunting.
The place was already crowded when they arrived, but they pushed their
way through the throng and succeeded in getting seats on a long bench
before the speakers' stand.
It seemed a little thing that they should be so placed that Joe should
be able to look directly into the speaker's face and hear his every
word, but upon such trifling things the whole course of a life sometimes
depends.
Bands played, a great chorus upon the platform stood up and sang
"America," and then a stir and flutter passed through the crowd as a
party of gentlemen in frock coats with tall "chimney-pot" hats, made
their way to the platform, where they were greeted with great bursts of
applause.
The Peniman boys had never heard a public speech in their lives. Partly
owing to the fact that their father was a Quaker and avoided discussion
of the question that was beginning to seethe and burn through the length
and breadth of the land, partly because of the remote and quiet farm
from which they had come, they had heard little of the agitation of the
times.
Politics were at a white heat throughout the country. The pro-slavery
and anti-slavery parties were each using every artifice in their power
to elect their candidates. Arguments, discussions, public speeches and
inflammatory meetings were taking place in every part of the United
States, and the fire that later burst into so fierce a conflagration was
beginning to smoulder hotly beneath the surface.
There was something in the very air of that meeting that breathed
tension, excitement. And Joshua Peniman felt a cold chill smite his
heart, as sitting with his young sons he listened to the conversation
that went on about him. Joe, too, felt the electric atmosphere. His
eyes brightened and his color rose. When a dapper little gentleman with
a massive head and a keen, ruddy face mounted the platform and began to
speak he leaned forward eagerly.
He liked the speech. The cultured voice, the smooth periods, the
forceful gestures of the man fascinated him. Yet he found his mind
continually protesting against the statements he made. The boy knew
nothing of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill, the Wilmot Proviso, or the Missouri
Compromise, but as the speaker proceeded he found himself arguing
passionately against him in his own mind. When the speaker sat down,
amid terrific applause, Joe turned to his father.
"Who is he, Father?" he asked in a whisper.
"His name is Douglas--Stephen A. Douglas. He is a United States Senator
from Illinois," replied Mr. Peniman.
"He's a great speaker," whispered Joe thoughtfully; then
half-hesitatingly, as if trying to put into words a thing that was not
clear in his own mind, "but somehow--I suppose it's pretty presumptuous
of me to say so--but somehow I don't agree with what he says."
Joshua Peniman turned a quick, pleased look upon his son's face.
"Nor do I, Joe. His reasoning is false, spurious. Such a policy as he
is advocating could only plunge our country into endless trouble. He is
a Democrat, and though he claims that he does not care whether 'the
cause of slavery be voted up or voted down' he is doing more, perhaps,
than any other one man in the Senate to uphold it and increase its power
and territory."
"But, Father----" began Joe, but his whispering voice was lost in a
terrific storm of cheers and hoots and yells as a tall, gaunt man in a
long-tailed coat of shabby black, mounted the platform.
As he began to speak, in a deep, earnest voice, that had in it now and
then a whimsical quality of humor, now and then a deep note of pathos,
there was a general craning forward in the crowd, a stillness, a
breathless attention, that had not been accorded the previous speaker.
From his first words Joe sat entranced. In every statement that he made
the boy found an echo in his own heart. His blood tingled, his color
rose, he clenched and unclenched his hands, a great surge of exultation,
excitement, a stir that he had never before known passed through all his
being.
The crowd about him seemed equally roused and swayed by the words of the
speaker. At times as the impassioned sentences rose and swelled through
the air they were stopped by the wild cheers that burst from the throats
of the thousands of listeners. And when he leaned forward, pointing his
long, gaunt finger at them, his deep, sad eyes fixed as if in prophetic
vision, a stillness so great passed over the audience that the breathing
of the man next him was perfectly audible.
"And I contend," thundered the orator, "that no man is good enough to
own and govern another man without that other's consent. Slavery is
founded on the selfishness of man's nature; opposition to it is founded
on the love of justice. These principles are in eternal antagonism, and
when brought into collision so fiercely as slavery extension brings
them, shocks and throes and convulsions must ceaselessly follow. These
two principles cannot stand together. They are as opposite as God and
Mammon; and whoever holds to one must despise the other. 'A house
divided against itself cannot stand.' I believe that this government
cannot endure permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the
Union to be dissolved--I do not expect the house to fall--but I do
expect that it will cease to be divided."
The last words rang out in such an earnest, impressive, almost prophetic
tone as to make a cold shiver run through the audience. For a moment
the speaker stood silent, his black hair fallen forward over his
forehead, his sad grey eyes, deep-set and hollow, gazing out over the
assembled people. Then as a great storm of applause broke out and the
people made a rush for the platform he bowed and retired.
Joe woke as from a trance when the audience began to file out.
"Who was he, Father?" he asked breathlessly. "Who was that man?"
As he looked up into his father's face he saw that his cheeks were
flushed and his usually gentle, kindly eyes were blazing.
"His name is Lincoln, I believe," he answered, rousing himself with an
effort from the thoughts the address had set running in his mind. "He
is a lawyer, a member of the legislature from Sangamon County, some one
told me."
For a long time Joe was silent. Lige spoke to him about something else,
but he did not hear him. When he spoke again they were out on the
street and on their way back to the hotel.
"Do you believe I could ever be a lawyer, Father?" he asked.
His father smiled, then answered gravely, "I have no doubt you could,
Joe, if you set your mind on it."
"And a member of the legislature--like that man?"
Joshua Peniman laughed outright. "Well, I don't know about that, my
son. That man appears to me to be a rather unusual sort of a person.
But you might become a member of the legislature, perhaps."
"Then that's what I'm going to do when I'm a man," said Joe decisively.
After a long pause he lifted his eyes to his father's face.
