Blue as the heavens, ruffled by the breath of early morning, surrounded
by waving trees, it lay tantalizingly before their eyes.
"I have never seen a mirage before," said Mr. Peniman, "but I know that
they are a common occurrence on the plains, and in all arid and desert
country. They are due to a condition existing in the atmosphere, caused
by the reflection of light. What we see over there is probably the
reflection of the sky, and as the reflection surface is irregular and
constantly varies its position the reflected image will be constantly
varying, and is what gives it the appearance of a body of water ruffled
by the wind."
For a time the mirage endured, tantalizing them with its beauty, then
suddenly faded, the alluring vision disappeared, and its place was
filled by the parched grass of the prairies.
It was a bitter disappointment, the more bitter because of the hope it
had aroused in their breasts.
Toward evening they saw, outlined against the western sky, two emigrant
wagons crawling along over the plains. But so great was the distance,
so wide and expressionless the plains that they scarcely seemed to move
forward, but to remain stationary against the brazen sky.
There was no sign of shade or water on all the great expanse as the sun
went down, and having traveled until twilight had fallen they made their
night camp on the dry, barren prairie, with stars and sky and grass
their only company.
They had now been two months on the road, and both horses and
individuals were feeling the strain.
The horses were stiff, thin and lame, the cow a mere bag of bones, and
the children cross and fretful.
Mrs. Peniman had lost her round curves and pretty complexion, and her
husband's beard had grown long, and he was so brown and sinewy that his
friends in Ohio would scarcely have known him.
They were all heartily tired of the weary crawling and jolting of the
wagons across the barren prairies, and rose with aching heads and
dragging limbs and moved wearily about the business of getting under way
again without enthusiasm.
The day came up, as do so many days upon the western prairies, with a
cloudless sky, blue as amethyst, and a sun that rode triumphant in a
blazing chariot from rim to rim of a blistering world.
At noon the teams were so exhausted that the travelers were obliged to
stop and unhitch them, leading them into the shade of the wagons to
relieve them for a while from the rays of the broiling sun.
As the hot afternoon sun climbed into the heavens the very prairies
seemed to drowse and sleep. Over their heads a few buzzards flapped
lazily, and before them the gauzy heat-waves rose from the ground
shimmering and dancing while the slow, monotonous klop, klop, klop of
the horses' feet was the only sound to be heard.
Inside the wagons David and Mary had fallen asleep, Ruth and Nina, with
their heads upon their sun-browned arms, had passed away into dreamland,
Sam read, Lige dozed, Joe was nodding over his book, and even Mr.
Peniman was drowsing.
Only Mrs. Peniman, sitting upon the front seat of the wagon, with her
chin in her hands, and her eyes fixed on the distant horizon, was awake.
Thoughts were too busy in the aching head under the faded sunbonnet to
let her sleep.
No one--not the husband so close at her side, not the children about
whom the chords of her heart were knit--knew what this journey into the
wilderness was costing her.
The lonely little mound back there on the prairies was seldom out of her
mind, and the homesick longing for her home and her mothers and sisters
so far away in the East, was sometimes almost more than she could bear.
As the thoughts of her lost baby, and all that she had left behind back
there in that sweet and verdant country crossed her mind, hot tears
rushed into her eyes. She blinked them resolutely away. She thought at
first as she looked up that it was the tears that blinded her. Then as
she wiped them away she drew a little gasping breath and looked--and
looked again. At first her heart gave a great leap, then sank down
drearily as she thought of the experience of the previous afternoon.
With a determined effort she turned her head away. Then when the torture
of suspense would be no longer borne, she looked back.
Away on the distant western horizon there was a bluish haze.
She laid her hand very gently on her husband's arm.
"Joshua," she whispered, "I hate to rouse thee, but--look off there to
the west; what is it we see? Is it--is it another mirage? It looks as
if there were trees there. I have been looking and looking, but I was
afraid to speak. I hated to awaken your hopes--it is so hard----"
The weary man roused himself. With hands clasped above his eyes he
gazed off over the prairies.
After a long interval he said, '"I think--I believe--it _does_ look like
timber! Of course it is a long way off yet--but----"
His voice ceased, as he fixed his whole attention on the horizon.
Presently he spoke again, this time more decidedly.
"I believe there is a patch of timber over there. There must be a stream
of some sort near. Don't wake the children, let them sleep; we will
make for it as fast as we can."
Pushing the limping horses forward as fast as they were able to travel,
the prairie schooners rolled on across the prairie, and the man and
woman upon the wagon seat leaned forward and watched the horizon with
straining eyes.
It was near evening when a breeze, bearing something fresh and fragrant
on its breath, blew into the wagons and roused their drowsy occupants.
Joe woke with a start. His team was plodding along steadily, but his
father's wagon was some distance in advance of it, while the Carroll
wagon, with Lige nodding upon the driver's seat, was far in the rear.
He rubbed his eyes, caught up the lines and puckered his lips for a
whistle. But the whistle was never uttered.
Instead there came from his chapped lips a startled exclamation.
Rubbing his eyes he looked and looked, and looked again. Then reaching
behind him he grabbed Sam by one of his bare brown feet and shook it
vigorously.
"Say, Sam, wake up here!" he shouted. "I want you to tell me if I'm
crazy or if my eyes have gone bad or if I'm seeing another mirage! If
I'm not plumb crazy there's a river over there, and trees----"
"Who said 'river'--who said 'trees'?" cried Sam, starting up; then he
stopped short, staring ahead with an incredulous expression.
"Is it--it ain't--it can't be another mirage, can it?"
Joe gave a loud, joyous laugh and cracked his whip over the backs of the
horses. He had had time to look again and he was satisfied.
"Mirage nothin'!" he exulted, "nary a mirage this time! Can't you smell
it? Can't you taste it? Can't you feel the moisture in the air? You
bet your life this isn't a mirage, it's the real thing, shade, water,
grass, trees! And it ain't far off either!"
By this time the blur of bluish haze had developed into a tone of
decided green, and there was no more doubt that trees and water were in
sight. Mr. Peniman was stooping forward gazing intently.
"I was told that there was a river not far from here," he said to his
wife, "and I think it should be in just about this location. It is
called by the Indian name 'Minne-to-wauk-pala,' or Blue Waters."
"I don't care what it is called," said Mrs. Peniman, laughing joyously,
"if it is only _there_. I don't think I could stand another shock like
that mirage."
"You won't have to, my dear," said Mr. Peniman, his face lighting, "for,
look, we can begin to see the trees and water now."
*CHAPTER XIV*
*THE NEW HOME*
No promised land of Paradise ever looked fairer to longing eyes than
looked the scene that lay before the parched and weary travelers as they
approached the Minne-to-wauk-pala or Blue Waters.
Crossing a broad plateau they drove up a gentle incline, and just as the
blazing sun was sinking below the horizon there opened before their view
a beautiful valley with waving green grass, welcoming trees and
flower-strewn glades, and a blue, sparkling river with rock-strewn shady
banks flowing swiftly over a rocky bottom, and long lines of timber
stretching away to the north and south.
For a moment the travelers stood transfixed, as if the very gates of
heaven had opened before them. Then Ruth, with a little gasping breath,
cried out:
"Oh, Mother, Mother, isn't it _beautiful_! It looks so green, so fresh,
so _lovely_--as if God had just finished it!"
And indeed the fair green land, with no mar of civilization upon it,
with its fresh virginal beauty untouched and unspoiled by the hand of
man, did look as if newly created.
The tired beasts had sniffed the fragrance of the water and with pricked
ears were pushing eagerly forward.
"_What a camping-place!_" shouted Joe, springing eagerly down as the
wagons were drawn up in the shade of the trees. "Come, Mother, jump
down and come take a look at this river! Cricky, we haven't seen
anything like this since we left Ohio. This water isn't red or brown or
dirty, it's just what its name calls it--_blue!_"
It didn't take many moments for the tired, thirsty party to scramble out
of the wagons and race down to the river, where their thirst was soon
quenched by water that was cold, sweet, and free from the alkali which
had made the water they had been drinking ever since they entered the
Territory almost unbearable to them.
How welcome after the parching heat of the prairies was this cool,
green, quiet place! How restful was the ripple of the water, the rustle
of the willow and cottonwood trees, the caress of the long, soft grass!
While Mr. Peniman, Joe and Lige were getting the exhausted horses out of
their harness and leading them down to drink, Ruth and Sam untied the
cow, that manifested almost as much joy in the prospect of grass and
shade and water as did the rest of the family.
They all threw themselves down under the trees too worn out and
exhausted from the heat, too grateful for the blessed relief, to even
explore this Paradise in the desert.
Slowly the fiery globe of the sun sank below the horizon, slowly a pink
and purple splendor spread over the evening sky. A hawk flew by,
wheeling majestically through the intensely blue dome. Joshua Peniman
knelt upon the grass. "Let us thank God," he said in a low, reverent
voice, "who has led us through the perils of the day and brought us to
this His holy temple to-night."
That night while the others slept Hannah Peniman sat long on the banks
of the Minne-to-wauk-pala, her eyes fastened upon its blue waters, her
thoughts busy with many things.
When they arose the next morning she laid her hand upon her husband's
arm.
"Come down to the river with me, Joshua," she said. "I want to talk to
you."
She led him to the wide flat rock upon which she had sat and thought the
night before, and sitting down beside him took his hand.
"Isn't it a heavenly place?" she sighed.
"It is indeed. We could have found no lovelier to make our camp."
"Our _home_, Joshua."
"Our _home?_" He turned quickly and looked at her.
"Yes, dear, our home. I came here last night after you had all gone to
bed and communed long with God. I feel that it is His hand that led us
here. Why go farther into the wilderness, dear heart? Why brave
farther the perils of heat and drought and physical suffering? Here we
have timber, water, grass for our cow and horses, shade and protection
for ourselves, good land, apparently everything that we need to make our
new home. Why go any farther? Why not call our journey ended and
locate right here?"
Joshua Peniman stared at her in amazement.
"Thee has taken me completely by surprise, Hannah!" he said after a
blank silence. "I had never thought of such a thing. Thee knows that
from the first our plan was to go to the Niobrara----"
"But why go to the Niobrara? Why not locate right here on the Blue?"
she answered with a little laugh. "Isn't it just as good? There
appears to be land enough around here, heaven knows!"
He sat silent for some moments turning the matter over in his mind. The
thought of stopping where they were had never occurred to him. Weary
though they were, and suffering from heat and long journeying, he had
never once wavered in his purpose of crossing the Territory to its
northwestern side, to the lands which had been recommended to him
between the Elkhorn and the Niobrara Rivers.
With thoughtful face he cast a slow appraising glance all about him.
"Ye-es," he said musingly, "that is all true. There is plenty of land
about here--I do not believe there is a human creature within twenty or
thirty miles of this place. The country lies well, and by the looks of
the soil the land should be good. There is shade, and wood, and
water--three absolute essentials to the comfort and safety of the
settler, and an inestimable blessing in this barren country. There is
timber along the creeks--a settler must have timber--and along the
bottom land over there we would have good forage for the horses. The
land that I was making for on the Niobrara----"
"--Is probably not a bit better than this," urged Mrs. Peniman. "And,
Joshua, look at the horses, look at that poor cow! Think of the many,
many weary miles we should have to travel over those desolate burning
plains before we got there! It is now the middle of August--the hottest
part of the summer--does it not seem like tempting Providence to strike
out across the prairies again with our teams in the condition they are?"
Joshua Peniman was silent, thinking intently. Presently he rose and
walked up and down the banks of the river, then out toward the plateau,
where he stood for a long time, his eyes turning in a keen, critical
survey in every direction.
Presently he returned to the rock upon which his wife was sitting.
"Thee has a long head, Hannah," he said, falling into the old Quaker
form of speech which he often used when they were alone or when he was
deeply stirred; "and I will not say that thee is not in the right of it.
But this is a serious matter. We have gone far and sacrificed much to
make our home in this new country, and we must not make a mistake now.
Let us stop here to-day and think it over. I will go out and look the
land about here over carefully, and I feel that we should consult with
the children. For you and me the time in this new land will not be so
long, but for them it is their whole lives and the happiness and
prosperity of their future. I feel that they should have their say
about our location. Does thee not agree with me?"
