The Indian nodded.
"But he is not an Indian, he's a white man, isn't he?"
"Squaw-man."
For a moment Joshua Peniman stood staring at him, his brain whirling.
A white man--lived with the Santee Sioux! Had evidently recognized--or
partly recognized--Nina Carroll! Who could he be? What the relation
between him and the departed Carrolls? What could be the meaning of
this tangle in which he had involved himself by taking into his custody
the friendless child of the white man who had been slain by a Sioux
arrow!
The young Indian pointed to the pelt, which still hung carelessly over
Joe's arm.
"Me give," he said. "Pawnee heap white man's friend."
"You mean you want to give me this skin?" cried Joe.
The young Indian grinned and nodded.
"Oh, no, Pashepaho! That pelt's worth good money. I have no use for
it, and you ought to get a good price for it. I'm awfully much obliged
all the same; it was fine of you to want to make me a present. I like
you. You're square. Shake. You and I will be friends, shan't we?"
Pashepaho shook the hand that Joe extended to him. Joe dashed into the
wagon and scrambled out again a moment later carrying a bright red
necktie in his hand.
"Here, you take this. I'd like to make you a present. I know you like
red. It'll look good on you."
Pashepaho took it eagerly, scrutinizing the brilliant bit of silk with
the pleased smile of a child. Then he proceeded to wind it about his
head, tying it in a knot in the back and letting the ends hang down over
his shoulders.
"There! That looks fine! I knew it would be becoming to you," cried
Joe, without an intimation that that was not the accustomed manner of
wearing neckties.
The Indian looked from the boy to his father with a pleased grin. "You
sleep?" he asked.
"Yes, we're going to camp here to-night," answered Joe.
"Me sleep, too."
Joe brought him out a substantial supper, which he ate squatted on the
grass beside the wagons, and when the family settled down to their
night's rest he lay down beside them with his blanket over his head.
It was long past midnight when Joe was awakened by a slight movement at
his feet. He had heard no sound. Spotty was standing, his ears cocked
forward, and the young Indian, motionless as a statue, stood with bow
bent, an arrow in rest.
"What's the matter? What do you see?" cried Joe, springing up.
"Sh-sh!" whispered the Indian.
For a moment longer he stood, then discharged the arrow and at the same
moment let loose a blood-curdling yell that roused the family and set
the children to screaming.
Mr. Peniman leaped wildly to his feet.
"What is it? Where are they?" he shouted, but the young Indian laughed
and snapped his fingers.
"Gone!" he said with a gesture of wide flight, "Red Snake coward. Think
Big Chief come."
"_Red Snake_! Was Red Snake here? How do you know? What was he doing?
Were there other Indians with him?"
Pashepaho shrugged his shoulders.
"Me know he come. Me come. He scare. He run 'way. He no come more.
Think heap much Pawnee here."
He chuckled to himself, but Joshua Peniman did not join in his
merriment. He knew now that a deadly enemy was following them, and that
while Nina Carroll was in their hands there could be neither rest nor
security for the family.
They rose early, and taking a grateful farewell of Pashepaho started on
their way.
In the fresh light of early morning, they caught their first glimpse of
Nebraska.
The land all about them lay smiling, with tall prairie grass waving to
and fro and flickering with constantly changing shades and colors, the
river glinted like a sheet of silver, and over all arched the sky, blue
as an amethyst, with the delicate shades of early sunrise coloring the
east.
They crossed the Missouri on the ferry-boat _General Marion_, which had
been running only since the spring of the year before, and found
themselves in Omaha, taking their first view of the bare, straggling
settlement which is now the chief city of the great agricultural State
of Nebraska.
At that time Omaha was the centre of the reservation of the Maha, or
Omaha, tribe, and a trading post for the trappers and traders who had
come to profit by the credulity and ignorance of the Indians.
Missionaries were here who had come to carry Christianity into the
wilderness, and a few white settlers who at that date had found their
way across the river into the newly organized territory. The great
motionless prairies lay spread out in striking contrast to the uplands
and valleys along the river, with the sombre brown of the vegetation
lighted up by the sunrise through a soft haze that cast a glamour over
the picture.
The Omahas were camped in their teepees on the lowlands, bucks, squaws,
papooses, dogs, wigwams and ponies huddled together, just as they had
come from their great annual hunt in the Elkhorn valley, where elk,
bison, antelope and other game abounded. There were a few shanties and
log huts scattered about, but at this date, August of 1856, there were
not more than fifty white families in the whole of Douglas County.
Joshua Peniman inquired the way to Bellevue, and after a brief stop in
Omaha set forth for the Mission at that point.
Before leaving Omaha, Hannah Peniman had sent the children into the
other wagon, and drew the little Princess to her, reminding her of her
dead mother's wishes, and telling her that they were now near Bellevue,
where they would leave her at the Mission, from which she hoped that she
might be sent home to her own people.
Somewhat to her surprise, the little girl received the announcement with
grief and terror.
"Oh, no, no, no," she cried, "I don't want to be left there! I'd _die_
of homesickness there! Oh, Mother Peniman, don't leave me, don't leave
me, please don't go away and leave me!"
"But you would only be there a short time, Nina," said Mrs. Peniman
gently; "they would soon send you home."
"I _have_ no home," she cried, bursting into a wild storm of weeping; "I
don't know any of my people. My papa and mama are dead, and there is no
one who wants me or cares for me! Oh, don't leave me, Mother Peniman,
please, please take me with you!"
"Can you tell me the names of any of your relatives, Nina? Don't you
remember your grandfather or grandmother? Haven't you any aunts or
uncles or cousins? Who is there back there where you used to live that
you could go to?"
"I don't know, I don't know!" sobbed the child. "I never knew any of
them. My grandma and grandpa on Mama's side are both dead, and I think
Papa must have quarreled with his parents, for he never talked about
them. We lived abroad 'most all the time, and when we were in this
country we lived all by ourselves in New York."