"Do you believe in the abolition of slavery, Father?"
"I do indeed, my son," replied Mr. Peniman earnestly. "As Mr. Lincoln
said 'No man has a right to own and govern another without that other's
consent.'"
"Do you believe in the abolition of slavery enough to fight for it,
Father,--if our country should have to go to war?"
"Quakers cannot fight, Joe. We are bound to peace."
"But if war should come," urged the boy, "if we should have to fight--if
the South should secede----"
"_God forbid!_" cried Joshua Peniman, in a voice whose deep, quavering
earnestness was a slight indication of the storm that was raging in his
heart. "May God forbid such a catastrophe! Let us not talk of it. Let
us not _think_ of it. Let us pray the Almighty Ruler of the Universe to
avert so frightful a calamity to our nation!"
Joe glanced up quickly and opened his lips to speak, but the expression
that he surprised upon his father's face caused him to close them
promptly, avert his eyes, and walk silently beside him.
In the evening there was a great torchlight procession, followed by more
speaking at the Opera House. But this function the Peniman family did
not attend. Mr. Peniman, stirred, anxious, feeling a prescience of the
storm that was brewing in the country, was eager to get away; to get his
young lads out of the spirit of rancor and bitterness that was abroad in
the land, and out onto the clean, quiet prairies where the inhumanity of
man to man would not throw its baleful shadow over them.
In the morning long before the celebrators of the night before had
opened their eyes the two prairie schooners were on their way, and the
young pioneers, with faces turned westward, were starting upon the most
exciting part of their journey.
*CHAPTER VI*
*IN WHICH THE PIONEERS HEAR ALARMING NEWS*
Their Fourth of July spent in Springfield was a day long to be
remembered by the Peniman family. The children talked of it many days
as the canvas-covered wagons rumbled slowly along the dusty, rutted
Illinois roads, and years later, when the events then being so darkly
foreshadowed on the horizon had come to be matters of fact, it helped to
shape the destiny of Joshua Peniman's sons.
Joe had something new to think about now as he sat in the wagon holding
the reins in his hands while the horses plodded on through the long,
hot, silent days, and his mind was often busy with the future that lay
before him, while plans, dreams, ambitions began to unfold themselves in
his mind.
They passed through Beardstown and camped on the Illinois River, then
struck off again to the west, and twelve days later sighted the
Mississippi River.
It was Lige who first caught sight of the great brown swiftly-flowing
waters.
"Look," he cried, breaking into Joe's day-dream by poking him in the
ribs, "look what a big river we're coming to! Wonder what river it is?"
"Mighty big one--and a mighty dirty one, too," commented Sam, hanging
away out of the wagon to get a better look at it. "Look at the whopping
big bridge across it!" he whooped, pointing at the great bridge that
spanned the muddy waters. "Hey, Father, what river is that? It's a
mighty big one!"
Mr. Peniman turned and looked back with a smile.
"What river is that? That's a great question for a boy your age to ask!
Don't you know where we are? What have you studied geography for if you
don't know what river that is?"
"Oh, I know!" shouted Ruth, "I know, Father! It's the Mississippi! This
is Illinois, that State over there is Iowa, and that is the Mississippi
that flows between!"
"Ah, good girl!" applauded her father. "Of course! The
Mississippi--the great Father of Waters. And the boundary line "--he
continued thoughtfully, speaking more to himself than the
children,--"between the old East and the new West."
"The Mississippi at last--hurray!" shouted Joe.
"Huh, I knew it all the time," grunted Sam. "Ruth needn't think she's so
smart. Golly, when I got kept in last winter 'cause I couldn't tell
what States were bounded by the Mississippi I didn't think I'd be
crossing it so soon!"
They spent the night at Rock Island, then the terminus of the Chicago
and Rock Island Railroad, and the next day crossed the Mississippi at
Davenport, on the first bridge built across the river, which had been
completed but a few weeks before. They stayed there that night, then
started on, and two days later drove into Iowa City, then the capital of
the State.
As the two wagons progressed slowly through the bare, wide clayey
streets, which were flanked on either side by one-story unpainted
buildings, as if dumped unceremoniously into their present location with
no view to permanency, they observed groups of men gathered together
talking excitedly. Presently a troop of cavalry dashed through the
streets, followed by a company of infantry.
"_Soldiers!_" ejaculated Lige. "Wonder what soldiers are doing out
here?"
As they drew up before the bare, unpainted general store Mr. Peniman
turned to the boys and told them to stay in the wagons.
This was most unusual, as the boys were always glad to get out at these
stops, stretch their legs, buy candy and gum, and exchange greetings
with the boys and dogs they generally found congregated about the door.
"Aw, why not, Father?" protested Sam. But his protestations were cut
short by his father's uplifted hand and the expression on his face.
"Because I wish you to," he said with unusual curtness, and disappeared
within the store.
"Don't see why he wouldn't let us get out," grumbled Sam, "I wanted to
buy some candy."
It seemed a long time before their father returned to the wagons, and
when he did Joe noticed that he looked pale and grim and that his lips
were compressed into a close, white line.
He went from store to store swiftly, with absorbed attention, and
greatly astonished the occupants of the wagons by coming back with a new
Enfield rifle in his hand, followed by a man carrying a keg of powder
and a big box of cartridges.
"Who's the new gun for, Father--me?" cried Joe with delight.
"Yes, you can shoot well enough now to be trusted with a gun. Lige can
use the old rifle. I bought one of those new Colt's revolvers for you,
Mother."
"For _me_, Joshua?" Hannah Peniman opened her blue eyes very wide.
"Why, dear man, thee knows that I could never use a gun. I am deathly
afraid of them."
"We are going away into the wilderness, Hannah," he said very gravely,
"thee must learn." And the words were spoken in a tone and with an
expression that made her start and look at him closely.