"I do indeed. That is best. Let us stay here to-day, rest, think, pray
to God for wisdom, and look the ground over carefully with a view to our
permanent location. And let us have a family consultation after
prayers."
When the boys tumbled out of bed for an early swim before hitching up
their teams for the start, they were astonished to find their father
walking thoughtfully up and down on the bank of the river and none of
the usual active preparations for the day's travel under way.
"We have decided to take a day off to rest, lads," he told them gravely.
"This is going to be a very hot day, and both we and the horses need it.
Will thee enjoy having a day here by the river?"
"Will we?" shouted Joe, who was beginning to be sadly weary of the hot,
dusty days on the monotonous prairies. "I should say we would! This is
such a lovely place I hate to leave it."
As they all darted off for their swim, followed nimbly by Ruth and Nina
in calico wrappers, Joshua Peniman looked about him. Down in the
bottoms the horses, turned out to enjoy their well-earned rest, were
cropping the sweet short grass along the stream, the cow lying down in a
bed of wild clover chewing her cud and exhaling long sighs of
contentment, and under the shade of the trees Sara and David and Mary
were playing, with the collie lolling with tongue out beside them, while
the two little pigs that had traveled all the long journey in their box
at the back of the wagon had been turned loose in a pen made of loose
boards, and were tranquilly grunting their appreciation.
The table was spread on the long, soft grass, and about it moved Mrs.
Peniman, humming softly to herself as she prepared the breakfast. The
scene was a peaceful and pleasant one, and Joshua Peniman looked long
and earnestly upon it, weighing and judging and trying to make up his
mind.
When the morning chapter had been read and the silent prayer over, he
turned to his family.
"Children," he said, "thy mother and I have been having a grave
discussion this morning. We have called thee into our council because
we believe that each of thee should have a voice in a decision that will
so materially affect all thy after lives."
The young people looked at him with startled faces. What could this
decision be that so materially affected them? That made father look so
grave, and mother so eager?
"Thy mother thinks," their father continued, "that perhaps it would be
well to change our plans, give up the idea of going any farther west,
and stay here."
"_Stay here?_" The words were shouted in a chorus.
"What, _locate_ here? Take up land--make this our home?" cried Joe.
"Exactly. We have been going over its possibilities as a future home
this morning, and I must admit that I am much impressed with them. We
have water here, shade, timber, grass for pasture, the land appears rich
and the soil deep, and of course there is no scarcity of land about here
for homesteading. Now, as you will have to live your lives and make
your future in this new country, we want to know what you all think
about it."
The discussion that followed was eager, enthusiastic and noisy, but the
general consensus of opinion was one of hearty approval of the plan.
The children were all tired of the journey, and the prospect of having
that journey definitely ended, of remaining here in the green and
pleasant place was one that appealed to them all.
The day was spent in going over the land, laying out in fancy where the
house should stand, where corn and wheat and oats and potatoes should be
put in, where the barn should be built, and the fruit trees set out, and
the vegetable garden planted.
About half a mile above the point at which their camp had been made they
came upon a piece of ground that sloped gently down to the river, with a
broad, level expanse to the south of it that appealed to Mr. Peniman's
practical mind as fine farming land. Nearer the river was a grove of
cottonwood trees, and in a fern-lined hollow beneath the bank an
ice-cold spring of sweet water.
"Here shall be the place for the house!" cried Mrs. Peniman, her eyes
sparkling. "What could be lovelier? Where could we find anything finer
if we searched the whole Territory of Nebraska? Here we would have
shade, water, shelter from the wind, a spring, and a world of good
farming land all about us!"
"That field over there has a southern exposure and would be fine for
corn," mused Mr. Peniman. "We could sow oats and wheat over there on
the plateau, that point running down to the river would make good
pasture-land----"
"And we could build a little spring-house over the creek down there in
that little bend," cried Mrs. Peniman, still absorbed in her household
plans.
"Yes," said Joshua Peniman, thoughtfully knitting his heavy brows, "I
believe that it would do--I believe that it would do well. But to make
sure that we are all accord in this important matter we will take a
vote. Think now, my children, for upon your decision this morning may
rest the beginnings of a colony--a town--a city--perhaps, the beginning
of civilization in this part of the Territory. The place where you will
probably all carve out your futures, and where, I hope, you will leave
your mark upon the civilization of the West."
For a moment there was a solemn pause. Youthful as they were the young
Penimans were impressed with the thought that upon the decision of that
moment the environment of their whole after lives might depend.
"Are you ready?" asked Joshua Peniman. Then, "As many as favor
remaining here and locating our new home upon the Blue River hold up
your right hand."
"Am I to vote, too?" queried Nina timidly.
"To be sure, my child. You are one of us. We look upon you now as one
of our own children," answered Mr. Peniman kindly.
When the vote was put every hand went up.
"It seems to be a unanimous decision," he smiled. "Then this spot shall
be our future home. Here let us kneel and ask God's blessing upon it."
On the green grass by the river the little colony knelt down, and the
father's voice went up in earnest supplication for heavenly protection
for the new home. Overhead the trees whispered softly, and the river
mingled with the earnest voices when they uttered a fervent "Amen."
*CHAPTER XV*
*BUILDING THE SOD HOUSE*
The Peniman family spent that evening sitting on the banks of the
Minne-to-wauk-pala, feeling no longer like homeless wanderers, but as
those who after long tribulation have come into their own.
The whole family were in high spirits, and their camp that night was
made with more comfort and permanence than any camp they had yet had.
Four young saplings were dragged out of the dead timber along the
stream, and cut into lengths of the proper height for a table, and these
were driven firmly into the ground. Upon them Joe nailed a few saplings
crosswise, and over these was fastened a strong piece of canvas. Upon
this canvas the children piled wet sand from the river bottom, patting
it down and making a firm, level surface. When it was dry the oil-cloth
was tacked over it, making an excellent substitute for a "boughten"
table. Stakes were driven into the ground on either side of the table
and more fallen saplings nailed upon them, and when the family sat down
to their evening meal it was once more at a table with comfortable seats
and a place to enjoy their meal without the discomfort of cramped legs
or the disturbing inroads of bugs and ants.
In the shade near by they drove stakes in the ground (always taking care
to select only dead and broken timber, for a tree had become too rare
and precious a thing for them to sacrifice willingly), and over it they
stretched a tarpaulin, making a shelter to serve as a kitchen. Joe and
Lige constructed a fireplace and oven near by of small round stones from
the bed of the stream, and fixed a firm and level place on a rock to set
up the stove. Around it they nailed small boxes and receptacles for the
cooking utensils, and set two packing-cases on end with a calico curtain
before them to serve as a china-closet, and Mrs. Peniman speedily
emptied a packing-case and set it up in the improvised kitchen to use as
a kitchen table.
"It will take some time to build our house," she said brightly as she
hurried about getting her new cooking-place in order, "and we might as
well be as comfortable as we can until it is done."
The family, tired enough of living in the cramped space of the wagons,
readily agreed to this, and the next day was spent unloading the wagons,
unpacking boxes, and making their temporary home as comfortable and
convenient as possible.
When the comfort of the family had been looked after Mr. Peniman turned
his attention to the animals.
The little pigs had grown and thriven so, even under the hard conditions
that had beset the rest of the travelers, that they were now entirely
too big for their box, and squealed their protest continually.
They had long ago outgrown the necessity of bottle-feeding and took
their sustenance out of a pan like regular porkers.
Joe and Lige found their father, late in the afternoon, standing beside
the box looking down at the little squealers with a speculative
expression.
"I was thinking," he said as they approached him, "that we must provide
better quarters for Romeo and Juliet. They've outgrown their box, and I
don't see that we can spare them another. They ought to have more
room."
"Couldn't we build them a pen out of logs?" asked Joe.
"Can't spare any of our precious timber for pigs," said Mr. Peniman.
Then with a sudden smile breaking over his face, "Now I have it! Come
along, boys, get your spades, and I'll soon show you how we can make
Romeo and Juliet a fine home."
The boys had learned long since that the humorous little twinkle in the
corner of their father's eye always meant fun ahead, so grabbing up
their spades they followed him to a spot some distance back of the spot
they had marked out for their future home on the river bank.
With a few quick strokes of his boot-heel Mr. Peniman described a circle
on the ground. Then, throwing off his coat, he fell to digging.
Somewhat puzzled as to how a pig-pen was to be constructed with shovels,
the boys followed his example.
"But I can't see," puffed Lige, "how this is going to make a place for
_live_ pigs. If they were dead ones, and we were going to bury
them----"
Suddenly Joe burst out laughing.
"Oh, I know," he cried. "Why, of course! It's a bully idea! Don't you
see that we can _dig_ a pen for them? A mighty good kind of a pen, too,
that they can't break down or squeeze through or get out of."
Mr. Peniman stopped digging long enough to mop his face.
"Surely! We'll make a pit about three feet deep, and big enough around
so that the little fellows will have a chance to chase around and grow.
This pair," he smiled, casting a smiling glance at the little porkers,
"may be the beginning of our stock-farm." After a moment he continued,
digging busily, "People who come out to the plains in wagons can't carry
much with them, so they have to use everything they have at hand.
There's not much of anything to work with on the prairies but dirt and
grass, and we not only have to make them furnish our stock a home but
ourselves as well."
Lige stopped and leaned on his spade.
"We aren't going to dig a hole like this for us to live in, are we?" he
demanded in a tone of horror.
The shout of laughter with which his father and brother received this
remark caused him to resume digging hastily. Mr. Peniman hastened to
reassure him.
"Don't fear, Lige, we won't do that, but I'll show you a better way, and
yet the prairies will have to furnish the material."
Lige was still unconvinced that the plan for the pig-pen was a good one,
until when it was finished, a fine round pit of about twelve feet in
circumference and three feet deep, the whole family came in a body to
see Romeo and Juliet established in their new home.
This was accomplished after a good deal of squealing and struggling on
the part of the tenants, but when they were finally established, with a
roof across one end covered with a thatch of prairie grass to keep off
the sun, they ran about and about in an ecstasy of glee, nosing the
walls, rooting in the dirt, and expressing their pleasure with skips and
grunts of delight.
"Well," admitted Lige a bit reluctantly, "I'll agree that that's an
all-right pig-pen, but I don't see yet how you're ever going to make a
house for us to live in out of dirt!"
"Wait for a few days and I'll show you," said his father cheerfully.
It was not even that long before his curiosity was gratified. The very
next morning they were roused by their father's voice calling them.
"Come along, my lads," he cried, "we have much to do, and no time to
sleep while there is daylight to work in these days! The fall will soon
be upon us, and we must have our house ready before the rains come."
They saw that the plow that had been so long packed away in the bottom
of the wagon had been taken out and Jim and Charley hitched to it.
"Now, Lige, I'll show you how to build a house out of dirt," he laughed,
as, followed by the whole family, they set out toward the spot where the
site for the house had been marked off on the grass.
"You don't do it with a _plow_, do you?" asked Lige, much puzzled.
"Yes,--partly," replied his father laughing. They all felt in high
spirits this morning. The long, tedious, wearisome journey was over,
the goal reached, and life lay before them like a clean new slate, upon
which it was theirs to inscribe what they would.
Mrs. Peniman, much concerned about her new domicile, was carefully
measuring off the ground and computing the space, while the children
danced about as excitedly as if building a new home in the wilderness,
miles upon miles from any other habitation, was the greatest joy
imaginable.
When the plow was set upon the line and Jim and Charley started with a
cheerful word of command it cut through the grass and turned over what
was probably the first sod ever turned in that county.
The tough prairie sod was plowed about three inches thick in long
furrows twelve to sixteen feet long. Joe, Lige, and Sam were then set
to work with their sharp spades to cut it up into the required blocks.
"What are these for, Father?" asked Sam.
"These are the bricks of which we are going to build our house, my son,"
answered his father with a twinkle in his eye.
"But why don't we build our house of logs, Father?" asked Joe. "It
seems to me it would be a lot nicer, and a lot less work. We have
plenty of timber here. I think it would be much better."