"But can't you tell us the names of any people who would know who your
relatives are? Your mother said----"
"No, no, I can't, I can't!" sobbed the child. "Everything was in the box
Mama gave me. She told me that full particulars were in there. I don't
know who they can send me to--I have no friends--no one who loves
me----"
Hannah Peniman looked at her husband over the head that was buried on
her breast. The past few months had drawn lines in the comely face, had
silvered the shining brown hair with threads of grey, and left deep
shadows in the sweet blue eyes.
"She doesn't know--she doesn't understand, the poor lamb," she said
tremulously.
"Oh, yes, I do know, yes I do understand," sobbed the child. "I know
that my papa and mama are dead and that I am left all alone in the
world--I have no one who loves or cares for me--and now you are going to
send me away--leave me all alone at a Mission--and I'll die--I'll just
_die_----"
Her voice had risen into a loud sobbing wail, and the children in the
other wagon heard it. In a twinkling Joe, Lige and Ruth were running
back to them.
"Mother--what's the matter with Princess--I heard her crying," panted
Ruth, scrambling into the wagon.
"They're going to leave me--leave me--at the M-M-Mission," sobbed
Princess. "They're tired of me--they don't love me--and they're going
to send me back h-h-home!"
Joe sprang into the wagon, his face looking strangely pale and set.
"Leave her at a Mission? Father--what does she mean?"
His father explained, as gently as he could, omitting, for the sake of
the little girl, the danger that threatened them on her account, and
which seemed to be so relentlessly following her.
The child had thrown herself into Joe's arms, and he listened with his
arms clasped about her.
"It was the dying wish of her mother, Joe," Mr. Peniman concluded.
"But she is dead--and Nina is alive. If she doesn't know her own
people--if she doesn't want to go to them--isn't it better that she
should be allowed to do what she wants to with her own life?"
"But the danger, Joe----"
Joe clasped his arms more tightly about her. "I'll take care of her,
Father," he said, with an expression that made the words like a vow.
A few hours later they reached Bellevue, the oldest town in Nebraska,
and once designed to be its capital, and Mr. Peniman drove directly to
the Mission.
They left Nina in the wagon with the other children while they went
inside. What was said or done, what discoveries they made, or what
caused them to so quickly reach a decision the children never knew; but
only a few minutes had passed before they saw them returning, and Hannah
Peniman's head was held high and an angry spot was burning on either
cheek as she climbed into the wagon.
Nina, with tear-stained face and eyes swollen and red with weeping, was
clasped in Ruth's arms, and both of them were crying together. When
they heard the approach of Mr. and Mrs. Peniman Nina raised her head
with a gasping sob, but Mrs. Peniman bent over her, took her in her arms
and pressed her to her breast.
"Don't cry, poor lamb," she comforted, "thee shall not be taken from us.
I believe your chances are better with us than they would ever have been
there. God took our baby daughter from us, and I believe that He has
given us thee to comfort us. Cry no more, dear child, thee shall stay
with us, and our fortunes shall be thy fortunes, to the end of the
chapter."
There was great joy in the wagons when the news went forth that Princess
was not to be taken from them. The children had all become devotedly
attached to their little comrade, and her happiness was no greater than
theirs when they learned that they were not to be parted. Mr. and Mrs.
Peniman, too, felt a great weight lifted from their hearts.
"He who never faileth us will guard her, Joshua," said Hannah Peniman, a
mist in her brave blue eyes. "I could never have found it in my
conscience to abandon the poor lamb. She will be to us as one of our
own children, and I know that her mother will rest more tranquilly there
in her grave on the lonely prairies knowing that her little one is with
us. Her spirit will watch over her, her love will guide her safely
through all dangers and alarms."
"God grant that it may be so," answered Joshua Peniman solemnly.
*CHAPTER X*
*NEBRASKA*
The Peniman family found the little town of Bellevue the most pleasant
and attractive place they had struck in many days' travel, and it
comforted the hearts of the elders of the party to find that after all
Nebraska was not the treeless and verdureless wilderness they had been
led to expect.
Located on the banks of the great Missouri, overlooking the green
wood-crowned bluffs, with the soft verdant valley winding its way below,
they were not surprised as they gazed upon it that the old fur-trader,
Manuel Lisa, had named it "belle vue," or "beautiful view," so many
years before.
This was the stopping-place of all the adventurers to the far western
land. Trappers, traders, travelers and prospective settlers all stopped
here for rest and refreshment before making the plunge into the
wilderness that lay beyond on the trackless plains. Missionaries here
made their first attempt to civilize and Christianize the Territory, and
Mr. and Mrs. Peniman found great comfort and solace in sitting again in
a church, even though not of their own particular faith, and listening
to the word of God.
They made their preparations to leave this last anchor to civilization
with much reluctance and regret. They wished many times that they might
consider their journey ended here. But the object of that journey had
been to so locate that each of their growing lads might be enabled to
homestead his 160 acres as soon as he was old enough, and the bottom
lands of the Missouri were already pretty well squatted by trappers and
settlers. So after a pleasant and restful day at Bellevue they
purchased the last essentials for their home in the wilderness, loaded
them into the Carroll wagon, and started westward on the most trying and
perilous part of their journey.
They crossed the Platte River, a winding, shallow stream twisting along
over its flat sandy bottom, which gave the Territory the Indian name of
"Ne-bras-kah," or "Flat Water," and started across the prairies.
After leaving the Oregon Trail there was not even a track to be seen on
the prairies. There was no road, nor any sign of a road. All to the
westward seemed an unbroken wilderness. Meadow-larks sang in the grass,
deer or antelope now and then flitted across their vision far away in
the knee-high sage-brush, and their eyes strained westward over an ocean
of immensity that looked as if it stretched away unbroken to the very
edge of the world.
They watched the sun go down that night as the voyager sees it go down
at sea, sinking inch by inch with no obstructing obstacle between, until
its red rim sank below the horizon, leaving them alone on the vast
solitude of the prairies.
It was well for the family that they had carried wood and water from
their last camp at Bellevue, for there was neither wood nor water in
sight.
The wagons were drawn up in a semicircle, the cow and horses placed
inside, and the family gathered close together about their supper table,
as if feeling the need of human contact in the vast loneliness that
brooded about them.