When they were once more upon their way she turned to him and asked in a
low voice, "What is it, Joshua?"
They had never had any reservations from one another, and though he
wished now with all his heart that he might spare her he knew that he
stood in need of her courage, her help, her calm, cool judgment.
"There has been a massacre of whites by the Indians not far from here,"
he told her. "The white settlers along the Little Sioux have been
obliged to flee, and many of them have been murdered. I cannot tell
thee the horrible details. They are sending out State troops. It was
all brought about by the treachery of a white man, they tell me,
but----" He broke off abruptly and sat gazing into her horrified face.
"They say," he continued, "that most of the Indians around here are
friendly, but a white trader deceived and murdered the brother of Chief
Inkpaducah, and he has roused his whole tribe to vengeance."
"And they have killed the settlers--and women--and children?" she
gasped, every vestige of color leaving her face.
"They killed the children. They have carried the women away into
captivity."
"Oh, God, have mercy on us!"
"In God's care and mercy alone can we trust, Hannah," he answered. "We
will never give these red brothers cause for anger against us, and
perhaps we may escape harm at their hands. But I must confess it has
given me a great shock. I wish----"
"The children--the children----" she whispered in anguish. "Oh, Joshua,
I wish we had never come to this terrible country. I wish we had stayed
at home----"
"I have been wishing the same thing. But it is too late now. We have
come too far on our way. Thee--thee would not advise that we turn back
now, would thee, Hannah? When we are so near the goal?"
For a moment she sat silent, her sweet blue eyes, wide and filled with
horror, fixed upon the western horizon, her arms clasped tightly about
the baby, which she pressed almost fiercely to her breast. After a time
she turned to her husband and laid her hand on his arm, saying bravely:
"No, Joshua. My heart is filled with fears, but thee has sacrificed too
much to turn back now. We can only go on, and pray that Almighty God
will protect us."
"My brave, noble wife," he whispered, and kissed her.
That night when they made their camp the two wagons were drawn close
together and the cow and horses instead of being picketed out were
placed beside them. No camp-fire was built that night, and the supper
was prepared over as small a fire as possible, a piece of sacking placed
over the top of the stove-pipe to absorb and keep down the smoke.
Before they retired their father gave each of the three older boys a gun
and ammunition.
"We have reached the real West now, lads," he told them, "and must be
prepared for some of the adventures you have been looking forward to for
so long. I have no idea that you will have occasion to use those guns
to-night, but like good pioneers you must keep them ready and in order
for whatever might happen."
A thrill passed through the hearts of Joe and Lige as they listened to
his words. Not even then did they appreciate the menace they portended.
That night Joshua Peniman did not sleep in the wagon as he had been
accustomed to do, but with Spotty beside him and a loaded musket at hand
lay down beside the wagons wrapped in his blanket.
There was little sleep for the elders of the party. The children, who
had been allowed to hear nothing of the horrors of the massacre, slept
tranquilly, but Joshua Peniman patrolled his camp all night, while his
wife lay among her little ones in the wagon with her heart like an
ice-cold stone within her breast.
They were now traveling through an almost uninhabited part of western
Iowa, where settlers were far apart and shade and water grew scarcer and
farther apart every day.
The weather had grown intensely hot, and the poor animals, forced to
travel all day through the heat of the sun without sufficient water,
suffered greatly.
The cow especially seemed to feel the strain, and after one intensely
hot day, during which the pioneers had all suffered, she gave but a
small portion of milk, and lay down when they made camp refusing to
graze.
That night the baby was taken ill. Both father and mother did all that
they knew for her, but she grew steadily worse, and two days later,
while they were traveling over a barren, desolate expanse of country
with no living creature in sight but themselves, she passed away.
They stopped and made a little grave in the desolate prairies, over
which they placed a tiny cross marked with her name and age. Then the
bereaved parents went on their way, with what agony of spirit only those
who have lost a precious little one may know.
*CHAPTER VII*
*A NIGHT OF HORROR*
"And so," Joe concluded his long story, during which the afternoon had
waned and the long shadows over the prairies told of the coming night,
"we left little Abby behind us and started on again. Father and Mother
were terribly sad. Sometimes I was afraid that Mother could not live
through it. They seemed awfully nervous and afraid all the time, too.
Father never went to bed at night, but sat or lay beside the wagons with
Spotty beside him and his gun in his hand, and Mother would not let any
of us get away from the wagons.
"It was fearful hot all that time--hotter even than it is to-day--and we
had to travel slow on account of the cow. We just plugged along, and
then toward night we hauled up beside the road and camped. Nobody had
any heart to eat, so it didn't matter. Once in a while we came to a
little town, or some houses, but we seldom stopped. Father seemed in a
hurry to get where we were going, and Mother didn't seem to care about
anything. Two or three times we had a scare about Indians, but they
never came very near to us. Then one day when it had been so hot and
dusty that we were all almost suffocated we saw a kind of a draw ahead
and made for it, thinking we would camp there that night. It wasn't
much of a place to camp, but we didn't see any sign of water anywhere,
and Mother was just about beat out.
"Golly, I bet I'll never forget that evening! We were all feeling
mighty miserable. I happened to look off toward the wagon road, and I
saw a big cloud of dust. First I thought it was just a whirlwind, and
then we were afraid it was Indians. But after a while we made out that
it was an emigrant wagon, being driven by a woman. That surprised us a
lot. She was driving like the old Harry, and Father ran out toward the
road to meet her when we heard her yelling for help. When the wagon
came nearer we saw----"
"Stop, stop, oh _don't_!" cried the little Princess, covering her eyes
with her hands while shudders shook her frame. "Don't," she cried
again, "I can't bear it--I can't _bear_ it! I know--I know the rest!"