"Which shows that you don't know anything about it, my boy. In the
first place, we can't spare the timber. There is none too much of it at
best, and what there is we want to save for fuel and shelter. In the
second place, there is no house that is better for the hard weather of
the prairies than a sod house. It is warm in winter, cool in summer,
and about the only thing that will withstand the Nebraska blizzards and
cyclones. Just wait until it is finished and you'll see. Don't you
remember what a nice home the Wards had? Now take your spades and cut
the sod as I am doing. Keep your squares even, and the edges of the sod
straight and true. When we have the sod taken off this field it will be
in fine condition to plow up, and perhaps we can get in a small crop of
sod-corn yet this year."
The boys seized their spades and set to work manfully, and before noon
had a good-sized pile of "Nebraska marble" piled up ready for use.
After dinner, when they all felt somewhat refreshed, Mr. Peniman began
laying the sods, which were about twelve inches square and three inches
thick. They were piled one upon another, leaving open spaces for the
places where the doors and windows were to go. When the walls were up
to about the thickness of a couple of sods above the frames, lintels
were laid across and the sod laid over them, continuing the walls right
through. The vacant space above the frames was necessary to provide for
the settling of the walls. When the walls were high enough, about seven
feet, the gable ends were built up a few inches or a foot higher, for,
to prevent the earth from washing off the sods by heavy rains, the roof
was made almost flat. As the sods were laid Mr. Peniman trimmed down
the walls with a sharp spade, to keep them square and trim. He shaved
the top surface off each layer with a sharp hoe, and filled in the
chinks between the sods with a kind of a cement made from the prairie
clay and sand from the bed of the river.
All this, however, was not accomplished in one day. The work of cutting
and laying the sods was hard and heavy labor, and before the day was
over both the boys and their father were glad to quit for the night and
go to their supper.
Here they found a glad and cheerful surprise awaiting them.
The open space between the semicircle of cottonwood trees had been
cleared, and already was beginning to assume a homelike aspect. Mrs.
Peniman and the girls, with Paul and little David to help them, had put
in as busy a day at the camp as the boys and their father had on the sod
house. When they arrived they found the table set, looking extremely
neat and festive with its cloth of bright red, its dishes and silver,
with a vase of wild-flowers in the centre of the table, and a great dish
of fried prairie-chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy and hot biscuits
steaming upon it, and Mrs. Peniman flying about in a big kitchen apron
unpacking cooking utensils, getting out furniture, and making a cozy
resting-place under the trees.
At their exclamations of delight she laughed happily.
"There's no use waiting until the house is finished before we begin to
_live_," she greeted them cheerily; "we're all tired of hardships, and
I, for one, want some kind of comforts around me again. Wait till you
come home to-morrow night, you'll see what we have done then, won't
they, girls?"
Ruth and Nina, busy as bees getting the supper on the table, answered
with gleeful and mysterious nods. The place already seemed so pleasant
and inviting that they were loath to go to bed when the time came, but
pioneer boys and girls, as well as pioneer men and women, soon found out
that it was not what they _wanted_ to do, but what they _had_ to do that
was to be considered.
With grim determination Mr. Peniman and the boys returned to the
building of the sod house the next morning. They all realized that
while gypsying under the trees might be very delightful now, stormy
weather would materially change its aspect, and that in the unprotected
wilderness in which they were living the sooner they were sheltered
behind thick walls and barred doors at night the greater would be their
safety.
It was hard, slow work, and many days passed, while the piles of sod
grew steadily and the walls went up higher and higher. The boys worked
manfully, and Mr. Peniman, like the wise father he was, did not work
them too hard or too long, but often sent them off for a walk or a swim,
sometimes urging them to go and catch a mess of fish for dinner,
sometimes pretending that he was hungry for meat and sending them off
into the woods or out on the prairies to hunt for game. They found any
number of wild turkeys about the place, some quail, and plenty of
prairie-chickens, and once in a while a deer or an antelope was killed,
although neither of the boys liked to shoot the pretty, graceful
creatures, that seemed utterly without fear, and often came up quite
close about their camp.
It took a month to build the sod house, during which time the family
lived in the woods, sleeping in their beds in the wagons as they had
done on their journey, and eating in the open under the spreading
cottonwood trees.
The weather continued fine, and the family, in spite of their isolation,
were very happy. They were busy all day long, and had always been one
of those happy and united families who find their greatest happiness in
one another.
Nina had come to be quite one of themselves now, and she and Ruth were
seldom apart, while for Joe and Sam and Lige the girl showed a warm and
grateful affection. She was devoted to Mrs. Peniman, and often sat at
her feet or on the arm of the old rocking-chair with her arm about her
neck, calling her "Mother Peniman," and showering upon her the love and
tenderness she had always shown for her own unfortunate young mother.
When the walls of the sod house were completed the hardest part of the
work was to come, and Joshua Peniman puzzled long as to how he was going
to get the ridgepole in place without another man to help him. He felled
a strong, straight young tree, about fifteen inches through, and
carefully stripped the bark from it. To raise the pole the aid of the
whole family was required. As there were no neighbors within many miles
to call upon, the difficult and dangerous feat must be performed with
what help was at hand. He first made skids and rolled the tree upon it.
These skids he placed with one end resting on the wall, the other on the
ground. Ropes were then fastened to it, and while Mrs. Peniman, Ruth,
Nina, and Sam stood on the top of the wall and pulled the ropes, Joe,
Lige, and their father, on the ground, lifted and pushed the pole from
below.
Fortunately for the success of the operation life in the open air,
constant exercise and hard work had hardened the muscles of all and made
them equal to the exertion. It was a strenuous piece of work, but with
much puffing and panting and laughter they kept doggedly at it, and
before dusk had come they got the ridgepole in place, and the most
difficult part of building the house was accomplished.
Next came the rafters, which were poles of young trees from four to six
inches through, placed about fifteen inches apart. Over these were laid
boughs, cut from the willow thicket, and these thickly overlaid with the
dry prairie grass. When a thick, deep covering of this straw had been
laid in place and carefully packed down, dirt to the depth of about a
foot was piled upon it and beaten down hard with the spade.
Now they were ready for the doors and windows!
The proud architects of this mansion of "Nebraska marble"--consisting of
every member of the family except little Mary and David--stood about and
surveyed it with admiring eyes. Even Lige was converted and was now
willing to admit that it was a great idea. The walls were even,
straight, and true, its corners square, its whole appearance neat and
workman-like.
Greatly to the boys' astonishment they found packed away on the very
bottoms of the two wagons three sets of window-casings and two stout
wooden doors.
"I never knew those were there!" cried Joe, as he saw his father haul
them out. "How did you ever come to think of them?"
"It would be a poor sort of a pioneer that did not think about providing
shelter for his family, my lad," he answered. "I knew, of course, that
we should have to build a sod house, and knew also that though the house
might grow out of the prairie itself that glass windows and wooden doors
wouldn't, so I brought them along."
It was a sharp, snappy morning in September when the last window was in,
the last door screwed to its hinges, and Joshua Peniman, with a great
sigh of relief, laid down his hammer and turned over the new house to
his wife.
"There!" he ejaculated, "there is thy house, now thee and the girls can
do what thee please with it. The boys and I have done our part. We
must get at the barn now, for if I don't miss my guess there is some
stormy weather coming."
There was not much time for loafing in the little colony these days.
The whole family felt the impending change in the weather, and while Mr.
Peniman and the boys, profiting by their experience in building the
house, started on the barn, Mrs. Peniman with Ruth, Nina, Sam and Paul,
plastered the walls of the new "soddy" with a medium made of one-third
clay and two-thirds sand, which, when dry, they covered with a neat coat
of whitewash.
The "soddy" when completed was eighteen by twenty-two feet inside, and
though it had no partitions, was divided into three rooms by means of
curtains, which Mrs. Peniman had brought in her trunk.
The last coat of whitewash was applied late in the evening, and the next
morning Mrs. Peniman could scarcely wait to get breakfast over before
she began to move into her new house.
The boys and their father were off and away early, for they were
straining every nerve to get in a crop of sod-corn before the coming of
the fall rains. But with the help of the girls and little Paul, she
went at it with a will, determined to make their home in the wilderness
as pleasant and comfortable as it could be under the circumstances.
They had brought with them from Ohio a carpet, a cook-stove, two
bedsteads and several cots, some chairs, among which were two
comfortable old-fashioned rockers, a table, a great roll of matting, and
books, pictures, and knickknacks, and when these were in place, with
packing-cases converted into dressing-tables, cupboards made out of
boxes, and a couple of roughly constructed benches placed against the
walls covered with bright-colored chintz, the place assumed a cheery and
homelike appearance that one would never have deemed possible from its
exterior. The window ledges were wide and deep, and in the windows she
hung pretty white curtains, covered the packing-cases and boxes with
chintz, laid the matting over the dirt floors and covered it with the
carpet, and when the pictures were hung on the walls, the books and
knick-knacks on the table, with a vase of gorgeous goldenrod from the
prairies, the little "soddy" looked like a real home.
The front part of the house, into which the door opened, was the
living-room, with cot-beds covered in the daytime like couches furnished
the sleeping accommodations for the girls. Curtained off from this the
second part of the interior was divided in two, with the sleeping
quarters of the boys on one side of the curtain and those of Mr. and
Mrs. Peniman on the other. The back third, from which the back door
opened out into the outdoor kitchen, contained the cook-stove, dishes
and cooking utensils, provisions, and a table at which the family took
their meals in stormy weather.
Profiting by his remembrance of the Wards' dugout, Mr. Peniman had
decided to make a dugout for the shelter of his stock. He selected a
spot where the steep incline of a ravine made a high embankment; he set
to work digging back into it, and was gratified to find that the earth
sloped downward under a wide ledge of rock, so that by extending the
dugout for about twenty-five feet back under the ledge he could take
advantage of it and convert it into an excellent natural roof. This
plan lightened the labors of building the barn considerably. When a
large square chamber had been dug they evened it up, built a strong sod
wall in front and at the sides where they met the slope of the
embankment, put in three stalls on each side, made of dead timber they
found along the river bank, constructed feed-racks out of old boxes, and
built in the back end a sort of attic or loft, for grain and hay.
As no door had been brought for the barn they were obliged to make one,
using small saplings closely nailed together on a strong pine frame.
This made a heavy and rather cumbersome door, but an exceedingly strong
one.
"I guess no Indian will break through that to steal our horses,"
remarked Joe, regarding it proudly.
"No, I think not. We'll put a good strong lock on it, and then I think
our horses will be safe. It behooves us to keep them so," went on Mr.
Peniman, "for a settler's wealth is in his horses, and we are better off
than most. Most of the movers we have met were driving oxen, while we
have three good teams."
When the dugout was completed it was indeed a strong and safe shelter
for the stock. Protected from above by the ledge of rock, and on both
sides by the stout sod wall and the rocky sides of the embankment, with
the sturdy log door across its entrance, it was a shelter that would
have stood a long siege.
As the family stood about it viewing it with pride they did not dream
how well it would serve them, or how glad they would be of its
protection in the days to come.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY*
The house and barn were completed none too soon. On the afternoon of
the day on which the door of the barn was hung the clouds hung heavy and
ominous in the northeast. About four o'clock it began to thunder.
"Just in time, my lads," cried Mr. Peniman with a glance at the angry
blackness of the sky. "We're going to have a big storm. Thank heaven
that both we and our cattle will have good shelter. Get up the horses,
Joe. Lige, you fill up the racks with grain and hay. Sam, you'd better
bring in the cow. If it should be, as I fear, a very bad storm we shall
all feel happier to know that our faithful beasts are under shelter."
It was nearly five o'clock, and the cow and horses were comfortably
settled in their new quarters, when the storm broke. It was the first
experience of the pioneers in a severe electrical storm on the prairies,
and glad indeed were they of the thick walls and substantial roof above
their heads as the lightning flashed and forked over the prairies, the
thunder crashed, and the wind howled and raged while the rain came down
in torrents.
"Oo-ooh! if we were out in the wagons now!" cried Ruth, flattening her
nose against the window pane and peering out at the driving storm.
"Yes, or even in a frame house," said Joe. "No frame house could last
long in a wind like this. Whee-ee, isn't it a gale! I'm glad we're in a
soddy."