They woke the next morning with the blaze of sunshine in their faces.
It was a marvelous thing, this awakening on the silent unbroken surface
of the plains, with the sun coming up like a great crimson hogshead over
the flat rim of the earth, changing it from black to grey, from grey to
pink, from pink to rose and blue and green and purple; and in all that
great expanse, over which the eye could travel in every direction to the
very limits of the horizon, to see no living creature but each other.
The day was hot and cloudless, and as the wagons bumped and crawled
along through the grass something of the dread silence and loneliness of
the prairies crept into their hearts, and a sort of awe came over them.
The children found themselves dropping their voices and speaking low, as
if they were in church; and Mr. and Mrs. Peniman avoided each other's
eyes and spoke but seldom, as their gaze stared out over the
interminable plains.
There were no trees in this land through which they were now traveling,
and the only bird that gladdened their ears or eyes for many a long day
to come were the little meadow-larks, which perched upon a swaying stalk
or weed uttered its clear, gurgling melody.
One morning as they were jogging along, Lige, who sat beside Joe in the
wagon, suddenly jogged his arm.
"Look, Joe," he cried, "what are all those little humps in the ground?
See, there are thousands of them! Aren't they queer? Let's ask Father
what they are."
His father heard and smiled. "Just watch," he said. "And Ruthie, thee
and Sam and Paul should watch, too. Those are little houses, and some
queer little fellows live in them."
"What lives in them?" asked Joe. At the same moment Sam, who was lying
on the beds in the back of the wagon, stuck his head out of the rear
curtains and gave a squeal of delight.
"Oh, I see!" he shouted. "Look at that queer little feller sittin'
right up on the roof of his house! Come on out, Ruth, greatest sight you
ever saw! Queerest little things, bigger'n gophers and not striped, just
kind o' plain brown, with their arms folded across their chests. What
in the world are they, Father?"
"They are prairie dogs," answered Mr. Peniman. "We are passing through
what is called a 'prairie dog town.' I have read of them many times,
but have never seen them before."
They had stopped the teams, and the family all scrambled out of the
wagons to see this strange and novel sight of a "town" in which nothing
lived but prairie dogs.
"Why, just see," cried Joe, "there are _millions_ of them! Just look at
that fellow over there, Ruth, sitting up on the roof of his house
scolding at us!"
And truly there did appear to be millions of them. The whole surface of
the ground as far as they could see was dotted over with the queer
little dome-like houses, made of the clayey soil of the prairies thrown
up into small heaps or mounds; and on each sat a small reddish-grey
animal, a little larger than a squirrel, with tail cocked up saucily
over their backs, and paws folded demurely across their fat little
stomachs, gazing with bright, bead-like eyes at the intruders, of whom
they did not seem to be in the least afraid. On each side of the face
were pouches, in which they carry out the dirt when burrowing the holes
in which they live, and in which they pouch nuts, roots, and other
dainties. They seemed filled with curiosity, and as they came swarming
up out of their holes to sit on the tops of their houses, they made a
peculiar barking noise, something like the bark of a young puppy.
This amused the children immensely. "How deep are their holes, Father?"
asked Sam.
"I have read that they are tunneled back long distances, and that many
of the underground passages connect the mounds with one another. I have
also read," he continued with a twinkle in his eyes, "that a prairie
dog, an owl, and a rattlesnake lives in every hole."
"A _rattlesnake_?" cried Ruth. "Wouldn't it bite the prairie dogs?"
Joshua Peniman laughed. "Well, I don't know, Ruth, that is what I read;
but my own opinion is that as the main business of little Mrs. Prairie
Dog is to keep snakes and other varmints from eating her little ones I
hardly think she would tolerate a rattler in her house. But come now,
jump in, we must not spend any more time here. No doubt there are many
just as interesting and curious things to see farther on."
They stopped early that night on account of the heat, wanting to save
the horses all they could. A strong wind came up about sundown, which
soon grew to be a gale, and which almost blew them off their feet as
they scampered about on the prairie trying to find something of which to
make their fire.
It was their first taste of the "Nebraska zephyrs," of which they were
to see so much later on, and it kept the whole family busy chasing about
after hats and bonnets, brooms, dish-pans, and all sorts of things that
blew out of the wagons.
"I can't find anything to build a fire of, Mother," cried Joe after a
vain search, "there's nothing out here, only wind and grass. Don't you
think we'd better use some of our stored-up wood?"
Lige, who was just returning from a prolonged chase after Ruth's
sunbonnet, suddenly stopped short and pointed away across the prairies.
Joe turned and looked, then remained staring.
"What in the name of goodness----" he ejaculated.
"Look, Mother, what are those things over there?" called Lige. "Do you
think they are some kind of animals?"
"Sheep!" ventured Sam, staring away intently toward where a number of
dark objects were moving rapidly toward them from the south.
"No, they're too small for sheep," said Mrs. Peniman, puckering her
forehead and narrowing her eyes; "what in the world _are_ they?"
"They've got a queer gait," cried Joe, "and they're coming a-whizzing.
Could they be wild turkeys?"
"Oh, no, they're not fowl of any kind."
"Will they bite, Mother?" queried little Mary.
"Maybe they're coyotes," suggested Paul.
Just then Mr. Peniman, who had been out looking after the horses,
appeared.
"Look, Father, what are those things over yonder?" cried Lige.
Mr. Peniman shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed intently out over
the prairies. Then he began to laugh.
"Hurry up, boys," he cried, "here's the stuff for your fire coming to
you! Catch as much of it as you can as it goes by, for I warn you that
with this wind it won't wait long on anybody."
"But what is it, Father?" asked Joe curiously.
"It is called 'tumble-weed.' It is a sort of bush, with a small,
slender stalk. During the summer this bush grows almost round, and when
the fibre of the plant dries the stalk becomes brittle and the first
hard wind breaks it off; then the bush rolls over and over across the
plains, sometimes traveling for miles before a high wind."
"Oh-h," cried Lige, with a falling inflection of disappointment in his
voice, "I thought it might be something interesting."