"Yes," Joe took her hand very gently, "you know the rest. It was your
wagon--and--and--it brought us--_you_."
For a little while all the children were silent. Ruth crept up and put
her arm about the little stranger's waist.
"I guess God sent you to us to be a little sister to us in baby's
place," she said chokily.
Nina turned and put her arm about her neck.
"Perhaps He did. I never had any sisters or brothers. I'd like to be
your sister. I like you."
"I'm glad," said honest Ruth, and kissed her.
"So'm I," cried Lige; but Joe said nothing.
That night when camp was struck the three wagons were drawn into a
circle with the horses and cow inside.
Joshua Peniman did not remove his clothing, but having seen his family
comfortably disposed, with the strange child in the wagon with his wife
and the younger children, he stretched himself out beside the wagons,
with Spotty near him and his musket by his side. Joe refused to go to
his place in his own wagon, but lay down beside his father.
The prairies looked vast and still under the glimmering starlight with
no sound but the sough of the wind through the grass and the occasional
howling of a coyote. For a long time he lay awake, some vague, haunting
uneasiness upon him. Twice he sprang up, his musket leveled, every
nerve and muscle strained to attention.
They had agreed that Mr. Peniman was to take the first watch of the
night and Joe the second. At two o'clock Joe woke, and seeing his
father patrolling up and down beside the wagons insisted that he should
go to bed. This the weary man refused to do, but wrapping himself in
his blankets lay down upon the ground.
Joe sat beside him, his gun leaning against his knees, and looked up at
the silent stars, feeling them companions in his loneliness.
It was between two and three o'clock, and he was beginning to doze, when
a low, ominous growl from Spotty caused him to start wide awake, his gun
clenched in his hand.
Spotty was standing, stiff-legged, the hair on his neck raised, his lips
drawn back showing his teeth, growling deeply and staring into the
shadows back of the wagons.
Joe did not move, but remained motionless listening.
Presently he heard a soft rustling in the grass.
A moment later by the light of the stars he made out a dim silhouette
creeping toward the wagons.
"Stop," he cried, "or I'll shoot!"
Instantly Joshua Peniman was on his feet.
"What is it?" he whispered huskily.
"Man--Indian--over there by the wagons!"
The whispered words had scarcely left his lips when an arrow whizzed by
his ear.
Instantly Joshua Peniman's gun, leveled at the point from which the
arrow came, barked through the darkness. The shot was answered by a
wild, shrill whoop, and suddenly the night seemed to be filled with
flitting figures.
Joe's gun was at his shoulder, and as one huge naked savage leaped at
his father he fired. The Indian fell with a groan, but almost before he
had touched the ground another had taken his place, rushing toward the
white man with uplifted tomahawk and blood-curdling yell. He was almost
upon him when a sharp "crack" spoke from the back of one of the wagons,
and the Indian dropped and lay motionless, while Lige, half-dressed,
leaped out and ran to his father's side.
Sam on the seat of Joe's wagon held the rifle firmly at his shoulder.
His freckled face was very pale, but the blue eyes were shining in a way
that boded ill to the Indian who should come within range of the old
rifle.
In the opening of the big wagon, between its curtains stood Hannah
Peniman, her revolver in her hand. Her face was white and set, but the
hand that held the weapon did not tremble.
The night was now hideous with yells. With the blood-curdling war-whoop
that had carried terror to the hearts of so many early settlers on the
plains the Indians were now circling about the camp, watching their
opportunity to break through.
Suddenly from somewhere in the distance rose another cry. The heart of
Joshua Peniman almost died in his breast.
"Another band!" he muttered, as he crowded down the charge in the old
musket. Their case had seemed hopeless before, but they had firearms
while the savages seemed to be armed only with bows and arrows, and
might have had a chance. But if another band of savages joined those
already upon them----
"Ki-ki-ee-ee-ee!" rang the cry through the night.
The Indians who were creeping up toward the wagons suddenly paused and
stood still. Some sudden instinct made Joe raise his musket and fire
into the air. Then at the top of his lungs shout, "Ki-ki-ee-ee-ee!"
He had no idea from whom the cry had come, whether from white man or
Indian, friend or foe; but some sure instinct told him that whoever they
might be their presence was unwelcome to the marauders.
While the sound of his shot and cry were still reverberating in the air
there came a swift rush from the darkness outside the circle of wagons,
and in the starlight they could make out the naked outlines of a band of
Indians who made a rush for the wagons.
In the terror and excitement of the moment they did not notice that one
of the band separated himself from the rest, and slipping into the
shadows made his way noiselessly as a serpent to the rear of the Carroll
wagon, where he climbed under the curtain and was lost to view.
Joshua Peniman uttering a warning shout sprang to the front of the wagon
in which were his wife and younger children, with the child of the
deceased Carrolls. Hannah Peniman was guarding the rear of the wagon,
her revolver cocked and ready in her hand, while Joe and Lige at the
front and back of the other wagon were making good use of their
firearms, and Sam, standing up in the front was banging away with the
rifle as fast as he could load and fire.
As the Indians rushed toward them it looked for a moment to the
travelers as if all hope was lost. At the moment when the savages burst
through their guard the shrill "Ki-ki-ee-ee-ee!" again smote upon their
ears, and an instant later the sound of wild yelps and thundering hoofs
was all about them, and another band of Indians, mounted and in full war
panoply, burst into the encampment.
The travelers thought their last hour had come.
"To the wagons, to the wagons!" shouted Joshua Peniman. "Inside, Sam!
Lige, help thy mother guard the rear! To me, to me, Joe! We must try
to keep them away from this wagon at least! Now, is thee ready?