"It _is_ comfortable and cozy, isn't it?" sighed Mrs. Peniman, glancing
about her with a little smile of content.
For three days the wind howled and the rain fell, while the gentle
murmur of the river increased to a sullen roar and it rushed foaming and
tumultuous over its rocky bed. On the night of the third day it
overflowed its banks, and Mr. Peniman and the boys had to spend most of
the night guarding their wagons, implements and other property that they
might not be carried away by the flood. The rain had changed to hail on
this night, and Joe and Lige wore inverted skillets on their heads to
protect them from the pelting of the hailstones. On the fourth day the
wind died down, the rain ceased, and the sun came out in an intensely
blue sky, which looked as brilliantly clean and clear as if newly
created.
With the first gleam of sunshine the pioneers left the shelter of the
house and took up the work waiting them outside.
They found that the stock had weathered the storm in the greatest
comfort. Dicky and Mother Feathertop, who had found shelter under the
canvas covers of the prairie schooners, were sadly bedraggled, and Romeo
and Juliet, though exceedingly muddy, and in a very wet pen, were
squealingly protesting their desire for food.
"Their pen is all wet, Father," cried Ruth in a grieved tone; "they'll
take their deaths of cold."
Lige and Sam burst into roars of laughter.
"_Pigs_ don't take cold, you goosie!" chuckled Sam.
"They do, too, don't they, Mother?"
"I never heard of pigs taking cold," said Mrs. Peniman, "but they
certainly do look most uncomfortably wet. Couldn't we take them out and
put them in another pen until their house dries?"'
"I think we might. I believe the pen we made for them when we first
came is around here somewhere."
"I know where it is," cried Joe, and ran to get it.
When the pen of saplings was placed in a comparatively dry place Joe,
Lige and Sam, in high rubber boots, descended into the pit to capture
the young porkers. The mud was deep and slippery, the pigs well coated
with the clay, and the boys chased them round and round the pen,
sometimes catching hold of one by the ear or tail, sometimes grabbing
them about the body, sometimes managing to get hold of a leg, when with
a flirt and a squeal they would wiggle away, too slippery to hold on to,
while the would-be captor would sprawl face down in the mud.
"Talk about your greased-pig races," panted Sam, who had just lost his
grip on Juliet for the fourth time, "I never saw one that was a patchin'
to this!"
Joe caught Romeo by his tail, which was too short and curly to make a
good handle, and after a violent struggle, during which Joe slipped and
slid all over the pen, Romeo made his get-away with a shrill squeal of
vengeance, while Joe sprawled on his stomach in the mud.
The girls, with Paul and their mother were watching the chase from above
with shouts and shrieks of laughter. When Lige made a wild dive for
Juliet, who slipped through his hands and dived between his legs,
sending him head-over-heels, Ruth doubled herself up with shrieks of
mirth, in which Nina joined. Nothing could have injured the feelings of
handsome Lige more.
"Well, _stay_ in your slimy old pen then," he growled, and began to
climb out. Mr. Peniman, shaking with laughter, stopped him. He too had
been watching the sport.
"Here's a rope," he called out; "you'll never get them that way, they're
too slippery. Rope them and pass them up to me."
This was a new angle to the game, and one that suited the boys better.
Sam grabbed the rope and made a lasso at one end. With a wild cowboy
yell he made for the astonished young porkers. His first try failed,
when Lige grabbed the rope, and after an unsuccessful cast or two
succeeded in getting the festive Romeo firmly about his fat middle.
Romeo protested with shrill squeals, but he was captured, and was soon
hoisted up and dropped inside the other pen. Juliet, being a bit more
spry, and perhaps, being a lady, a trifle more wary, was harder to
catch. Each of the boys tried his hand, and it was Joe who at last made
the lucky throw, and got her fast by the leg, after which it was an easy
matter to get hold of her and hoist her up to their father.
By this time it would have been hard to say which were the muddier and
dirtier, the boys or the pigs, but a swim in the river soon removed the
mud, and the rubber boots and suits they had worn were washed at the
same time, so that they were soon fresh and clean.
The next day was bright and clear, and soon after their early breakfast
Mr. Peniman, Joe, Lige, and Sam set off for the far side of their claim
to cut the prairie grass for hay.
Mr. Peniman had staked out his own claim of 160 acres, laying out at the
same time a 160 acre tract for Joe on one side of it and Lige on the
other, to be pre-empted as soon as the boys should be old enough.
They took all three teams, and while Mr. Peniman and Joe began cutting
the long, rich prairie grass Lige and Sam guided the plows, turning over
the sod for their fall planting.
As this side of the claim was quite a distance from the house they had
taken their lunch with them, and had just finished eating, and Joe was
tipping up the jug to take a swig of water, when he stopped short, the
jug at his shoulder, staring with fixed gaze across the plains.
"Indians!" he shouted, "_Indians!_" and dashing down the jug leaped for
the horses.
Joshua Peniman at the same moment had seen the horsemen dashing across
the open plateau to the south of them.
With a leap he sprang to the other team and began loosing them from the
plow.
Joe and Lige had by this time got Kit and Billy free and throwing
themselves across their backs had started for home in a mad gallop.
In the minds of all was the same terrible thought. Mrs. Peniman and the
children were there unprotected and alone.
Joshua Peniman, not so young or active as his sons, did not dare to ride
bareback. With frantic haste he hitched his team to the wagon, and
shouting to Sam to jump in, and lead the black team, leaped in and
lashed the horses into a run.
None of them had any weapons. They had seen no Indians since coming to
the Blue River country, and their fear of them had gradually subsided as
their minds became filled with other things. Now as Joshua Peniman
drove madly across the prairies he cursed his short-sightedness and
stupidity.
Nearer and nearer the squat black house on the banks of the river came
the naked, yelping savages.
"My God--will Hannah see them in time--will she get herself and the
children into the house before they reach her!" The agonized thought
hammered itself over and over in his brain.
As Joe and Lige dashed on, silent before the stark horror of the moment,
they could see the children playing down by the river. It was evident
that they knew nothing of their danger. Then as the boys dashed on,
lashing their horses cruelly, they saw their mother come to the door.
For a moment she stood, and they could feel in their own hearts that
terror that came over her. Then they saw her make a dash for the river.
Even above the thudding of the horses' hoofs they could hear her wild,
agonized calls. The Indians heard it, too, and answered with derisive
whoops and yells.
With dry lips and a frantic unuttered prayer Joe ground his heels into
Kit's sides.
_Would they get there in time?_
Joshua Peniman, standing up in the wagon and leaning far over the
dashboard, lashed his horses and groaned aloud.
There seemed to be some forty or fifty of the savages, and as they
wheeled and the sun shone full on their naked bodies Lige gave a loud
cry.
"_Sioux!_" he shouted, in tones of horror, and lying forward over
Billy's neck urged him forward with voice and whip. Joe had seen, and
from his white lips came a hoarse cry.
Up to this moment he had hoped--even though faintly--that the band they
saw might be a hunting party of Pawnees or Arapahoes, who seldom harmed
white people unless first molested. But Sioux----!
He leaned forward over his panting horse and spoke in her ear.
"Oh, Kit," he half sobbed, "get me there--for God's sake get me there in
time to save them!"
As if she understood the little mare laid back her ears and sprang
forward like an arrow from a bow.
The Indians had reached the sod house by this time. Yelping and howling
they were circling about and about it on their ponies.
As the eyes of the horror-stricken boys and man strained toward them a
sharp "spat" spoke from one of the soddy windows, and a naked savage
reeled and fell from his horse.
"Mother--brave, brave little Mother!" Joe sobbed in a choked, husky
whisper. Then as he saw the band spring from their horses and make a
dash for the soddy he leaped down from Kit's back, and followed by Lige
dashed through the undergrowth along the bank of the river toward the
house.
Before they could reach it they heard a wild shriek, and saw their
mother dash from the house with David in her arms, dragging little Mary
by the hand, and followed by Ruth, Sara, and Paul, and make for the
dugout.
Joe's heart thrilled with pride as he saw tender Ruth, who loved all
creatures, evidently covering her mother's retreat, backing toward the
dugout, her face toward the Indians, a smoking revolver in her hand.
They heard its sharp angry bark, and saw another Indian fall. Then they
saw that Mrs. Peniman had reached the dugout, and pushing the children
in before her grabbed for the heavy door. As she did so an Indian in a
war-dress of skin and feathers, with a great feathered war-bonnet on his
head, made a grab for her, but Ruth was too quick for him. Quick as a
flash she took deliberate aim and fired. Joe, who was almost behind her
by this time, heard the grunt of the Indian as he fell face downward
beside the door.
"_Inside--inside the dugout!_" he shouted, and grasping Ruth by the
shoulders pushed her toward the door.
Ruth turned her white face and gave a quick, terrified look all about
her.
"Nina," she shrieked, "where's Nina?"
With a stab like the thrust of a knife in his heart Joe heard the cry.
"_Nina?_" he shouted, "where is she?"
A wild, anguished cry was his answer, and whirling about he saw an
Indian dashing past with Nina thrown across his pony in front of him.
Quick as thought he caught the revolver from Ruth's hand and fired. He
had feared to aim at the Indian lest he should strike the child, but had
taken aim at the horse, and saw it fall and roll over.
Joshua Peniman, with Sam, had now reached the scene, and brandishing a
great club that he had caught up as he ran made for the Indians that
were circling about the dugout, uttering their fiendish yelps and howls.
Mrs. Peniman and the children were inside now, the door firmly closed,
and all the efforts of the savages seemed unavailing to move it.
As the horse fell the Indian at whom Joe had shot leaped with his burden
in his arms, and fell free of the struggling animal. In an instant he
was on his feet and started to run.
Joe was now past sixteen, tall, muscular, with every nerve and sinew in
his body like thews of steel from his long life in the open and
continual work and manual exercise, and he rushed after and sprang upon
him like a young panther. The Indian staggered, and threw the girl he
carried from his arms. Then with a snarl like a wild creature he turned
and faced him. Joe had no time to train his revolver upon him. With a
spring like a tiger the savage was upon him, but Joe, writhing himself
free from the deadly clasp of his arms, grabbed his revolver by the
barrel and with the butt dealt him a smashing blow on the head.
The Indian tottered, swayed and threw his hand to his head. As he did
so Joe's horrified gaze saw under the edge of the war-bonnet a white
neck and a _tuft of red hair_.
The boy leaped forward and tried to raise the screaming little girl from
the grass. But as he stooped over her the other leaped upon him and
dealt him a terrific blow on the temple. With a groan Joe fell forward
and lay still.
As he collapsed upon the ground the Indian who had red hair caught up
the girl, leaped upon the back of a riderless pony that was galloping
by, and dashed away. As he rode he called out a sharp command in the
Indian tongue. With a few wild whoops and yells the Indians who were
scattered about the place whirled about and followed him.
As the Indians that had surrounded the dugout dashed away Joshua Peniman
turned, and seeing Joe lie motionless upon the ground rushed to him.
"Joe, Joe," he cried in agony, lifting the boy's head.
Joe gasped and opened his eyes.
"Father," he panted, starting up wildly, "Princess--they got her--where
is she----"
His father pushed him gently back upon the ground.
"Are you wounded, Joe?" he asked in anguish; "did they get you?"
"No, no," the boy sprang to a sitting position. "I'm not hurt--only
stunned--but Princess--Nina--did they take her? Did they get away with
her?"
Joshua Peniman averted his eyes and his voice was hoarse and shaken.
"Yes," he answered reluctantly, "they got her. You did the best you
could to save her, and I was just too late."
The boy staggered to his feet.
"I must go after her--I must find her," he cried, then reeled dizzily.
His father half led, half carried him into the house.
"You are hurt--you are not able to go," he said, pushing him into a
chair. "And besides, you could never catch them now, Joe. They have
half an hour the start of you, and they have swift ponies----"
Joe sprang to his feet. "I _must_ go, Father--I must! I must find
her--I must bring her back--Princess, Princess!" and collapsing into the
chair he fell over insensible.
His father, who was a good deal of a doctor and nurse, bathed his
wounded head and gave him a simple stimulant. Presently he opened his
eyes. He sat up, gazed wildly about, then sprang up with a white,
determined face.