"So it is something interesting," said Mrs. Peniman. "Did you ever see a
more interesting sight than that? It looks like a Lilliputian army
marching toward us! Hurry up everybody, get in line, let's stop all we
can. I know they will make a splendid fire."
Always ready for anything new the children hastened to form in a line,
even down to small David, who was continually being blown off his short
legs. As the tumble-weeds came toward them, rolling over and over
before the strong south wind, they had a great game, stopping them,
chasing after them and running them down, while Mr. Peniman piled them
up and threw a horse-blanket over them to keep them from blowing away.
It was a great romp, and the children shrieked with laughter as they all
chased after the strange, grotesque bundles, with the wind beating in
their faces and almost carrying them away.
"Whew! that's more fun than pom-pom-pull-away!" puffed Lige, throwing
himself flat on a great tumble-weed which was trying hard to elude him.
And Mrs. Peniman, with her hair blown down and her cheeks as red as
Ruth's, declared it was the liveliest game she had taken part in for
many a long day.
When broken up and crowded under the pot and into the little sheet-iron
camp-stove they found it excellent fuel. It burned out quickly, but
made a hot fire, little smoke, and saved the precious store of firewood
so laboriously gathered up and so carefully hoarded for emergencies.
That night the moon was full, and the boys begged to sleep in their
blankets outside. As the night was very hot and it was close and
stifling under the canvas their mother gave her consent. The dry
prairie grass made a good mattress, and rolled up in their blankets like
old campaigners they lay looking up into the wonderful night sky for a
long time before they could fall asleep.
At last the fatigues of the day and the deep quiet of the prairies
lulled them to rest. Sam and Lige were fast asleep and Joe was
beginning to doze, when there came to his ears a sound so weird, so
blood-curdling that he sprang up, his heart beating heavily.
His first instinct was to grab for his musket. Spotty was standing up,
with hair bristling and lips drawn back, growling fiercely.
The wagons were, as was their custom these days, drawn up into a
semicircle, and the boys were lying within it close to the big wagon.
Just back of the wagon the three teams of horses were picketed, and just
beyond them the cow.
As Joe stood listening intently, his musket in his hand, he heard the
horses begin to plunge and snort.
He glanced at his father, but the sight of the thin, tired face of the
sleeping man stopped him.
For a moment all was silent as the grave. Then again came the long,
hoarse, raucous cry.
He stooped and shook Lige.
"Wake up," he whispered in his ear, "there's something after the
horses!"
Lige woke with a start, and grabbed his rifle as he sprang to his feet.
"Where?" he whispered. At the same moment the howling was repeated, and
the horses back of the wagons began to rear and snort with fear.
Suddenly the cow sent forth a terrified bellow.
With musket over his shoulder Joe dashed between the wagons, followed by
Lige.
The moon was at its full, and the flat surface of the prairies was dimly
visible all about them. Outlined against the horizon they saw a number
of gaunt, shadowy forms flitting silently. At no great distance from
them a creature, larger than a big dog, sat up on its haunches and with
head raised to the moon uttered a long, wailing howl.
From far away across the prairie it was answered, and while they stood
listening the night grew hideous by the calling and answering of the
deep-chested howl of grey wolves.
"Wolves--grey wolves!" whispered Joe, "they are after the horses!"
Presently as they stood with suspended breath dim grey shapes came
gliding across the prairies toward them.
Almost as he spoke they heard the cow give a terrified bellow, and heard
her tugging wildly at her rope.
"The cow, the cow!" shouted Lige, and together the boys leaped forward.
They saw the poor animal crouched and cringing with terror, and as they
sprang forward, gun at shoulder, they saw a huge, gaunt grey figure leap
at her throat.
Scarcely waiting to aim, Joe shot. The reverberation had scarcely
ceased when his father was at his side.
"What is it?" he cried.
"Wolves--wolves! They are after the horses--they almost got the cow!"
shouted Lige, and fired again into the shadows, where he could make out
the slinking grey figures.
Joe too was loading and firing. The horses, half mad with terror, were
rearing and snorting, and the cow plunged in wide circles, blowing and
bellowing with fear.
Mr. Peniman, musket in hand, ran to them, but the wolves had been
frightened away. He found two great, gaunt, grey marauders dead, but
the others, frightened by the shots, had disappeared as swiftly and
silently as shadows.
The boys were greatly disappointed to find that they had not killed more
of the midnight thieves. "There were such a lot of them," cried Joe;
"what became of the rest? I thought I would kill half a dozen at
least."
"Wolves are great cowards. When they heard the shots they probably made
off with all speed. I think you did exceedingly well to get two in this
uncertain light. Too bad we can't skin these fellows and keep the pelts
as souvenirs of your first wolves. But you will no doubt have the
chance to get plenty more, so we will let these fellows go. We'll have
to watch for them after this. It would have been a bad lookout for us
if they had got the horses or the cow."
This incident served to show the pioneers that other dangers than those
of Indian raids menaced their night camp on the plains, and served to
make them more watchful than ever.
*CHAPTER XI*
*THE PRAIRIE FIRE*
A few days later the travelers drove into a dreary, straggling little
settlement of a few log and sod shanties on a little stream called Salt
Creek. Here they spent the night, glad of the company of other white
settlers. There was a general store in the little settlement, at which
Joshua Peniman bought a barrel of salt pork, a barrel of flour, sugar,
coffee, rice, tea, beans, dried peas, and a bucket of lard and a firkin
of butter.
"I am doubtful," he said as he loaded them into his wagon, "whether we
will come to another place where we could get supplies."
Early the next morning they loaded up their wagons, bade farewell to the
other movers, and struck off across the trackless prairies.
It was still early, and the drum of the prairie-chickens came to their
ears across the silence of the plains. Joe and Lige took their guns and
went in search of them, and soon returned with a couple of fine young
hens, which Mrs. Peniman cooked for their dinner.
A strong, hot south wind was blowing, which toward evening increased to
a gale. Even the shadows of night did not bring relief from the heat,
which seemed to increase rather than diminish. Mrs. Peniman could not
sleep. With a feeling of suffocation and uneasiness upon her she tossed
from side to side. The air was hot and close, and in her nostrils there
was a pungent smell. With the instinct of danger strong upon her she
sprang up, and jumping out of the wagon looked about her.