_Fire!_"
As his words rang out above the tumult a tawny chief with eagle feathers
in his hair, who was riding by, checked his horse so abruptly that he
threw it back upon its haunches. He cast a swift, searching look at the
man and boys who stood so resolutely before their wagons, and suddenly
threw up his hand. Riding toward them he waved a piece of white cloth
above his head, then halted his horse before them.
"Is thee a Quaker?" he surprised them by asking in fairly good English.
"Yes, I am," replied Joshua Peniman, looking not at all like a Quaker
with his wild, disordered hair, his set white face and his gun at his
shoulder. In the excitement of the moment he had no time to think of
the strangeness, the incongruity of the question. All he could think of
was that for some unknown reason the other Indians seemed to have drawn
off, and for a moment at least there appeared to be a pause in the
savage onslaught.
The Indian who had spoken to him whirled his pony about and shouted a
few words in a language they could not understand. Instantly there came
a wild yelp in answer, and a moment later there was the clamor of a
battle cry, the wild thundering of hoofs, the crash of blows, the uproar
of battle. Before the horrified pioneers knew what was happening the
sound of battle began to recede from them, had grown faint and fainter,
had died away across the plain, and the night was still about them.
Even then they could not realize that they had been saved; that
death--horrible death--and worse than death--had in some miraculous way
been averted from them.
They expected momentarily that the savages would return. Joshua Peniman
and the boys reloaded their muskets. Mr. Peniman snatching the axe from
the wagon laid it beside him. Joe slipped a long sharp knife inside his
belt.
Strangely enough none of them spoke. The moment was too tense, the
struggle for life too imminent for words.
Moments passed. The shrill yelps and cries grew fainter and fainter and
finally died away.
An intense, silent half hour went by. Then Joshua Peniman lowered his
gun to the ground and looked about him.
"I believe they have gone!" he whispered.
"I believe so too!" replied Joe in the same tone.
"Keep on guard. I'll look around."
Cautiously and with musket ready he made a tour around the wagons.
Two Indians, both dead, lay in the grass not far away, but there was no
sign of any living creature about the place but themselves.
He returned to the wagons relieved but perplexed.
_What did it mean_? He could not account for it.
"They appear to be gone," he said. "For the life of me I cannot
understand what happened, but somehow, by God's merciful providence, we
have been spared."
"But how--why--why did they go away like that?" Joe demanded. "Does
thee think they will return, Father?"
"It is a most mysterious proceeding. I do not know what to think of it.
But I scarcely think they will return--at least not immediately."
The children, who had been hidden under the wagon seats covered with
blankets, now crept out, still too terrified to speak.
"I don't believe they'll come back," said Joe, who had been thinking
hard. "Do you know, Father, I believe that there must have been two
tribes. I believe they are at war with one another, and that the last
ones that came--those that came on horseback--drove the others away.
They didn't come together. There weren't many of those Indians that
attacked us first, and they came on foot. We would have heard horses,
but they crept up on us like shadows. If Spotty hadn't warned us we
might all have been murdered in our sleep. I didn't hear a sound until
he began to growl."
"Nor I either," answered his father. "Thee may be right." Then
suddenly for the first time the peculiarity of the question that the big
chief had asked him flashed into his mind. "Why, I guess thee is right,
Joe," he cried. "That big fellow with the eagle feathers in his hair
held up a flag of truce. He asked me if I was a Quaker! I never
thought about it until this moment. How strange--how passing strange!
How did he guess--how could he know--it must have been he who saved us!"
Then suddenly catching sight of his wife's deathly face he turned to
her. "Go lie down, Hannah, thee is all used up. The danger is past for
the time. What ever miraculous interposition of God's mercy saved us it
seems clear that we are saved. Our enemies have gone and we can sleep in
peace. Go to thy rest, too, Joe. Thee has done well. I feel that I
have a real man to depend on in these trying times."
The look in his eyes, the pressure of the hand on his shoulder, sent Joe
away to bed with a warm glow in his heart.
Presently the camp was still again, and Joshua Peniman patrolled up and
down and all about it, with his musket over his shoulder and Spotty at
his heels until the rosy glow of morning was tinting the eastern sky.
Just before sunrise he received a severe shock, when looking across the
pathless prairies toward the north he saw an Indian riding toward him.
For many moments he watched the advancing figure. When it came within
musket range he raised his gun to his shoulder and shouted:
"Stop, or I'll fire!"
The Indian did not check his pony, but held up a bit of white rag. As
he came nearer, riding his pony as erect and motionless as a bronze
statue, the pioneer saw with a start that it was the Indian who had
spoken to him the night before.
"How!" he said, bringing his pony to a halt before the white man and
sliding down from its back.
"How!" answered Joshua Peniman, answering the western salutation.
The Indian came closer.
"You Quaker, eh?"
Wondering, the white man answered as he had answered the night before,
"Yes, I am."
"Me Quaker too."
"_You? You a Quaker?_"
A grave smile broke over the impassive, copper-colored face.
"Me Neowage, Chief Winnebagoes. Live Omaha Reservation. Friends'
Mission."
"Oh-h!" A great light began to dawn on Joshua Peniman. "Oh, you are
one of the tribe who were put in charge of the Friends' Mission?[#]
Then it was _you_ who saved us last night?"
[#] During the year 1856-1857 the Winnebago tribe, being much depleted
by continual wars with the Sioux and Arapahoes, sought protection at the
Reservation in Omaha. There the remnants of the tribe were put under
the protection of the Friends' Mission, and many of them became converts
to the faith.--SHELDON'S _History of Nebraska_.
The big chief nodded.
"Me hear you say 'thee' to you boy. Me know you Friend."
"And because I was a Friend you saved me--me and my family! Oh, Friend,
I thank thee!"
He stepped forward and grasped the Indian's hand.
With a dignity equal to his own the chief shook it warmly.