"I'm going to find Princess, Father," he said in a tone that was not to
be disputed. "I _must_--we can't leave her in the hands of that--that
scoundrel. I'm all right now, I can ride Kit----"
"But Kit is not a riding-horse, Joe; you could never overtake them. By
this time those Indians are miles away."
"Father"--Joe leaned forward and spoke low in his father's ear--"the man
that carried Nina off _was not an Indian_! When I struck him I knocked
his bonnet to one side, his neck was _white_--and _he had red hair!_"
Joshua Peniman started violently.
"_Red Snake!_" he muttered.
For a moment he stood lost in thought, then said rapidly: "This is worse
than I feared. We must go after her. We must get her out of his hands.
I don't see how I can go----"
"You _can't_, Father! You can't be spared. Mother and the children
need you here. But I can go--I'm all right now--I _must_ go--I _must_
find her!"
Joshua Peniman had been thinking swiftly.
"The best thing we can do," he broke in, "is to get to the Missions and
Agencies and get word to the Government about this degenerate white man
who lives with the Indians and is inciting them to raids and assaults
for his own ends. Of course it's a terrible risk, it is taking your
life in your hands, but the only hope that I can see of rescuing her is
for some one to go to Bellevue and get Government aid. If I dared to
leave the family----"
"This has proved that you dare not, Father. You must stay here. It is
my place to go."
"But, Joe boy, do you realize the danger? Do you remember how far it
is--how desolate and barren--what a lone, wearisome, lonesome trail?"
The boy looked at him bravely. "I remember," he said. "But it can't be
helped. It's _got_ to be done--and I'm going to do it. I must take
food and water. Get it for me, won't you, Father, while I go get Kit?"
He rushed from the house, and found both teams standing by the barn, the
third tied, as Sam had left it, to the back of the wagon.
He rapped on the door of the dugout and called loudly, telling the
quaking family inside that the Indians were gone and the danger over.
When the door was opened and his mother peeped out he hastened to
reassure her.
"But they've carried Nina away and I am going after her," he cried,
dashing into the barn, seizing a blanket, and throwing it over Kit's
back.
"The Indians--they have carried off Princess?" shrieked Ruth.
He did not stop to answer them; throwing himself across Kit's back and
snatching the revolver, the ammunition and the bag of food and water
that his father handed up to him, he waved his hand to the family, and
before they could utter a protest he was gone, riding at a mad gallop
across the plains.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*EAGLE EYE*
When Joe had gone, riding madly away across the prairies, Joshua and
Hannah Peniman stood looking after his receding figure until it faded
into a mere speck and was swallowed up by the immeasurable distance of
the plains.
The faces of both were grey and haggard, and in their eyes was mirrored
the fear that they might never see their eldest son again.
"May the Almighty Father watch over and protect him," prayed the father.
"And bring him back to us alive and well," breathed the mother with
quivering lips.
"I wish that I could have gone in his place!" were the words that forced
themselves with a groan from the lips of Joshua Peniman. "But I dared
not go--in justice to you and the children. I could not leave you here
without my protection. But we could not abandon that poor child without
making every effort to save her, so Joe had to go. But he is only a
lad--it is a long, long trail--a wild and desperate mission----"
"But we, nor he, could not have done otherwise, dear." Hannah Peniman's
eyes were dry, her tone steady. "It was a duty that was laid upon us.
God will watch over him. He will permit no harm to come to our boy in
the discharge of this sacred duty."
Her husband clasped her hand and looked tenderly into her eyes. "Thee
is ever my inspiration and comfort, Hannah," he said with quivering
voice. "Thy vision is ever more clear than mine, thy faith more fast
and true."
She turned her face to him and began to speak, then stopped abruptly and
stood listening.
"Hark!" she cried in a startled whisper, "what was that?"
Both stood motionless with heads raised, the fear of an unknown danger
upon them.
Then there came to them again the sound that had arrested Hannah
Peniman's attention. A low moan, scarcely more than a sigh, came from
the tall grass near the side of the dugout.
Mr. Peniman caught up his musket and strode in the direction from which
the sound preceded. His wife followed him.
"Be careful," she whispered cautiously, "it might be some trap!"
As they crept forward through the long, waving grass they came upon the
body of a young Indian lying on his back, stark and dead. A little
farther along both stopped abruptly as the moan they had heard before
reached their ears. Joshua Peniman sprang forward. Suddenly he
stopped, and with a motion to his wife to keep back, stooped in the
grass.
Face downward in a tangle of weeds they saw an Indian lying, one arm
extended, the other doubled under his head. As the white man stooped
over him a shudder ran through his body and again the low, suppressed
moan came from his lips.
Mr. Peniman lifted the body in his arms and turned it over. It was that
of a young Indian, tall and powerful, in full war panoply, with a
handsome copper-colored face. As the white man lifted him he groaned
again and the blood rushed from a wound in his side. He was quite
unconscious, the eyes half-closed, the lips blue and parted, the lean,
keen-featured face ashen with the pallor of approaching death.
Mrs. Peniman, who had stolen up behind her husband, uttered a pitying
cry, and quickly tearing off her apron tore it into strips and kneeling
by the prostrate figure began binding up the gaping wound.
"Oh," she cried with a shudder, "oh, Joshua, perhaps it was I who did
that! Oh, my God, to think of hurting a fellow-creature so desperately!
But he was by the door--I was afraid he would get the children----"
"There were many shots fired, Hannah," her husband assured her, "it was
probably not thee that hit him. But it is a terrible thing that we seem
obliged to kill our fellow-men to protect ourselves. We who do not
believe in slaughter----" He stopped, then went on quickly, "We must
get him up to the house--he is badly wounded--he may die--and it is our
duty to save his life if we can, even though we know that he is an
enemy."
Between them they bore the unconscious form of the young Indian to their
own home. Ruth met them at the door, and as her eyes fell upon the
burden they carried she uttered a loud scream.
"It is the Indian I shot with Mother's revolver!" she cried, backing
away in terror. Then seeing the gaping wound in the side she covered
her face and began to cry.
"Oh, I did that, I did it," she moaned. "I thought he would kill
Mother--I----"
"Hush, Ruth," her father commanded. "He is harmless now. He is badly
wounded--perhaps dying. We must do all that we can to save him. You
know we are told by the Master to help our enemies and do good to them
who despitefully use us."
They laid the unconscious young brave on Joe's bed, and Hannah Peniman
brought a pan of hot water and began to bathe and dress the wound in his
side. Her husband bending down beside her examined the wound.
"I'm afraid it is fatal," he said sadly, "but we will do the best we can
for him." From his earliest youth it had been the desire of his heart
to be a physician. Circumstances had made him a farmer, but all through
his life he had retained his love for the art of surgery and medicine,
and by continually practising upon the stock on his place and on members
of his family he had attained a degree of skill not possessed by many
regularly licensed doctors. He probed and cleaned the wound, took the
pulse and heart-beat and set about reducing the temperature.
For several days following the young Indian lay on Joe's bed burning
with fever, delirious and muttering, sick unto death. Ruth, who seemed
stricken with horror at the suffering her hand had visited upon a
fellow-creature, devoted herself to his nursing, in which Mrs. Peniman
and Sara shared, and Joshua Peniman waited upon and watched over him as
if he were a friend or a relative instead of a deadly foe.
One morning as Mr. and Mrs. Peniman were bending over him irrigating his
wound he suddenly opened his eyes.
For a moment he lay staring at them as if he believed that his mind was
still wandering. Then he stirred, grunted, and tried to sit up.
Joshua Peniman pushed him gently back upon the pillows.
"Heap sick," he said, accompanying the words with gestures that left no
doubt of his meaning.
The Indian stared at him, then turned his head and looked intently into
Hannah Peniman's face. She bent over him with soothing words, took his
hand, and stroked her cool, soft hand across his forehead.
"Heap sick," she said, smiling at him and speaking slowly, as one might
to an ailing child. Then taking his hand she laid it over the wound,
pointed to the bandages, then to her husband, then to herself.
At this moment Ruth came into the room carrying a glass of milk. Seeing
the black eyes open and staring into her mother's face she started back,
half-frightened. But she was too good and efficient a little nurse to
let fear interfere with her duties, and going straight up to the bed put
the glass to his lips.
He threw back his head, refusing it, then turned the glare of his fierce
black eyes from her mother's face to hers. But Ruth was not to be
daunted.
"You've got to drink your milk," she said firmly, "else you'll never get
well. Take it now, this minute!" For a moment the young Indian
continued to stare at her, then a grin came creeping over his brown
face, and when she again put the milk to his lips he drank it
obediently.
Mrs. Peniman smiled her approval. "Now go to sleep," she told him, and
illustrated her meaning by placing her cheek on her hand and closing her
eyes. The young Indian smiled again, and nodded. He was pitifully weak,
and soon surrendered to the drowsiness that overcame him. When he woke
again it was evening and the sunset was casting long wavering shadows
into the windows.
All the next day he scarcely stirred in the bed, but the keen black eyes
opened frequently and followed their movements. When Ruth came to his
bed bringing a glass of milk and a plate of toast he looked up into her
face and smiled. Later, as she was passing he put out a feeble hand and
caught her dress. Drawing her nearer he took her hand and patted it
gently.
He pointed to his own breast and in a feeble voice said: "Me Eagle Eye,"
then pointing his finger toward her he gazed at her inquiringly.
Ruth's brown eyes widened and smiled.
"_You_ name Eagle Eye?" she asked, and when he nodded gravely she added
delightedly, "My name _Ruth_."
"Woof!" he said, then smiled at her and closed his eyes.
Ruth ran to her mother in great delight.
"Our Indian isn't fierce or bad a bit, Mother," she cried, "he patted my
hand and smiled at me. He likes me. His name is 'Eagle Eye,' and he
wanted to know my name. I don't believe he's a bad Indian, I believe he
was trying to tell me he was grateful to us for taking care of him."
For many days after that he appeared too weak and ill to pay much
attention to them, but gradually the wound began to heal, and Joshua
Peniman saw with much gratification that his patient was in a fair way
to recover.
One day he indicated to Mrs. Peniman that he would like to get up.
Pointing to the wound in his side he then pointed to the outdoors and
the sun that was shining warmly, and by laying his head on his hand and
pointing to the ground outside the window he made her understand that he
wanted to go outside and lie in the sun.
"Why, to be sure," she cried, smiling at him, "you know what would be
good for you, don't you? Wait, I'll call your doctor."
When Mr. Peniman came he repeated the pantomime. Joshua Peniman nodded.
"Yes, why not? Probably your instinct is a true one. I'll help you
up."
While the Indian did not understand the words he understood the nod and
smile that accompanied them, and with every sign of joy allowed himself
to be helped out of bed and into the warm sun before the door, where he
stretched himself at full length on the warm earth with a great sigh of
contentment.
After that he spent most of every day lying in the sun, and his progress
toward recovery was rapid. He could soon sit up, walk about, and at
last wander from place to place by himself.
He had gradually been picking up a few English words, and during his
convalescence Ruth and Sara became his teachers. It was no uncommon
sight of an afternoon to see the tall young Indian stretched out on the
grass in front of the sod house, with a little white girl on either side
of him industriously teaching him English.
It was evident that he already understood much that was said to him, and
remembered words and sentences that had been repeated in his presence
while he was ill. One day he surprised them greatly by saying in fairly
good English: "Heap good white folks."
Ruth laughed delightedly oven this, and Joshua Peniman found in the
remark sober cause for congratulation. In the perilous position in
which he and his family were placed he felt that every Indian who
cherished a friendly feeling toward them was an immense protection.
No sign or word had come from Joe since they had seen him ride away over
the plains, and his heart was sore and aching for the boy who had always
been such a help and comfort to him. As the days went by and he did not
return they almost despaired of ever seeing him again.
One day in the sorrow of his heart he spoke of him to Eagle Eye. He did
not know how much of what he said was understood by the red man, but he
looked at him intently while he spoke, and when Mr. Peniman finished the
sad tale nodded gravely.
The next morning Eagle Eye came to them with his clothing and moccasins
on and his bow and arrow in his hand. He solemnly held out his hand,
and when Mr. Peniman accepted it shook it gravely. Then walking to Mrs.