Off to the south the sky was red, and straining her eyes through the
darkness she saw, low against the horizon, a leaping tongue of flame.
She ran to where her husband lay sleeping. "Joshua," she whispered,
laying her hand on his arm, "Joshua, wake up! I smell smoke, and away
over yonder I think I see a fire----"
"_Fire!_" the sleeping man was wide awake and on his feet in a moment.
"Fire? Where?"
Mrs. Peniman pointed.
For an instant he stood staring at the little tongues of flame that
licked up over the horizon, then sprang to the pickets and began untying
the horses.
"Prairie fire!" he cried. "And there's no telling where it will stop in
this wind! Call the boys!"
When the boys were roused he gave them no time to ask questions. In
quick, nervous tones he issued his orders.
"Hitch up as quick as you can, Joe," he shouted, "there's a prairie fire
over yonder! Lige, get up the black team. Sam, run and bring in the
cow. Pack those things in the wagons, Hannah, never mind order now.
Ruth, get a couple of pails of water out of the kegs. Paul, pull up
those stake-pins, wind up the ropes and throw them in the wagons!
Hurry, hurry, all of you, we haven't a moment to lose!"
Working with feverish haste he turned often and glanced at the line of
red on the horizon.
"It's miles away yet," he said in a low voice to his wife; "we may be
able to get out of its path, but with this wind----"
He stopped abruptly, then leaping into the wagon shouted, "Come on, in
with you, never mind those things, Hannah, never mind anything now! The
wind has changed, and that fire will be down upon us in less than half
an hour. Whip up your horses, boys, don't spare them now! With that
fire behind us----"
He leaned forward as he spoke and lashed his team; the horses plunged
forward with a leap that made the wagon careen.
Over the coarse prairie grass they fled, the horses straining and
plunging, while they looked continually behind them to where the red
line had left the horizon now and was creeping toward them, the red
tongues of flame leaping higher and higher as they caught the dry grass
and rosin weeds.
The air grew suffocatingly hot, and before long particles of burned
grass and weeds, carried by the gale, began to fall about them.
"Watch that nothing catches fire in the wagon, Hannah," shouted Joshua
Peniman, bending forward and laying the whip across the backs of the
petted team that had scarcely ever felt a blow in their lives before.
"Watch the children's clothing. Have wet cloths handy!"
The wind, a gale before, now seemed to have increased in fury, and
before it the fire leaped and roared like a furnace.
"Faster, Joe, faster!" yelled his father; "it's gaining on us, we've got
to reach a stream or draw of some kind----"
Leaning far forward on his seat with the whip in his hand and the reins
clutched hard, Joe did not wait for the finish of the sentence. With
voice and whip and lines he urged the horses forward, shouting at them,
shaking the lines over their straining backs, whirling the whip about
their heads, as in a blinding reek of smoke and dust they thundered on,
while closer and closer behind them came the roaring flames.
The horses were soon panting and lathered with sweat, staggering and
stumbling under the strain of the heavy wagons, and poor Cherry,
fastened on behind, was almost pulled off her feet, and slid and
stumbled bawling wildly.
The whole sky was illuminated now, and the air so filled with smoke that
they could hardly breathe. Behind them the ominous crackling and
snapping of dry grass grew louder and louder, as the fire, fanned by the
high wind, rushed through the tall, dry prairie grass with the velocity
of a cyclone.
All at once without decreasing the pace of his horses, Mr. Peniman stood
up in the wagon and looked back.
They heard him utter a sharp, inarticulate sound, and the horses were
stopped with a jerk that almost threw them upon their haunches.
"No use," he shouted, leaping out, "we can never make it! Got to fight
it out here! _Out everybody_, and fight for your lives!"
Joe and Lige stopped their teams, and drawing the wagons up together
they leaped out and tied their teams to the rings in the side of the
other wagon.
"The kegs!" shouted Joshua Peniman, "roll out the kegs, and those
gunny-sacks! We've got to back-fire, it's our only chance now!"
With frantic haste the boys rolled out the precious kegs of water, while
Mrs. Peniman, with an instinctive knowledge of what to do, threw out a
couple of brooms, some old coats, and a bundle of gunny-sacks.
The children, aroused at the first call of danger, had all gotten into
their clothes by this time. With their heads enveloped in wet towels,
wet brooms and gunny-sacks in their hands, they stood ready to do as
their father commanded.
Having secured the horses firmly to the wagons Joshua Peniman rushed
back over the way they had come for some two hundred feet, and called
the family to him.
"We've got to set a back-fire here," he shouted; "watch it closely,
don't let it get away from you, and beat out every tongue of fire that
tries to get beyond you. Have your brooms and sacks ready. _Now!_"
The whole family, with the exception of Mary and David, who had been
left asleep in the wagons with Spotty to guard them, were now lined up
at a distance of some two hundred yards nearer to the oncoming fire than
the wagons. It required courage for young people who had never, until
they had begun this journey, encountered real danger, to face the
roaring wall of flame that rushed toward them, but they were well
disciplined and obeyed their father's orders implicitly.
Seeing that they were all in readiness Joshua Peniman stooped and put a
match to the grass at his feet. Instantly it leaped into a flame. He
let it burn a little way, then whipped out the edges, making a straight
track of fire of about a hundred and fifty feet wide. This Joe instantly
recognized as a "fire-guard." Then backing up a few steps at a time,
and keeping the flames under control, they let this second or
"back-fire" burn toward the wagon, leaving between them and the oncoming
wall of flame a large area of burned-over ground. This they continued
to do until they had described a complete circle about the wagons.
"Watch out there, Joe, keep your eye to the right there," yelled Mr.
Peniman, black and smoke-begrimed and beating with all his might at a
vicious tongue of flame that threatened to get beyond him. "Look out
there, Lige! Nina, be careful to keep your skirts out of the fire!
Watch behind you, Sam; better wet your broom again! Beat out that fire
on your left there, Hannah!"