"Friends good people. Good heart. Good friend to Winnebagoes."
"Then you are a Winnebago? Who were the others--those Indians that
attacked us?"
"Dirty Sioux." He turned and spurned the dead body in the grass with
his foot.
"Ah, they were Sioux, eh? Are the Sioux hostile to white men?"
"Sioux bad Indian. Heap bad heart. Winnebago good Indian. Heap white
man's friend."
"I am glad, glad indeed to hear it. You don't know how you relieve my
anxious heart. But how did it happen that you came to our aid so
opportunely last night?"
The Indian folded his arms across his brawny chest.
"My tribe war with Sioux," he said. "Heap much trouble now. Inkpaducah
on war-path. Kill heap white men. Me hear gun, know trouble. My young
men on war-path. Fight Sioux all time. Me come, drive Sioux away."
"God be thanked you did come. You saved our lives. How can I thank
you?"
The Indian waved his hand with a royal gesture. As his keen eyes roved
about the encampment they fell upon a scrap of paper which lay under the
Carroll wagon. He strode over to it and picked it up, then remained
gazing at the ground for some minutes.
The wagons stood backed up to the edge of the ravine, and back of them
the ground was soft, in some places muddy.
Neowage pointed silently. Joshua Peniman hurried to his side.
"White man print," he grunted, indicating a well-defined footmark in the
muddy earth at the back of the Carroll wagon.
Joshua Peniman stooped and examined it carefully.
The sharp edges of a hard leather sole and the imprint of a boot heel
were plainly discernible.
_A white man!_
With perplexed face he stood staring at the imprint.
That Indians might attack them was perfectly understandable, but that a
white man should be among them--that _a white man_ was one of those
howling demons who had set upon his camp the night before--was a thing
that he could not understand.
Neowage glanced sharply at his feet.
"Not you mark?"
"No, I was not near the back of that wagon. It was unoccupied. And you
see that is a much larger foot than mine."
"You boy?"
"No, my boys are all going barefooted."
"Who?"
"I wish I knew."
The Indian was turning the scrap of paper he had picked up under the
wagon over and over in his hands.
"Tore," he said, pointing to the ragged edges.
Mr. Peniman took the paper and scrutinized it carefully. It was but a
small scrap, and its edges showed that it had been torn recently and
hastily. As he turned it over the words: "and the said Lee C.
Carroll----" caught his eye.
With a strange leap of his pulses he turned and ran to the Carroll
wagon.
As he threw aside the rear curtain and looked in he uttered a loud
exclamation.
The inside of the neatly-arranged wagon was in chaos, trunks torn open,
boxes and bundles rifled of their contents, clothes, books, papers
scattered about; and the dispatch-box, placed in the hands of Nina
Carroll by her dying mother, which contained all her money, deeds,
papers, and all the information that had been left her regarding herself
and her parents and the relatives to whom she was to be sent--_was
gone_!
*CHAPTER VIII*
*JOE MEETS A FRIEND AND MAKES AN ENEMY*
The sound of the voices outside had wakened the boys, who, worn out from
the excitement of the night, had fallen into a fitful slumber.
As the fact of the looting of the Carroll wagon, with its disastrous
consequences to the young survivor of the tragedy, forced itself upon
him Joshua Peniman uttered a loud exclamation.
Instantly Joe and Lige leaped from the wagon, their guns in their hands,
and Mrs. Peniman, still grasping her revolver, parted the rear curtains
of the wagon and looked out.
When their eyes fell upon the Indian both boys started violently, and
Joe raised his gun.
"No, no, son, put down thy gun," cried his father. "This is a friend.
It was he who so mysteriously saved us last night. He is a Friend, and
has learned to speak a little English at a Friends' Mission."
"Oh," cried Hannah Peniman, and in the little exclamation was wonder,
relief and surprise.
"But see, Hannah," went on Mr. Peniman, "see what those miscreants have
done! They have rifled the Carroll wagon and carried off everything of
value in it, including the dispatch-box."
"The _dispatch-box_?" Hannah Peniman's face whitened and her eyes grew
dark with horror. "They have taken the dispatch-box? Oh, Joshua, that
box had in it everything relating to the property and identity of that
little girl!"
Her husband nodded.
"I know," he said. "It is a terrible catastrophe. I should have put
that box in my own wagon."
"But who would have thought--who would have supposed that Indians----"
Neowage who had been looking and listening impassively, interrupted her.
"Indian no want papers."
Mr. and Mrs. Peniman started and looked at one another.
"True," said Joshua Peniman, pulling at his beard, "that is true,
Neowage."
Presently he looked up at his wife with a troubled face. "There is more
in this than we see now," he said in a low tone, and told her of the
scrap of paper, the print of a white man's boot at the rear of the
wagon, of the broken locks and opened trunks and scattered books and
papers in the wagon.
"There is something very strange about it," he concluded. "Our own
wagons were not disturbed, our horses were not taken; it almost looks to
me as if the assault was made upon us to cover the rifling of the
Carroll wagon."
He stopped abruptly and stood for some moments with head bent thinking
intently. Then going to his own wagon he returned with the arrow he had
taken from the body of Lee Carroll.
Silently he handed it to Neowage. Silently the Indian inspected it.
"Santee Sioux," he said after a moment, handing it back.
"Are you sure?"
"Sure. See plenty. My young men fight Santee Sioux. Kill my people,
two, t'ree, five hunnerd. Drive my people way from hunting grounds. My
people starve. Go Omaha Reservation. They put us in Friends' care."
"And this is a Sioux arrow?"
The Indian nodded.
"I took that arrow out of the dead body of a white man. When he was
dying he told me that it was not an Indian that had killed him."
Then by a sudden impulse he told the chief the whole story.
When it was finished the Indian remained standing with his arms folded
across his bare brown chest, his head bent, his face impassive. After
an interval he spoke.