Peniman he shook her hand also, and without a word of farewell stalked
away across the prairies.
"He's _gone!_" cried Ruth tragically, gazing after the receding figure
with amazement.
"And without a word of thanks for all we have done for him!" cried Lige
indignantly.
"You know he cannot express himself very well in our language," said
Mrs. Peniman. "Perhaps he felt more deeply than he could tell."
"We'll never see him again!" cried Sara on the point of tears.
"Who can tell!" said Joshua Peniman, gazing after the tall blanketed
figure with a strange light in his eyes, "who can tell!"
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*A LIFE FOR A LIFE*
Meanwhile Joe was having a thrilling experience.
While his father and mother stood gazing after him with prayers on their
lips the boy was leaning forward over Kit's neck, urging her forward
with voice and knees.
A great fear filled him. A terrible and undefined horror chilled his
blood and knocked heavily at his heart.
"They've got Nina! _They've got Nina!_" he said over and over to
himself until the words formed themselves into a kind of a chant that
beat itself out in time to the thudding hoofs.
He had no consciousness of time or place or distance. His one frantic
impulse was for speed, _speed_! It was not until he felt the mare heave
and stumble under him that he came to himself and realized that she was
nearly done.
"Poor Kit!" he murmured, checking her up and stroking the heaving sides
and panting neck. "I mustn't kill you whatever happens."
He slipped down from her back, rubbed her down with grass, then cooled
her mouth and sponged her nose with water from the precious flask he
carried.
When she had ceased to heave and began to breathe more naturally he
mounted again and tried to curb his urging spirit to her strength.
Kit had been born on the Ohio farm, and Joe had loved and tended and
petted her from a colt. She knew every tone of his voice, and would
come to him at his call. She was not, as his father had reminded him, a
riding-horse. Her gait was not suited to the saddle, and as she had
always been used for farm work, riding her was a painful and difficult
matter. But Joe was not thinking of his own comfort now. He was thinking
of Nina--Nina in the hands of the Indians! Nina in the clutches of the
renegade with red hair!
As the sun began to droop low in the west he reined up and looked about
him. Over the whole vast expanse of the prairies no living thing was in
sight. Nowhere was there any sign of the Indians, and he recalled with a
sore heart what his father had said, that with their swift ponies it
would be impossible for him to catch up with them.
He felt weak and faint, and dismounting slipped the bridle over Kit's
head and let her graze while he threw himself down on the grass and
drank from the flask of water and ate some of the lunch that his father
had put up for him.
Darkness fell swiftly these days. Before the son and purple in the
western sky had faded the shadows of night were darkling over the
plains. He urged Kit forward, determined that he would not sleep, that
neither he nor she should know rest until he had reached Bellevue and
set the Government agencies at work to rescue Nina.
Darkness was closing in about him when turning to scan the empty circle
of the horizon he saw outlined against the fading sky a curl of smoke.
His heart gave a great leap.
Could it be the camp of the Indians?
His breath came quick and fast, and whirling Kit sharply about he dashed
madly across the prairies toward it.
Boy-like, he did not stop to consider what he would do when he got
there. Whether the encampment was that of friend or foe, or how, in
case it should be the band who had abducted the little Princess, he
should set about to rescue her.
All he thought about was to _get there_. The rest would come when he
was on the ground.
Kit had got her second wind now, and traveled steadily, jolting and
shaking the boy on her back cruelly, but covering the ground at a good
gait.
He knew that he could not reach the point from whence he saw the smoke
rising for nearly an hour, and realized that he must not approach it
before darkness had completely enshrouded the plains and the camp had
settled down for the night.
As he came nearer, his heart was gladdened, and at the same time shaken,
by the sound of the tom-toms and the rhythmic chant of voices. Checking
up his horse he rode more slowly, biding his time until the camp should
be shrouded in darkness and sleep.
When darkness came he could make out the red glare of the camp-fire
against the sky, and could see the silhouette of dusky figures dancing
about it He got down, and muffling Kit's nose in his handkerchief, lest
she should whinny, he walked beside her, ready at an instant's notice to
check her slightest noise.
He could hear the singing plainly now, but did not know enough of Indian
lore to realize that the song they were chanting was not a war-song, but
the hymn of the buffalo hunt, appealing to the Great Spirit to bless the
chase and give to them meat for their lodges and covers for their
teepees before the coming of the big snows.
As the boy crept nearer his very heart was in his throat.
He saw presently that the camp was on a creek, that there were scrubby
trees behind it, and a tangled thicket ahead.
Afraid to lead Kit any nearer he took her to the outmost fringe of the
thicket and tied her securely, with the handkerchief still over her
nose. Then he crept forward through the brush.
He could see the camp plainly now. The teepees were set up along the
banks of the creek, the great fire in the centre of the half-circle, and
on the ground was the newly removed hide of a buffalo, while the savory
smell of its roasting flesh still hung in the air.
Creeping up as close to the teepees as he could and still remain in
shelter he looked and listened intently.
_Was Nina in one of those tents?_
Which one?
Would she be alone? Would it be possible for him to reach her?
Doubts, questions, and anxieties struggled in his mind as he lay hidden
in the thicket.
At last the feast was over, the music ceased, the fire died down, and
squaws, bucks, and papooses slowly dispersed. The lean, cadaverous
dogs, that are always a part of an Indian encampment, prowled about the
fire eating the offal, but at last they too were surfeited and lay down
to sleep.
Joe waited; his heart thumping so hard against his ribs that he feared
the sleeping Indians must hear it.
It seemed to him that hours passed. Now and then a baby cried, a pony
whinnied, a dog growled or barked. Gradually snores came to his ears.
Long, sonorous snores, short, barking snores, but all of them snores
that he was more than glad to hear.
After a time he moved his cramped limbs and slowly got to his knees,
then to his feet. With cautious movements he parted the undergrowth
about him and began to crawl through.
Whenever a bit of brush crackled he threw himself flat on the ground and
tried to burrow himself out of sight. But at last, after much toilful
and noiseless wriggling he got clear of the thicket and stood just
within its shadow in the open.
Before him were the teepees.
He knew that if Nina were with this band she must be in one of
them,--_but which_?
Cautiously, noiselessly, he worked his way around the edge of the
thicket nearer to the teepees. Then on his hands and knees, crawling so
close to the ground that he scarcely made a shadow, he wormed his way
across the open space.
He knew that his life was not worth an instant's purchase if he was
discovered. He felt positive that detection meant death. But Nina was
there--in the hands of her enemies--he must get her!
At last he reached the teepees. Crawled nearer to their openings. Was
listening before their doors.
From the nearest one came loud, deep snores. It was a man's snore--she
could not be there. He crept on. From the next came the whimpering
sound of a baby's cry. Something told him that she would not be there.
With redoubled caution he wormed his way along to the next. Listening
intently he thought he heard a stifled sob. His pulses leaped. Waiting
and listening with bated breath he crept nearer. It came again. Some
one inside the teepee was crying.
_Some one was crying!_
It was not a child--it could not be a squaw---squaws did not cry--_it
must be Nina_!
How should he call her? How let her know that he was there?
Cautiously he raised himself, cautiously with slow, noiseless movement
he raised the flap of hide that covered the opening of the teepee.
It was so dark inside that at first he could see nothing; then gradually
as his eyes became accustomed to the blackness he made out a heap of
leaves and branches at one side of the teepee, on which lay a
grey-haired squaw, and his heart gave a great leap that almost made him
cry aloud as he saw on the blanket beside her the white face and golden
hair of the little Princess.
It was all he could do to stifle the cry that rose to his lips, but he
knew that the least sound would be fatal now, so locking his teeth hard
he slid forward like a great serpent and bent his face close to the
sobbing little girl. Slipping his hand over her mouth he whispered
rapidly, "Nina, it is I, Joe; be quiet, I've come to save you!"
Quietly as he had entered, soft, almost noiseless as was his whisper, it
woke the squaw, who set up a great outcry and darted past him out of the
tent. Before the boy could move or the startled girl rise from her
couch of branches, a man in a long grey shirt rushed through the
opening. As he came Joe thrust his foot between the long legs and
tripped him, and as he fell headlong caught up the Princess in his arms
and leaped over the prostrate body.
The teepees were placed on the bank above the creek, and back of them
ran the line of scrubby timber and the tangle of thick undergrowth
through which Joe had worked his way. The instant he found himself
outside the teepee with Nina in his arms he darted back of it and into
the brush.
Instantly the man in the long flapping grey shirt was on his feet and
following them. Joe stopped long enough to catch his silhouette against
the sky-line, and fire. He saw him fall, rise, press his hand to his
knee with a groan of pain, then sink down into the brush.
Dragging Nina behind him he ducked between the legs of an Indian who was
rushing toward him, bowled him over, and dodged behind a tree. He knew
that he had not an instant to lose. Seizing Nina by the hand he dragged
her behind the tree, then whispered rapidly:
"They're after us! They may get me, but Kit is just outside the edge of
the thicket over that way," he pointed; "try to get to her and go on to
Bellevue. It can't be very far now. We'll stick together if we can,
but if you see me fall don't wait, make a dash for Kit----" a great
whoop from the teepees above interrupted his broken whisper, and pushing
Nina before him he rushed on through the thicket. "Through
there--through there," he panted, "wiggle your way through the brush!"
He leaned forward to push the undergrowth aside for her when a bullet
whizzed through the air and his arm dropped to his side, while a
stinging, burning pain shot through his chest.
"I'm hit!" he gasped. "Go on, _hurry_--whistle to Kit--you know my
whistle--she'll hear and answer you!"
Nina cast a horrified look upon him, but he waved his arm impatiently,
then staggered back and fell, slipping and sliding down the bank and
into the water.
With a cry of horror she scrambled after him, but he was nowhere to be
seen. The water at the foot of the embankment was ruffled, and she knew
that he must have sunk to the bottom.
For a moment she stood with hands locked in agony gazing down into the
muddy depths, then as a wild yelp sounded above her gave vent to a great
sobbing cry and darted through the undergrowth, taking the direction Joe
had pointed out to her.
Joe, badly wounded, probably owed his life to his plunge into the muddy
waters of the creek. It brought him sharply back to his failing senses,
and instinct made him crawl close to the bank, where, under a heavy
growth of coarse reed-like grass and rushes he was entirely concealed
from the bank above. He heard the rush of feet above him, the yelp and
howl of voices, the loud, angry cursing of a man in the English tongue,
then knew no more.
When he came to himself it was morning. There was no sound to be heard,
and he was bitterly cold, shivering as if with an ague. He drew himself
slowly and painfully out of the water and sat down on the bank. His
left arm hung limp and useless at his side, and his shirt was stained
and draggled with blood.
How long he sat there he could not tell. He was weak and dizzy, and his
head was going around so fast that he could make no note of time. He
stooped presently and drank a little from the stream, bathed his aching
head, and shook the water from his clothes. Then he got to his feet, and
weakly, warily, began making his way through the brush.
He wondered, with a sinking heart, what had become of Nina. Whether she
had got away or whether she had been captured again by Red Snake. He
could not go far at a time but, stopping every little way to rest and
ease the agony in his chest, crept on. The sun was up and shining hot
in the heavens when he reached the edge of the thicket. He called and
whistled, but there was no answer. Kit was not there.
Suddenly he shrank back into the shelter of the undergrowth with a
sickening heart. Across the flat surface of the plain he saw a troop of
horsemen riding, and from the way they rode he knew they were Indians.
A groan burst from his lips. He supposed they were hunting him, and
cowering back in the shelter of the scrubby undergrowth he gave himself
up for lost. He thought that of course they had captured Nina, and the
horror and agony of the thought, combined with the pain in his arm and
chest, rendered him almost unconscious. Dropping down upon the ground
he gradually drifted away into a blank, then into a wild, fevered dream,
where all was confusion.
There was a great noise in the dream, a rushing and thundering of hoofs,
a shaking of the ground, as if with an earthquake, whoops, yells, the
crashing and smashing of timber, and a great crowd about him.
He cried out, and started up in terror. Outside on the plains a party
of horsemen were thundering by, and not far away a great red animal lay
struggling in its death-agonies, with a group of Indians about it.