With her skirts pinned up about her, her hair blown down, and her
sleeves rolled to her elbows, Mrs. Peniman wielded broom and sack,
beating and firing as she went backwards, step at a time.
"Oh, Mother, will it get us?" cried Ruth, as a great gust of wind
enveloped them in smoke and increased the roar and crackle of the flames
that rushed toward them.
"Don't be frightened, Ruthie," she shouted above the wind. "Keep your
broom going! Don't stop to look. God will take care of us. Watch your
side there, Nina; beat it out--_beat it out_! Here, Sam, come here and
work by Nina; she needs help!"
As Sam left his station she ran to where he had been and with furious
strokes of broom and sack beat out the fire that was creeping away from
them.
Back-firing and beating out the flames as they went, they gradually
worked back toward the wagons, leaving behind them a smoking black ring
nearly two hundred feet in circumference.
Their faces and hands were black and blistered, their feet scorched,
their eyes burning and smarting, and their lungs wheezed with the effort
to breathe through the suffocating smoke and ashes that filled the air.
The horses, half-wild with terror, were rearing and plunging, and poor
Cherry running madly in circles as far as her rope permitted.
"Run to the horses, Joe," shouted his father, after a swift backward
glance at the wagons. "Put wet sacks over their heads and throw wet
blankets over them! Lige, here, you take Joe's place! Watch out there,
Mother, beat out that fire on thy right!"
Joe threw down his sack and ran with all speed to the horses. With
soothing words and pats he did his best to quiet them, throwing their
blankets over their backs to protect them from flying sparks, and
enveloping their heads in wet sacks, wrung from the precious and
fast-disappearing kegs of water.
He had difficulty in getting near enough to the distracted Cherry to do
anything for her, but after a wild struggle, during which he was dragged
in a wide circle by her rope, he succeeded in getting a wet sack over
her head and a blanket on her back. The chickens were squawking and the
little pigs squealing in their boxes, and he stopped long enough to
throw a bucketful of water over them, and pitch a tarpaulin over their
boxes. Then he rushed back to the wildly beating family.
As they backed and fired they began to see outside the ring of fire grey
spectral shapes dashing by in the shadows, running madly, frantically,
with the terror of the crackling flames behind.
All at once the ground under their feet seemed to tremble, and the
horses, crouching and shivering with terror, began again to rear and
plunge.
Dropping his sack Joe ran to the heads of one, Lige to the other, while
Mr. Peniman dashed to the heads of the third team.
"To the wagons, to the wagons!" he shouted, and saw his wife and the
other children drop their sacks and dash for the wagons as the quaking
of the ground and a great roar like that of an approaching cyclone rose
above the crackling of the flames.
"What is it? What is it?" shouted Joe, terror-stricken.
"_Buffaloes!_" yelled his father. "Stampeded by the fire! Get your
guns--fire into them as they come--please God our back-fire may keep us
from being trampled by them!"
There was a moment of awful suspense, while the ground beneath their
feet seemed to rock and tremble with the impact of the wildly charging
herd. Through the smoke and dust they could make out a great mass of
enormous reddish-brown bodies being hurled madly forward before the
pursuing flames. Then the terrified creatures made a wide circle to
avoid the black ring of burned ground, which they seemed to fear, and
the herd of buffaloes, grim, monstrous shapes in the dusk of early
morning, thundered by and passed out of sight.
When the circle of back-fire was completed the nearly exhausted family
leaned for a moment on their wet brooms to breathe. The last of the
water in the kegs went to wet blankets and tarpaulins to spread over the
canvas covers of the wagons, and as the flames swept toward them they
took their stand about the wagons, still armed with their wet brooms and
sacks, to make a last struggle against the fire that came crackling and
rushing toward them.
*CHAPTER XII*
*A NEBRASKA DUGOUT*
With the roar of a tornado the prairie fire swept down upon them.
The high grass, dry as tinder after the long hot spell, burned as if
covered with turpentine.
The tall rosin-weeds and sunflowers, blazing like torches, sent up
showers of sparks that the wind carried through the air, setting fresh
fires and raining down upon the travelers, burning their clothes and
singeing their faces and hair.
Once Mrs. Peniman's calico apron caught fire, but she tore it off and
trampled it under her feet.
At times it looked as if the wall of flame must leap the narrow boundary
of burned-over ground and sweep down upon them, destroying them all in
the roaring furnace that raced toward them.
The heat grew fiercer; the horses screamed and tugged at their halters,
the cow bellowed pitifully, and the little pigs at the back of the wagon
squealed as if the knife of the executioner were at their throats.
For a moment the flames seemed to fairly tower over them, hissing and
crackling in its wrath.
_Would it leap the back-fire?_
The hearts of the pioneers almost stopped breathing. An agonized prayer
went up from the hearts of the parents that they and their little ones
might be spared.
Then the wall of flame flickered, fell--and swept on around them.
Their back-fire had saved them.
With cracked and parching lips they uttered prayers of thanksgiving, and
worn out with the struggle let sacks and brooms drop from their
nerveless hands and stood still.
They realized now for the first time the extent of their exhaustion.
They felt the pain of their burned hands, their scorched faces, their
parched and burning throats.
Daylight came before they were able to realize the fact that they were
saved.
The broadening light revealed a sad and dismal prospect. If the prairie
had seemed monotonous to them before in its sombre dress of grey, and
brown, and green, it seemed desolate beyond all description now, covered
as far as the eye could see with a pall of funereal blackness.
Suffering as they were with burns and thirst it was noon before the
ground was cool enough so that they could drive over the still smoking
prairies.
All the afternoon they drove, straining their eyes in every direction
for the sight of a town, a house, a sign of shade and water.
As fast as possible they veered away from the burned district, and about
sundown got out of the track of the fire and onto the brown dry
prairies.
Back of them and far away to the south and east they could still see the
devastating trail of the fire, but away to the north and west the wind
had turned the direction of the flames and the prairie remained
untouched by its fury.
It was a tremendous relief to escape from the scorched and blackened
ground, the stifling smell of burned grass, the acrid smoke that made
their eyes smart and water and their throats sting, and to drive out on
the unscorched prairies, which, hot as they were, seemed cool in
comparison.
