Suddenly from Hannah Peniman's lips came a hoarse, "Merciful God!"

At the same moment Sam leaped through the door and began racing toward

the riders with Paul at his heels, shouting frantically, "Joe, Joe,

_Joe_!"

The riders were close now, and the foremost, with tears streaming down

his pale cheeks, was lashing the little Indian pony with one hand, while

with the other he waved and waved his hat about his head, shouting,

"Home, home, home!"

None of them ever knew who reached him first, how or when or where he

got off his horse, or how they all got back to the sod house, laughing

and crying and clinging to one another, and saying over and over again

as if they would never tire, "Joe's home, Joe's alive, _Joe's home

again!_"

Down at the spring Lige had heard nothing of the excitement. He had

splashed water over his face and eyes to remove the traces of tears, and

close by the running water had sat down to get control of himself before

he should go back to his mother and the house. As he came slowly up the

incline carrying the pail he saw a crowd about the door. For an instant

he stood motionless, then dropped his pail and ran swiftly toward the

house.

Was it---could it be--news of--of _Joe_?

When he was nearly to the house one of the children leaping and capering

about stepped aside, and he saw a tall, slender boyish figure clasped in

his mother's arms. Lige, tall young pioneer that he was, almost fainted.

When the world righted itself he gave a hoarse, hysterical shout and

dashing forward precipitated himself into Joe's arms.

Perhaps it was his shout of "_Joe_, Joe, Joe!" perhaps the general

hubbub, that awoke Nina, who, exhausted by the trials through which she

had passed, had been charged to remain in bed.

Startled by the noise she woke in a panic, leaped out of bed and ran to

the window. What she saw outside held her there paralyzed, believing

that she had lost her senses.

Joe glancing up saw here there, her eyes wide and fixed, her face white

as a snowdrop, her head framed in a nimbus of golden hair.

Never while life lasted did he forget the picture.

"_Nina!_" he shouted, joy, amazement, incredulity in his voice.

The girl meanwhile was staring at him as if he were a ghost.

"J--J--_Jo-oe_!" her lips framed the word rather than spoke it. Then

again, as if she could not believe the evidence of her senses--"_Joe!_"

Ruth ran to her and caught her in her arms. "Yes, Nina, yes, darling,

don't look so scared. It isn't his ghost, it's just _himself_, our own

darling, blessed, precious Joesy home again, alive and well, and not

dead at all!"

Joe broke from his mother's arms.

"Nina, Nina," he cried stretching his arms toward the window, "oh, Nina,

how did you get here? How did you escape? Oh, I've worried and worried

and worried about you! Oh, thank God, you got home! I thought that the

Sioux or Red Snake had got you again!"

Nina leaned from the window gasping and panting.

"But you, Joe--_you_--I thought you were dead! I saw you fall--I saw

you slide into the water--and when I went to look for you you were gone.

Oh, Joe, where did you go? I thought you were dead----"

She burst into a fit of hysterical weeping, and Ruth drew her back into

the bedroom. A few minutes later, dressed, and a bit more calm, she

burst from the door and ran into Joe's waiting arms.

It took a vast amount of talking, of telling and explaining and

exclaiming, and tears and chills and thrills, before the whole story was

complete, its two parts pieced together and all the events that had

caused so much suffering and anxiety made plain.

It was a long time before Joe, with his hand clasped in his father's,

his mother's arm about his neck, Ruth and Sara on either knee, Nina at

his feet, and Lige and Sam and Paul and David crowded close up to him,

had time to remember Pashepaho.

When he did remember him he ran to the door and called him. The

handsome young chief was standing outside, his face wreathed in smiles.

Joe called to him joyously.

"Come on in here, Pashepaho," he shouted, "I want you to come in and

join in the jamboree, and see all these blessed people I've been talking

to you so much about." Then clasping Pashepaho's hand, "Listen, folks,

I wouldn't be here now having you all make such a fuss over me if it

wasn't for this fellow. If Pashepaho hadn't nursed me and tended me and

doctored me like a brother I'd have been a dead one long ago."

You may be sure that Pashepaho received a warm and cordial welcome from

the family. When Mr. and Mrs. Peniman shook his hand and thanked him

with deep emotion for all he had done for their son tears sprang to his

eyes. But when the children gathered about him and pulled the feathers

on his dress and tugged at the beads and laid timid fingers upon his

tomahawk he smiled, gave Sam his war-bonnet to look at, took little

David upon his knee, and was soon happy and at home amongst them.

*CHAPTER XX*

*EAGLE EYE REMEMBERS*

When Eagle Eye left the Peniman family, striding away across the plains

without a word of gratitude or farewell, Mrs. Peniman and the girls felt

grieved and disappointed.

It would have comforted them perhaps if they could have seen his face;

if they could have detected the surreptitious glances he threw backward,

or if they could have beheld the moisture that blurred his eyes, which

he hurriedly wiped away as if ashamed of his weakness.

He was not yet strong, and could not make rapid progress, and as he sat

down in the grass now and then to rest his eyes turned ever backward to

the homestead, while he turned over and over in his mind the story

Joshua Peniman had told him.

Of that story he knew more than the white man suspected.

He was a Sioux, and had seen Red Snake among his people.

When, after many days' travel, he at last reached the Sioux village on

the Missouri River, near the mouth of the Niobrara, he went at once to

the head chief of the tribe.

"Where Red Snake?" he asked in his own language.

"I know not," answered the chief in the same language, "I have not seen

him for many sleeps."

"Red Snake bad man," continued Eagle Eye, and proceeded to tell the

chief the story that Joshua Peniman had told him, adding to it much that

he had learned about the family while being nursed back to health among

them.