Joe raised himself painfully, and creeping to an opening in the thicket
looked out. Then suddenly he cried aloud.
_These were not Sioux!_
With all the blood in his body roaring in his ears he listened to the
guttural tones of the Indians bent over the buffalo on the grass,
quickly ending its struggles.
He had picked up a few words of the Indian language, and by the dress of
these men, by the words that he could catch here and there he knew that
they were Omahas and Pawnees.
With no further hesitation he crawled from his hiding-place and raising
his hand above his head gave a weak call. The Indians whirled about
swiftly and looked at him. One of them detached himself from the rest
and came toward him.
He had but strength enough to point to his wound, to say "Heap sick,"
then stumbled forward and fell at the Indian's feet.
When he came to himself he was in an Indian wig-wam.
At first terror took possession of him, thinking that he had again
fallen into the hands of the Sioux. But his first stir brought an
Indian woman to his side, who, seeing his eyes open, uttered a guttural
exclamation and ran from the wigwam. Immediately the opening was thrown
back and a young buck entered.
Joe, half-expecting to see Red Snake, cowered down on the bed of boughs
and skins. But the Indian who hurried to his side came with
outstretched hand and a smile on his face. There was something
strangely familiar about him, and as the boy gazed up at him he was
struggling in his sick mind to place the face.
The Indian bent over him, smiled, then thrust his hand inside his shirt
and brought out a bright red necktie. Joe's heart gave a great jump of
joy.
"_Pashepaho!_" he cried, and grabbed the slim brown hand. Then gazing
about him, "Where am I--how did I happen to get here?"
Pashepaho grinned at him and patted his hand.
"You with my people. Pawnee village on Platte River. Heap sick boy.
Been here many sleeps."
"I _have_?" Joe rubbed his head confusedly. "How did I get here? I
don't remember--oh!"--as memory began to come back to him--"oh, I was
shot--and some Indian came----"
"My young men hunt buffalo. Fin' you heap sick. Bring you back Big
Chief. Big Chief my favver."
"Oh, and I am in your wigwam? This is your camp?"
Pashepaho nodded.
"And you have been taking care of me, Pashepaho? I was hurt pretty bad,
I guess. I believe I would have died there if your young men had not
found me."
"Sure. Heap sick. Medicine man make you well."
Joe grinned weakly. He had not much faith in medicine men, but he cared
little who saved him as long as he was getting well.
"I'm all right now, ain't I?" he asked anxiously, beginning to realize
his great weakness and languor.
"Yep. Get li'l stronger. Eat heap meat."
Joe suddenly remembered his arm and lifted it gingerly.
Pashepaho saw the movement and grinned. "All ri' now." Then laying his
hand on the boy's chest, "Here worse. Heap much hole. Bleed. Cough.
Heap sick."
Joe put his hand to his chest. A rough poultice of leaves and herbs
covered it. He could feel that it was still sore, but the burning,
stabbing pain that he remembered the last thing before he became
unconscious was gone.
He turned and grasped the hand of the young Indian tightly, and his
gratitude shone in his sunken grey eyes.
"You're a true friend, Pashepaho, I guess you saved my life," he said
fervently. Then, stopping now and then to rest when his breath gave out
or a coughing spell came on, he told the story of the assault of the
Sioux, Nina's capture, his own pursuit, his discovery of Nina in the
teepee, and his shooting and escape.
"I don't know whether they got Nina again or not," he concluded
sorrowfully. "I did the best I could, but when I got plugged in the
chest I didn't know much afterward. I told her to get through the
thicket if she could and find Kit, but I don't know whether she made it,
and even if she did they might have got her afterward. To think of that
poor little girl in the hands of that brute----"
His voice shook, and he stopped abruptly.
Pashepaho patted his shoulder. "No worry," he said. "She get home all
ri'." Then, "Who get? Indian carry off girl?"
Joe's face flushed and his eyes blazed. "No, I don't believe there's
any Indian mean enough. It was a white man. He lives with the
Sioux----"
"Squaw-man?"
"I guess that's what they call him. He's got some kind of a grudge
against Nina or her folks. This is the third time he has attacked her.
He killed her father. Sometimes I have wondered if----"
"What kind man?"
"Oh, he's a _big_ brute, tall and terribly strong, but thin, and he's
got red hair and a"--then as a sudden flash of memory came over
him--"why, say, you know him! That's the man that was trying to trade
you out of that otter skin the first time I saw you!"
"Ai-ee, ai-ee! Big white man, red hair, live with Santee Sioux! Drink
heap fire-water! Name Red Snake."
"Yes--yes--that's the man--Red Snake. Who is he, Pashepaho? What is he
doing living with red men? What is his real name?"
Pashepaho shook his head. "_Red Snake_ all name I know. Heap bad man.
Make heap trouble."
Joe lay back on his blanket depressed and troubled. While he knew that
he was now safe his heart was rent with anxiety for Nina and his
parents. He had been gone "many sleeps"! He knew that by this time
they must think him dead. And Nina--poor little Princess--what of her?
Where was she, and what had she suffered while he lay unconscious in
Pashepaho's wigwam!
He would have risen and tried to start forth at once, but Pashepaho and
Petale-sharu, his father, the Great Chief, would not allow it.
"Me take you when you can ride," assured Pashepaho, and with that
assurance Joe was forced to be content.
He found that he was in an Indian settlement on Buffalo Creek, where he
was left alone day after day with the old men and squaws and papooses
while the men of the tribe were away on the big fall hunt.
It was tedious business waiting for his wound to heal with so anxious a
heart in his breast, and it took all the patience and fortitude he
possessed. He played with the dogs and children, and talked with the
squaws, whom he found to be kind and gentle, and who seemed glad to
teach him their own language, learning, meanwhile, amid great laughter,
a little of the English tongue. They had funny times making themselves
understood by one another, and while his wound healed and his strength
came back day by day Joe acquired a knowledge of the language and
customs of the Pawnees which stood him in good stead at a later day.
The Pawnees lived in large circular houses called "earth lodges," with
walls of dirt and a roof supported by trunks of trees set upright inside
of the walls, the whole covered with poles, grass and sod. On the east
side was a covered entrance, and on the west were the sacred bundle and
buffalo skull. There was a hole in the centre of the roof to let the
smoke out, and the people slept around the edge of the circle made by
the walls, and gathered about the lodge-fire in the centre of the
enclosure to eat and talk.
The women raised crops of corn, beans, pumpkins, squashes, and melons,
and gathered the wild fruits and roots from the prairie and dried them
for winter. As they were now busy with the drying process Joe often
helped them, telling them in his boyish way how they could better their
farming, and even taking a hand, when he grew strong enough, in showing
them how to harvest their crops in an easier and more scientific manner.
He found them to be a very religious people, and as they came to know
him better and to grow fond of him, he was sometimes allowed to attend
their sacred rites. They believed in a Great Spirit, whom they called
"Tirawa," the Father, who made the people, and who sent the corn, the
rain, the buffalo, the sunshine, and all good things, and he was
permitted to witness some of the dances and ceremonials held by the
tribe for the purpose of gaining the favor of Tirawa.
In spite of his terrible anxiety about Nina and the burning desire he
had to get back to his parents and relieve their worry about him the
days went by not unhappily. He found the Pawnees to be a quiet, gentle
people, friendly to the whites, and with high ideas of honor and honesty
which surprised as well as delighted him. The women were very kind to
him, gave him the best the lodges afforded to eat, and nursed and tended
him until he was able to wait upon himself.
He had no means of knowing how time had gone by. To the best of his
knowledge he must have been gone nearly a month, when Pashepaho, seeing
his continual anxiety, told him one morning that they would set out upon
his journey homeward the next day.
Joe could not sleep that night, and was awake and ready before even the
first prowling dog of the encampment was astir.
After a good breakfast he bade them all good-bye, thanked the kind
people over and over again for their care and hospitality, and mounting
the shaggy Indian pony that Pashepaho had provided for him, and well
equipped with food and water, they set forth toward home.
Joe could never have found his way alone. They wound along creek
bottoms and by devious paths and trails which a white man would never
have discovered, and as they rode they talked. Joe found that his
friend Pashepaho was not only an exceedingly intelligent young Indian,
but a man of courage and principle as well.
He told the boy that his people had lived in what was then called the
Territory of Nebraska for more than two hundred years. That they had
always been friendly to the white man, but that the white brothers who
had come among them had robbed and deceived them and were taking from
them all that they had possessed as their own for so many centuries. He
talked sorrowfully of the condition of his people, and said in a tragic
voice that he knew that their day was past. Standing upon a little rise
and sweeping his arm in a slow circle all about him he said, "All once
belong to my people. But white man come, and now my people are as the
leaves on the trees in the winter, yours as the grass in the fields. If
we rebel we get kill. If twenty your people fall, hundreds of mine must
pay. No hope. The Indian must go. His day is ended."
The second day out they saw a great herd of buffalo feeding on the
plains. Joe could see that it was hard for Pashepaho to pass them by
unmolested.
"Can't we try to get a shot at them?" cried Joe, willing, boy-like, to
risk anything for the sake of a stirring chase.
Pashepaho shook his head.
"No shoot," he grunted. "Bring trouble. We no want Sioux come now."
Then glancing at the boy, who was still pale from his recent illness,
"You no hunt now. Bime-by when you strong me take you big hunt some
day."
"Oh, will you, Pashepaho?" cried Joe eagerly. "Hurray! And may Lige
come, too? Jeminy, that'd be great. Don't forget, will you?"
"Me no forget," remarked Pashepaho, with a smile that showed how fond he
had grown of his young white friend.
On the third day, or as Pashepaho expressed it, "three sleeps from the
Pawnee settlement," Joe began to recognize the landscape.
"Oh, I know this road," he cried out excitedly, "we traveled over it
when we were coming out! We made our noon camp right over there! Yes,
sir, there's the signs of our fire yet! We go straight west from here,
don't we?"
Pashepaho looked into the flushed, excited face of his young friend.
"We no far from Blue Water now," he said with a smile.
Joe's heart beat hard and high as they came nearer and nearer to the
homestead. What should he find when he got there? What might have
happened while he had been away?
*CHAPTER XIX*
*HOW JOE CAME HOME*
When Nina saw Joe fall and heard him slide down the bank and into the
water she thought he was dead.
When she could see nothing of him, and heard the Indians rushing through
the trees and grass above her she fled like a startled rabbit through
the undergrowth.
She saw an Indian dash down the bank and look up and down the creek,
then she heard his footsteps recede and words called out in a language
she did not understand. Twice while she hid and cowered in the
undergrowth she saw Indians come down to the creek and look along its
banks, then she heard them ride away.
Many times in her flight she stopped and listened. It was pitch-dark in
the thicket, and the little girl, creeping forward through the
underbrush, was half-crazed with fear. But she knew that her best
protection from capture by the savages was in the tangled brush, and she
fought her way gallantly through it, and just at dawn found herself at
the edge of the thicket, with the broad, open prairies before her.
Remembering Joe's directions she gave the whistle he had always used in
calling Kit, and to her unbounded joy heard a low, smothered whinny in
answer.
In her terror and loneliness it sounded to the little Princess like the
voice of an old friend. Guiding her direction by the sound she stole
along in the shadow of the thicket and not long after came to where Kit,
still tied as Joe had left her, turned her slender head and intelligent
eyes toward her, pawing the ground with an impatient hoof.
Nina had never ridden horseback, but she was too terrified, too weary
now to remember that. Clasping her arms about Kit's neck she managed to
scramble on her back and started off, not knowing which way to go, but
eager to put distance in any direction between herself and the horrors
with which she had been surrounded.
She had to cling tight to Kit's mane to keep from falling off, and was
afraid to let her go much faster than a walk, so that her progress was
slow and difficult. Sunrise found her plodding on, a forlorn little
figure on a big bay mare, tears running down her face, and muffled sobs
shaking her.
[Illustration: SUNRISE FOUND HER PLODDING ON, A FORLORN LITTLE FIGURE ON
A BIG BAY MARE.]
Shortly after sunrise she was overtaken by a band of Winnebago Indians
laden with elk hides and buffalo skins, returning to their camp from a
week's hunt in the Blackbird Hills.