It was nearing nightfall when they saw, not far away, a small column of
smoke rising in the air. Joshua Peniman scanned it with eager eyes.
"It might be an Indian camp," said his wife anxiously.
"White men or red we must have water to-night," he said, and drove on.
As they drew nearer they saw a low, squat outline against a small rise
in the ground, and from it rose a stove-pipe, from which the smoke they
had seen was coming.
"What is it?" called Joe. "Is it an Indian's hut?"
"No, thank God," cried Joshua Peniman fervently; "no Indians live there.
It must be a dugout, and if it is white people are living in it."
He clucked to the horses and drove eagerly forward.
As they approached the low, dark object they saw that it had a roof, and
that the sides were dug back in the rise of ground behind it. They
could also see that it had two windows in front, and a door, which was
thrown open as they drew nearer, and a tall, raw-boned red-haired woman
with a good-natured freckled face stood framed in the opening.
"Wal of all things!" she ejaculated, "if it ain't a bunch o' emigrants!
Hello, mister, where'd you come from?"
"From Ohio," called out Joshua Peniman, and made all possible haste
toward the dugout.
As the wagon drew up before the door she looked at its occupants, then
laughed aloud.
"Fer th' land sakes," she cried; "what be ye? Air ye niggers or
Mexicans or Portuguese, or what?"
"We're Americans--and white," said Mr. Peniman laughing, as he leaped
from the wagon. "At least we were white once, and we hope to be again.
We've just escaped with our lives from a terrible prairie fire, and are
covered with its smoke and grime."
"Lord save us!" ejaculated the woman. "Was you in the track o' that
fire? We been watchin' it all day. We was skeered it might ketch us,
but the wind wa'n't in th' right direction. Them prairie fires is
terrible things. We mighty nigh got burned out last fall."
"We used all the water we had fighting fire," Mr. Peniman continued,
"and are all suffering from thirst. I wonder if you could let us have a
little drinking water?"
"_Kin_ I? Wal I should say I could! Me an' Jim never turned a thirsty
man or woman or horse or dog away from our place yit! Git out, git out,
all of ye! We've got a good well and you can have all the water ye want
to drink and wash up, too, and I will say you sure do need it."
The travelers came scrambling out of the wagon, and there were tears of
relief and gratitude in Hannah Peniman's eyes.
"Jim," a husky-looking pioneer over six feet tall, with a good-humored
sunburned face and a shock of tow-colored hair sticking up through a
hole in his hat, came hurrying up at this moment, drawn from his work in
his cornfield near by by the unwonted sight of a caravan of moving
wagons before his door. As he came he cast a sharp, inquiring look at
the company of sooty, grimy individuals gathered before his dugout.
"We aren't quite such desperate characters as we appear," saluted Joshua
Peniman with his pleasant smile. "We have barely escaped with our lives
from a prairie fire, had to use all the water we had, and have had no
chance to wash. My name is Peniman--Joshua Peniman, a Quaker, from the
Muskingum Valley in Ohio, and these are my wife and children."
"Glad t' meet ye, Mr. Peniman," said the pioneer, extending a hairy,
work-worn hand. "So you was in the track o' that fire, was ye? Sa-ay,
I wonder ye ever got out alive. It was sure a fire, all right. Me an'
the old woman been watchin' it. Thought fer a spell it might come this
way, but th' wind favored us. Glad ye got through all right. Ye sure
have got a likely-lookin' family. My name's Ward--Jim Ward. B'en out
here goin' on three years. Homesteaded a piece o' land back here that
ye can't beat in the hull nation. Travelin' across country? Be'n
pretty hot, ain't it? But that's what makes good corn. We're going to
have a hummer of a crop this season. But come in, come in! Ye shore do
look all tuckered out. Wife'll git ye chairs, an' I'll go out an' draw
up some fresh water. I reckon ye must be dry."
When the thirst of the family had been satisfied they felt greatly
refreshed, and for the first time began to look about them. Mrs. Ward
saw the curious glances the young people were casting about the
queer-looking underground house and burst into a good-natured laugh.
"I'll bet you folks ain't never seen a dugout before," she exclaimed
jovially. "Well it's sure a queer way to live, but me an' Jim think
it's a good way--to begin with. We ain't always goin' to live this way,
but a dugout's safe from cyclones and blizzards and Indians, an' it's
warm in winter an' cool in summer--an' what more does a pioneer want?"
"I see that it has great advantages," said Joshua Peniman gazing with
interest about the dwelling. "Do you see how it is done, Hannah? You
see they have chosen a place where there is a rise in the ground, and
have dug back into the earth so that the house is protected on every
side but the front. You have had to build up side walls, of course,
where the earth slopes away, and a front wall, but that was all. I see
how safe and sheltered it must be, both from weather and possible
enemies."
"Yes, an' a feller has to think a heap about both o' them out here,"
said Jim Ward, standing with his hands in his pockets and his legs wide
apart as the travelers admired his dwelling.
The excavation, which was about twenty by thirty feet square, was dug
back into the bank of a piece of rolling ground on the prairie, and made
into a chamber about nine feet high. The entire rear part of the
dwelling was protected by the embankment, and a part of the sides, while
a stout, thick wall of sods was built up on the sides and in front, in
which was let a door and two windows. An ivy-vine was trained up over
the window casements, clean white curtains shaded the spotless panes,
which had broad sills, upon which were placed pots of geraniums in full
bloom.
The floor was made of matched flooring, and was as white as hands could
make it, with braided rag rugs spread before the shining stove and the
red-covered table, upon which were a Bible, a vase of wild-flowers, and
a shining lamp. In a corner of the room was a large double bed, made up
with a spotless blue-and-white patchwork counterpane, and "shams,"
elaborately worked in red cotton, with "Good Night" on one pillow and
"Good Morning" on the other. At the other end of the room was a shining
cook-stove, with a tea-kettle steaming cozily upon it, and a row of
packing cases, which had been placed one on top of another and cleverly
converted into a kitchen cupboard.