"You got papoose now?"
"Yes."
"She sleep in wagon?"
"No, she has never slept there since her father and mother died. She
sleeps with my little girls in that wagon," pointing to the
canvas-covered prairie schooner where his own children lay asleep.
"Indian no want papoose. Indian no want paper. White man want papoose
and paper."
Joshua Peniman nodded. "Yes, I see your point. But I don't know. It's
beyond me. I don't know what to think."
The children, awakened by the talking, had now crowded to the back of
the wagon, and Ruth, Nina, Sam, and Paul were staring out with bulging
eyes.
For the first time they were gazing upon a real Red Man of the Plains,
and strange to say their father was not shooting at him nor scalping
him, nor even being scalped by him, but was standing quietly talking to
him, evidently asking his advice.
The younger children were also awake now, and Mrs. Peniman got down from
the wagon and began preparing the breakfast.
"Thee must stay and break bread with us, friend Neowage," said Joshua
Peniman; and presently the whole family were gathered about the oilcloth
on the grass, with Neowage cross-legged and silent among them.
It seemed very strange to be thus eating breakfast with one of the
savages of whom they had stood in such deadly terror the night before;
the little girls shrank closer to their mother and peered at him with
fearful eyes, but the boys watched his every movement with fascinated
gaze, and Lige began mentally composing a letter to Simeon Fisher, in
which he meant to tell him all about his friend Neowage, the great and
mighty chief of the Winnebago tribe.
The chief, however, after one keen glance from his black eyes seemed to
pay little attention to them. His eyes were fastened upon Nina, and
whether it was her tragic story or her winning beauty that held his
attention they could not tell.
When he had finished eating he rose abruptly and said, "Me go now."
Then turning to Mr. Peniman he extended his hand.
"No be 'fraid," he said in his deep guttural voice. "Neowage you friend.
He watch over you. No let Quaker family get harm." Then as he turned
to where his pony was standing, its bridle trailing on the ground, he
included them all in one quick glance and muttered a guttural "goo-bye."
Mrs. Peniman rose and gave him her hand, thanking him for his
protection. The boys also hastened to shake hands with him. But Nina
sprang up from her place and ran to him, taking from her neck a pretty
little blue chain, and laid it in his hand.
"Keep it," she said, smiling up at him; "you were good and saved us.
Keep that to remember us by."
[Illustration: "KEEP IT; YOU WERE GOOD AND SAVED US."]
The Indian looked down from his great height upon the golden-haired
little girl, then to the chain in his hand.
"Umph!" he grunted, but they knew from the smile on his face that he was
pleased.
"What you name?" he asked.
"Nina--Nina Carroll." Then with a shy little smile, "The boys call me
'Princess.'"
"Umph!" again grunted the Indian, and mounting his pony rode swiftly
away.
As the pioneers traveled on through the heat and dust of that day the
hearts of Joshua Peniman and his wife were deeply troubled. It was not
alone that their worst fears of the perils of the plains had been
realized in the attack of the night before, but the menace and mystery
of the theft of the dispatch-box left a deep sense of fear and
depression upon them.
"I cannot but fear for the child," Joshua Peniman said, after long
study. "We know nothing about her, who she is, what her life may
represent, or what enemies her family may have had. The thought is
forcing itself upon me that we should not keep her with us, that we must
leave her at the first Mission we come to, as her mother requested.
They may be able to get her back to her own people."
"But who are her people? How can we ever tell that now? Every bit of
information, every letter, address, paper, everything relating to her or
her relatives, was in that box."
"But surely the girl herself knows----"
"Very little. I have talked with her. It appears that she and her
parents have been traveling abroad a great deal of the time since she
was born. She knows that they lived in New York, also for a time in St.
Louis, but she does not remember the address in either place. Her
mother's parents are dead, I believe, and I judge from things she has
told me that there must have been some trouble with her father's family,
and that the young couple lived rather an independent existence." Then
after a long pause, "Somehow I cannot bear to leave the child at a
Mission. Think of leaving our Ruth----"
"I know, Hannah, but her safety----"
"Yes, I realize that. We have the right, perhaps, to jeopardize the
lives of our own family in this trip across the plains, but have we the
right to expose the life and safety of this child, that has been left in
our care?"
They sat in deep thought for some minutes. From the other wagon they
could hear the chatter of the children's voices, as Ruth, Lige, Sam,
Joe, and Nina excitedly discussed the events of the night before. She
still grieved for her parents, but little by little the society of the
wholesome, healthy-minded young Penimans was winning the little Princess
back to cheerfulness.
"She seems very happy with us," sighed Mrs. Peniman.
"Yes, I believe she is. I wish we might keep her with us," answered her
husband gravely.
The next day they reached the Des Moines River, and after making their
night camp by the beautiful stream made their way the next morning to
Fort Dodge, which had been built on the east side of the Des Moines two
years before. Here they found other travelers and heard the horrible
details of the Spring Lake massacre, and also of the depredations of the
Sioux on the South Fork of the Platte. Sam and Lige, who were standing
near, overheard a mover relating to their father the circumstances of a
hideous murder of a party of emigrants which had occurred near
Fontanelle but a few days before. These accounts, while they thrilled
the boys with a sense of adventure, made their parents more anxious than
ever, and many times the temptation assailed them to give up the
hazardous journey and return to safety and civilization.
But there was something in the make-up of the early pioneers that
forbade them to turn back, and after a few hours of rest they
replenished their supplies and went on their way.
While at Fort Dodge Joshua Peniman made inquiries in regard to Missions,
and learned that a Presbyterian Mission had been founded at Bellevue,
the first permanent white settlement in Nebraska, on the west side of
the Missouri River. To this he determined to make his way, and leave in
safety the child of the strangers who had been entrusted to his care.