The surprise of the Indians may be imagined when seeing a solitary rider
ambling slowly and apparently aimlessly over the prairies, they overtook
it and saw that the rider was a beautiful little white girl, who cried
bitterly when they spoke to her and would not tell who she was, where
she had come from or where she was going.
None of the band could speak English, and as Nina knew no Indian there
was little chance of her being able to inform them. It was quite
evident, however, that the child was wild with terror when they
approached her, and when they took her and her horse in tow she shrieked
and fought, utterly unaware that they were doing their utmost to assure
her that they were "good Indians," that they never hurt children and
would take her back to her home and family if she could make them
understand where she lived.
After much perplexed discussion among themselves the Winnebagoes decided
to take her back with them to their encampment, where they would find
some of their tribe who spoke English, and find out who the young
stranger might be.
They tried to be kind and gentle to her, and the squaws did their best
to comfort her, but the child was in a perfect panic of terror, and at
the approach of every new person shrank and shuddered, looking with
great agonized violet eyes into the faces of the Indians, and shaking
and trembling with fear. To her all Indians were alike, and momentarily
she expected the hated Red Snake to come and claim her.
As days passed, however, and Red Snake did not appear, when day followed
day and no dreadful thing happened to her, and she saw the boys and men
ride away leaving her behind with the squaws, old men and children, she
began to be less afraid. Little by little the haunted look of terror
left her eyes, and after a time she began to scrape acquaintance with
the children that hung fascinated about her. The bright-eyed little
papooses strapped to their rigid back-boards appealed to her
wonderfully, and when she sat down before them and played with them,
chucking them under their fat little chins and playing "peek-a-boo" with
her apron, they squealed with laughter, and she too could begin to
smile. After a while she began to play with the little Indian girls and
boys, and little by little to learn their language and teach them hers.
Twice the camp was moved, and Nina was moved with it, helping the squaws
with the babies, and feeling tremendous interest in the bustle of
preparation, when the teepees were taken down, folded and tied with
cords made of deer and buffalo hide, and fastened to the ponies, strong
shaggy little beasts which dragged them after them in long traces, while
the women carried the bundles, and the braves walked along smoking their
pipes ahead of the procession, or nonchalantly rode their ponies,
leaving the squaws and children to bear all the burdens and shoulder all
the responsibilities of moving.
At first Nina could not understand these moves, but gradually came to
know that the Indians were engaged in their fall hunt, and that while
the men scoured the plains for the animals that provided them with food,
clothing, and shelter for the winter, the women and children moved
slowly along behind them with the equipment, so that the camp to which
the hunters belonged was never far away.
The Indians were all kind to her, the women gentle and even motherly to
the little paleface that had been thrust so unceremoniously among them,
the men quiet and grave, but never cross nor severe.
Gradually as the days passed by she became fond of her little
playfellows, and though she was desperately unhappy, and longed with a
sick, yearning heartache for her adopted home, she did not suffer as she
might have suffered if she had fallen among less quiet and gentle
people.
One day when she had been romping over the prairie with the children and
dogs they came back to find a great band of hunters just riding in,
laden with the fruits of the chase. Some of them bore long poles on
their shoulders from which were suspended the carcases of elk and deer,
others carried great willow baskets, which the Indian women made,
containing the meat of deer, antelope, and buffaloes which had been
stripped from the bones to save carrying the huge bodies; others carried
great baskets of grouse, prairie-chicken, and quail, and the whole camp
was full of rejoicing.
Among the hunters was one tall, powerful Indian, who stopped short as
the group of children came running toward them, and stared at Nina with
an expression of utter astonishment on his face.
Pointing his finger at her he asked in the Winnebago dialect how she
came to be there. A babel of tongues broke out among the children and
squaws, each trying to tell her version of the story.
Nina, seeing him staring at her, was filled with fear. Her face paled,
her great violet eyes widened with terror, and her bosom began to heave.
But the red man walked straight up to her and put out a big brown hand.
"How, Nee-ah-nah," he said, and smiled down upon her.
Nina, with a trembling hand at her bosom, drew back.
The big Indian smiled, and putting his hand in his bosom, brought forth
a little chain of blue beads which he held up before her.
The child looked, gasped, then looked again, then with a joyful cry ran
to him.
"_Neowage, Neowage!_" she cried.
The big Indian grinned down at her and held her hand.
"How come here?" he asked gently.
Nina burst into tears. "I was captured by the Sioux," she cried. "They
made an assault on the house--they got me--and Joe--Joe came after me to
rescue me--and he was killed, Neowage, he was _killed_! Red Snake shot
him."
Neowage threw up his hands. "Ai-ee, ai-ee! Keel? _Sho_ keel? Ai-ee,
that too bad. Tell."
Between her heartbroken sobs Nina told of the assault upon the sod
house, of her capture, and of Joe's attempted rescue and what followed.
When she had finished she clung to Neowage's hand sobbing bitterly.
"Take me home, Neowage," she begged, "oh, _take me home_! They've been
good and kind to me here, but oh, I want to go back to Mother Peniman,
and Ruth and Sara and Lige and Sam and little Da-da! I want to go back
to them and try to comfort them, for if it were not for me dear Joe
would not now be gone."
The big Indian stroked the golden hair with his great brown hands and
patted and comforted her.
"Me take you home, Nee-ah-nah," he said, "me take you home."
The next morning Nina bade farewell to the squaws and papooses, the boys
and girls that had been so kind to her, and mounted upon Kit's back,
rode away by the side of Neowage in the direction of the homestead on
the Blue River.
It was a soft golden day in early October, and the prairies were yellow
with goldenrod and spangled gayly with sunflowers and St. Michaelmas
daisies. As they rode the sun cast long shadows on the grass that
looked like brown velvet in the distance, and the sky arched over them
with a blue that is all Nebraska's own.
They talked little on the way. Neowage seemed to have fallen into a fit
of deep musing, and Nina's heart was too sore with grief to feel like
attempting conversation.
They rested that night at an Indian camp on the prairies, and started at
daylight the next morning. It was almost evening when familiar
landmarks began to come in sight, and quite dark when they rode up to
the sod house.
The lamps were lighted inside, and creeping up to the windows Nina
looked in, with a heart that was like to burst with mingled grief and
joy.
The children had gone to bed, and on either side of the table sat Joshua
and Hannah Peniman. The Bible was open on the table between them, and
Joshua Peniman's head was bent forward on his hands while Hannah sat
with hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the fire, with an expression
of heartbreak in their depths that made Nina sob aloud.
Somewhere in that land of broken dreams in which her thoughts were
wandering Hannah Peniman heard the sound. She started, looked up, saw
the face at the window, and with a sharp, gasping breath sprang to her
feet, her hand pressed against her breast.
Nina dashed to the door, threw it open, and sprang into her arms.
"Mother Peniman, Mother Peniman!" she sobbed over and over, unable to
speak any other word.
"_Nina_! Nina! My lamb! My child! Where did you come from?"
Joshua Peniman had sprung to his feet and stood staring like a man in a
dream.
Before he could speak Mrs. Peniman had loosed Nina's arms from her neck
and peered into her face.
"Nina"--she gasped, "Joe--_where is he?_"
Nina buried her head in Mrs. Peniman's bosom. "Oh, Mother Peniman,
Mother Peniman," she wailed over and over as if she could not speak the
words that must be spoken.
Joshua Peniman came to her, raised her head, and with his haggard eyes
gazed into her face.
"What is it, Nina?" he said, with the gentle tone of authority she knew
so well in his shaking voice. "Tell us. Anything is better than
suspense."
It was some minutes before she could control herself enough to speak.
Then, as gently as she could, she told her story. When it was finished
there was no sound in the room. Joshua Peniman stood as if turned to
stone, while Hannah Peniman's face turned from white to livid grey and
looked as if stricken with death.
The sound of the talking had wakened the children, and they now came
rushing out into the room; there was a wild shout of joy, which was
changed to bitter tears as they heard the news she had brought them.
Suddenly Joshua Peniman raised his head.
"I have not thought to ask how you got here, Nina?" he said, in a voice
she would scarcely have recognized. "Surely you did not come alone?"
"No, Neowage brought me."
"_Neowage_? Where is he?"
They found him squatted in the grass outside, with too much delicacy of
feeling to obtrude himself upon the family in their grief.
Joshua Peniman grasped his hand in silence, unable to speak. In silence
the Indian returned the pressure.
When he had greeted the family with his impassive "How," and had eaten
the meal which the weeping Ruth provided for him, he lay down before the
fire and gazed thoughtfully into its depths. Hannah Peniman had gone
away into the night alone, Ruth had taken Nina away to bed, and Joshua
Peniman sat with his arms on the table and his head bowed upon them, a
prey to the agony and despair of losing an eldest and best-beloved son.
Suddenly Neowage looked up.
"Nee-ah-nah no _see_ him die!"
Mr. Peniman raised his head, and his gentle face was seamed and seared
as if a dozen years had gone over it.
"No, but I fear it is as she said. Joe would have been home before this
if he was alive."
"Sho no dead!"
Again Neowage relapsed into silence, smoking his pipe and gazing
steadily into the fire. Presently he rose, gathered his blanket about
him, and shaking his host's hand solemnly strode forth into the night.
For three days the Peniman family mourned Joe as dead.
Mr. Peniman said little, but his hair turned white, almost in a night,
and into Hannah Peniman's eyes had come a look of silent, patient
suffering that none of the family could look upon without tears.
To Lige and Sam the blow had come with a shock that left them stunned
for a while, then overcome with uncontrollable grief. Ruth and Nina
clung to one another in a sorrow too sharp and keen for words, and the
little ones wept without ceasing for the brother who did not come home.
On the morning of the fourth day the Chapter had been read, the silent
prayer was over, and the family set mournfully about the work that had
to be done, no matter how heavy the heart.
Going down to the spring for water Lige passed the dugout, and hearing
the step outside Kit put her head out and whinnied.
The sound fairly unmanned him.
Kit had always known Joe's step, and had greeted him with that glad
little whinny every morning.
"He can't come to you this morning, Kit," he whispered huskily, going to
her and putting his arms about her neck, "he can't come to you--or to
us--ever again." And leaning against the smooth brown neck he burst
into a passion of tears.
To none of the family perhaps, except his mother, had Joe's absence
brought more poignant grief. Always together, from their very babyhood,
and dependent largely upon one another for companionship, there had
grown up between the lads a comradeship so close, an affection so sweet
and strong, that life seemed scarcely to be endured apart from one
another.
Lige had striven nobly to fill Joe's place, hoping daily, almost hourly,
to see him come riding home. But as the days and weeks passed that hope
had grown gradually fainter and fainter, until the news that he had just
heard was merely a confirmation of the fear that was in his heart.
So deeply was he plunged in grief that when he chanced to glance out and
see two riders dashing across the prairies he took no interest in them.
He glanced at them idly, then turned away as the blur of hot, bitter
tears dimmed his eyes.
Brushing them hastily aside he took up his pail and went on to the
spring.
Thus it was that Sam was the first to herald the approach of the
strangers.
"Father," he said, in a sad, subdued voice, utterly unlike Sam's usual
cheerful bellow, "here come two men on horseback. One of 'em looks like
an Indian."
Mr. Peniman rose quickly and went to the door. He had no hope, yet
something in the words of Neowage the night before had clung in his
memory and said themselves over and over in his brain all night.
"Nee-ah-nah no _see_ him die."
_No one had seen him die_! Perhaps--perhaps God in His infinite
mercy----
As he stood in the doorway with his hand shading his eyes, his silvery
hair glistening in the morning light, there was a strange tumult in his
breast.
He shaded his eyes and gazed intently. Presently when the riders had
come nearer he saw one of them lean forward and wave his hat about his
head.
"_Hannah!_" he called in a queer, choked voice, "Hannah!"
Something in his tone brought her hurrying to the door.
The riders were now galloping madly. One of them, far in advance of the
other, leaned forward on his horse's neck, and waved and waved, riding
as if the horse could not carry him fast enough.
With a gasping breath Hannah Peniman clutched her husband's hand.
Neither spoke. Both ashen pale, silent, tense, they strained forward,
their eyes set on the riders galloping toward them.