"It's wonderfully clean and cozy and comfortable-looking," exclaimed
Mrs. Peniman. "I wonder how you keep it so. I would not dream that a
house just dug into the ground could be so attractive."
"Lots of 'em ain't," vouchsafed Jim Ward. "Some of the folks that come
out here is content to live like pigs. But me an' Mary ain't. She
always was a good housekeeper, an' she keeps this place so nice I
sometimes almost forgit we live in a dugout."
"Now you quit talkin', Jim," put in "Mary," "and go an' draw up a tubful
o' fresh water. I reckon these folks don't want nothin' so much in this
world as a bath. I'll set a wash-tub out in th' back yard, an' when it
comes dark ye can all take a bath. I sh'd think ye could begin now with
th' little fellers."
One after another the Peniman family slipped out and took their turn in
the tub in the back yard, and it was indeed a cleansed and changed
family that gathered at last on the "front stoop," as Jim Ward
facetiously called the hard, beaten place before the door.
When supper was over they sat on the "stoop" until the moon rose,
listening eagerly to the many curious and interesting tales the pioneer
homesteader and his wife had to tell.
"Has thee ever been troubled with Indians, friend Ward?" asked Joshua
Peniman, a bit anxiously.
"No," answered the pioneer, "we ain't never had any trouble with 'em. A
lot of the settlers has, but I've always figgered it was their own
fault. We've been livin' out here three years now, an' we've never had
a thing stolen or molested or a bit o' trouble ourselves."
"But why haven't you?" demanded Joe, "when the others have?"
"Because I've always figgered on treatin' the Indians like they was
_human_. Some folks treats 'em worse'n dogs. Good land, this is their
country, ain't it? They was here first! Us folks that comes in now is
just takin' what they've owned for God knows how many years. Ain't it
so?"
"Yes," said Joshua Peniman, "it is. I have always felt so. But we have
so often been warned of danger----"
"An' there _is_ danger; don't ye ever forgit that. Some o' these here
Indians is bad medicine. They're mad about havin' white settlers come
in, an' they'll plug ye the fust chance they get. But I figger that
Indians is jest like other folks. Some is bad an' some good--they're
all just human. Me an' Mary has always thought if we treated them all
right they'd treat us right. So fur it's worked all right."
During the long talk that Mr. Peniman had with Jim Ward after the women
and children had retired to get ready for bed, he discussed land and
locations, and when the family set forth the next morning it was with
the firm intention of going to the northwestern part of Nebraska, where
the land along the Niobrara was particularly recommended, and where
there were still thousands of acres of government land to be homesteaded
upon for the choice.
They bade their kind host and hostess a reluctant good-bye, and having
promised that they would write them when they had arrived at their
destination they started on, turning to wave their hands again and again
to the last white people they were to see for many a long day.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE MINNE-TO-WAUK-PALA*
It was with the greatest reluctance that the travelers parted with Jim
Ward and his good-natured wife. For many days they had seen no other
human beings, and the relief of being with and talking with them was so
great that it took a determined effort to leave the cheerful dugout and
its occupants and turn their faces once more toward the uninhabited
plains.
They had traveled but a few miles in the calm clear light of morning
when they saw not a quarter of a mile ahead of them thirty or forty
beautiful antelope. They were cantering across the prairie, their
little white cotton tails shining in the sunshine, the light gleaming on
their pretty dappled sides. They were playing and leaping, and their
curious antics made the boys shout with laughter.
"Wonderful chance to get an antelope," said Lige with shining eyes; but
Joe shook his head. "Could you shoot one of those beautiful creatures?"
he asked. "I swear I couldn't."
The antelope seemed to have but little fear of them, and cantered along
for some distance, stopping now and then to crop the grass. After a
time they raced away toward the south, and were lost to view.
It was now well on in August. Even at the early hour at which they had
started there was a scorching wind blowing, and as the day advanced the
sun beat down on the prairies from a cloudless sky with an intensity
that promised a day of intolerable heat.
The family dispensed with every garment possible, and sat under the
canvas covers fairly parching with heat, while the hot wind seemed
fairly to scorch the prairies, and to burn and shrivel their skins.
Many times during the day they had to stop the horses, and at last Joe
conceived the idea of making pads for their heads from the prairie
grass, which he kept wet with water, brought from the well of the
hospitable Wards.
It was toward three o'clock in the afternoon, at the very hottest part
of the day, that Mrs. Peniman looking out of the front of the wagon
suddenly exclaimed aloud.
"Why," she cried, "look, look, Joshua, there is a lake before us!"
Mr. Peniman, who was half-dozing on his seat, started wide awake.
"A _lake_?" he cried. "A lake in this country? Where?"
"Why, see, over there," pointing ahead of them, "a beautiful blue lake!
See how the water ripples in the sunshine?"
The children, roused from the dull stupor into which they had fallen,
were all crowding to the front of the wagon to look out. Joe and Lige
on the high seats of the two other wagons craned their necks to see.
They all set up a great hurrahing, but Mr. Peniman, after one long look,
said nothing.
Suddenly his wife, who had been gazing with steadfast gaze at the
entrancing sight, caught his arm.
"Joshua"--she cried,--"that lake--it looks very strange to me! Could it
be that--I have read--oh, could it be that there is no lake--that it
is--that it is----"
He laid his hand over hers with a tender, sympathetic pressure.
"Yes, dear heart, I hate to dispel thy illusion, but there is no lake
there. It is a mirage."
"A _mirage_? What's a mirage, Father?" asked Sam, his face reflecting
his bitter disappointment.
"It is just an air-picture, my son, an optical illusion."
"You mean"--cried Joe, incredulously--"you mean that there is no lake
there? Why, how can that be, Father? We can _see_ it; it is right
there before our eyes----"
Mr. Peniman shook his head wearily.
"It is a trick of the plains," he said. "It almost seems that its only
purpose is to torture and mislead thirsty travelers like ourselves."
"But if it isn't a lake," propounded Lige, "what is it? We see it, it
is there before us----"
"But don't you notice, my boy, that the trees that appear to surround it
are upside down?"