The travelers had now left civilization far behind them. The boys, who
had so eagerly anticipated the adventures of the journey, now had more
than sufficient of it to satisfy them. What white settlers there were
in the country at that time were settled along the streams and rivers,
leaving the space between unorganized and wild. As they traveled on
trees and water grew farther and farther apart. There were some trees,
mostly willows and cottonwoods, along the borders of the streams, all
the rest was grass and sky.
They often saw large bands of Indians sweeping across the plains,
hunting the wild game that was everywhere in great abundance. They saw
great herds of elk and antelope, and wild turkeys were plentiful, with
great flocks of prairie-chickens and quail.
They had no difficulty in providing their table with fresh meat now, for
the boys and their father had but to go out with their guns for an hour
or two in the evening and come back with their game-bags full.
But while they had meat in plenty they could no longer get fruit or
vegetables. They could not supply their daily needs at towns or
villages, for there were no towns, and the settlements were so far apart
that many times they traveled for days without ever seeing a house or
human. When they did find a "settler" or squatter, his home was on the
bank of some river or stream, and his food consisted mostly of
"sow-belly" and coffee, with little enough of either for himself, and
none whatever for guest or traveler.
The lack of green food troubled Mrs. Peniman greatly, for with the
voracious appetites of her young brood she realized that they should
have vegetables to offset their constant consumption of the heavier
diet.
One morning while they were traveling through western Iowa she suddenly
leaned out of the wagon peering down into the grass.
"Stop a minute, Joshua," she cried, "I see something over there I want
to investigate. It looks to me as if the Lord might be sending us the
vegetables we have been wanting."
Mr. Peniman stopped the team and she scrambled nimbly down. Seeing her
leave the wagon, Ruth, Nina, Sam and Paul eagerly followed her.
"What is it, Mother? What do you see?" cried Ruth.
Just then Sam stooped down and held up a small green object between his
fingers. "Look, Mother," he cried, "look at the funny little green
balls!"
"Ah," cried Mrs. Peniman, seizing it eagerly, "that's what I thought!
That's what I was looking for! Look here, see?"
She stooped down, pointing to a delicate green vine with small leaves
and delicate tendrils that grew in the grass at her feet.
"Pea-vines!" exclaimed Ruth.
"Yes, pea-vines! and these are some kind of a wild pea. I am almost
sure they would be good to eat."
By this time Mr. Peniman, Lige and Joe had joined them.
"Oh," said Mr. Peniman, "_buffalo peas_! I have often read of them
growing on the plains."
"Are they good to eat, Father?" asked Sam, who was in a chronic state of
being hungry.
"I think so; we might try them. Run about and gather all you can,
children; we'll cook them when we camp to-night."
With pails and baskets the young people ran about gathering the peas
from the low trailing vines.
"They're the queerest peas I ever saw," said Joe; "they haven't any
pods, and they're so _big_, look!" and he held up a round green ball
about as large as a marble, pale green on one side and on the other a
dull, purplish red.
When camp was struck that evening there was great interest shown in the
preparation of the buffalo peas. After soaking them in water Mrs.
Peniman put them on to boil with a pinch of soda, then drained off that
water, put fresh water upon them, let them boil again, and when they
were tender served them with a dressing of milk.
The family ate them, but it was the general opinion that the peas had
grown too old to be prepared in that way, and on the next evening Mrs.
Peniman made them into a pea soup, which was pronounced delicious by the
entire family, and became a distinct addition to their diet as long as
the buffalo-pea season lasted.
The boys had often remarked as they traveled farther and farther
westward into the uninhabited wilderness that the road over which their
prairie schooners rumbled was a broad, hard highway, with scarcely a
blade of grass upon its surface. Joe wondered at this, and asked his
father why it should be so.
"We are traveling over the old Oregon Trail, my boy," Mr. Peniman told
him. "It is an old, old trail, the first highway made into the
wilderness of the west by the feet of white men."
"Who made it?" demanded Lige, who resented any one having been ahead of
them in pioneer life.
"The trail was first made in 1813 by what was known as the Astorian
Expedition, which set out from St. Louis with about a hundred men,
intending to cross the mountains and build a fort for the American Fur
Trading Company in Oregon. You boys should read the history of that
expedition; you would find it most interesting."
"Did they get there?" asked Sam, who was always interested in the result
of any adventure.
His father smiled. "Yes, Sam, they got there. When I knew that a part
of our journey would lead us along the old Oregon Trail I read up its
history. They had a terrible journey, but after great losses and
hardships seven men reached the Columbia River, where they built a fort
which they called Astoria, after John Jacob Astor of New York, the
president of the fur company. The Indians set upon them and stole their
goods and their stock, and they returned to St. Louis with only one old
horse, which they had succeeded in trading for with a friendly Indian."
"But that was so long ago, Father," put in Joe, "I should think the
trail would have been lost since."
"It probably would have been," answered his father, "but that it was
kept open by the Oregon emigration of 1832. But it was beaten into its
present good condition and has been kept so by the gold-seekers and
emigrant trains that began the rush to California in 1849. This is also
sometimes called the 'Mormon Trail,' because it was over this very road
that we are traveling now that the Mormons passed on their pilgrimage to
Salt Lake in 1847. They, too, had great hardships and losses, and had
to winter at Florence, a little trading-station on the Missouri River,
which we should reach very soon now."
"Jiminy, that's interesting," cried Joe, who had been listening
intently; "it makes it so much more interesting when you think of who's
been over this old road before. How much easier and pleasanter it is to
learn history and geography when you're right on the spot than when you
are sitting on a hard bench at school!"
Toward evening the country became more rolling, and shortly before
sunset they saw in the distance a blue haze and high steep bluffs.