When he had finished the tale the old chief looked thoughtful.

"Red Snake has a bad heart to the white brother," he said after a long

pause. "He has done much harm to my people. He leads my young men into

much trouble. He has brought fire-water among us, he has taught our

young men to drink. And when my young men are drunk he takes them on

raids on the white people. He make me much trouble with the white man's

government. I wish he would come to my teepees no more."

Eagle Eye fervently echoed the wish.

"Where is the boy--the young maiden--he captured?" he continued.

Eagle Eye shook his head. "Gone!" he said laconically.

Both Indians puffed their pipes solemnly for a while. Then Eagle Eye

asked the question he had been making ready to ask from the beginning.

"Does the Great Chief know what is Red Snake's name?"

The old chief shook his head slowly.

"I know nothing. One time when the big fire burn the grass of the

prairies Black Bear brought a white man to our camps. He was drunk and

had been caught in the great fire. He was heap sick, sleep two, three,

many days. He gave Black Bear much presents, gun, knife, beads, many

things. He gave other young men of my camp presents. At last he gave

them firewater, and my young men were pleased. They gave the paleface a

place in the lodge of my people. They called him 'Red Snake' because he

moved so still and the Great Spirit had given him red hair. After a

while he married Wahahnesha. He has been with my people ever since."

"And you never heard the true name of the white man?"

"No. He never told his name."

For some minutes they smoked in silence. Then rising slowly the old

chief went to the back of the lodge and returned with a pouch made of

deerskin in his hand. From it he drew a small red morocco-covered book,

which he held out to Eagle Eye.

"He lose. Me find. Me keep."

Eagle Eye took the book and turned it over and over in his hands. As he

turned its pages he could make out a lot of queer-looking marks and

signs, which meant nothing to him. After scrutinizing it carefully but

uselessly for a while he handed it back to the chief. The chief waved

his hand.

"You keep," he said laconically, "give white man some day."

After another silence he burst forth: "He no red snake, he _black_

snake. Heap bad man. Some day he make heap trouble for Sioux. Bring

white soldier--shoot my young men. Wish he killed--wish he come back to

my people no more."

Eagle Eye sat smoking silently for a time, then rose and left the lodge.

He heard the sound of voices, and following it came to a great

camp-fire, about which a number of young men of the tribe were sitting

cross-legged on the ground. He greeted, then joined them, listening

idly to the talk that went on among them.

He learned after a time that they were talking about a great hunt that

was to take place the next day, and that Red Snake, who had been

suffering from a wound in the knee and had gone to Bellevue to see a

white man's doctor, had returned the day before and was to accompany

them. There was much joking about the presents he had brought them and

the fire-water that was to be taken with them on the hunt, and which was

to enliven their night camps.

"And where is the hunt to be?" asked Eagle Eye, a quick alarming thought

running through his head.

"To the Minne-to-wauk-pala. He say heap much antelope, elk, buffalo out

that way."

The eyes which had given the young Indian his name blazed hotly. In an

instant he saw the plan. He knew as well as if he had heard the details

that the drunken degenerate white man was planning to take these young

men on a hunting expedition, and when they were crazed with fire-water

lead them on a raid on the Peniman homestead, for which, if trouble

arose, they would be blamed, and he would escape free, and yet would be

enabled to work out his fiendish designs upon the family.

Without a moment's hesitation he resolved to join the hunt.

Long before the sun rose the next morning the young Indians were on

their way. Red Snake, attired in his usual fashion, with his face

stained red and great warlike emblems of red and blue and yellow painted

on his face and breast, led the way.

He was not intoxicated this day, Eagle Eye observed with some interest,

and the fire-water was kept carefully secreted until they made their

night camp, when a demijohn was passed around and around among them

until the Indians were all wild or stupid. He drank nothing. Eagle

Eye, while making a great pretense of roisterous drinking, took little,

but pretending to be stupefied lay down beside the fire with his blanket

over his head and watched and listened until all was still.

The camp had sunk to silence, the whoops and yelps of the drunken

Indians had gradually sunk to grunts and snores, when Eagle Eye saw Red

Snake creep from his blanket and signal to Black Bear, a wild young buck

who had already been in considerable trouble, and draw him away from the

camp.

Eagle Eye lay still for a few moments, then rolling over and grunting,

as if in a bad dream, edged himself away from the firelight until he

reached the shadows beyond, then on hands and knees crept noiselessly

through the grass until he was within earshot of Red Snake and Black

Bear. They were talking in low, guttural tones, fortunately in the

Sioux dialect.

After a jumble of talk, of which he could make nothing, he heard at last

the thing for which he had been waiting; Red Snake and Black Bear were

planning a raid upon the Peniman homestead, and to Black Bear was

confided the details of leading the raid, while Red Snake himself would

be free to carry out whatever nefarious designs on the persons or

property of the settlers he might have in mind without danger of

detection.

Eagle Eye's blood boiled hotly. Not only was his indignation aroused

against the renegade by the feeling of gratitude for the white family

who had nursed and tended him, but because of his loyalty and devotion

to his own people.

He had been one of those who had been betrayed into making the assault

upon the Peniman place before, and his life had nearly paid the penalty

of his folly. Then, as now, the young Indians had known nothing of his

plans, but maddened with fire-water, incited by wild tales of loot and

treasure, they had followed him, ignorant of the fact that they were

being made the cat's-paw to cover his crimes, and that should detection

and punishment follow it was the Sioux who would be blamed and punished

by the white man's law, while the white man who was responsible for it

would escape, his villainy covered by the blanket and war-paint of an

Indian.

All the next day the party hunted, bringing down many elk, deer, and

antelope, cheered and enlivened by the prospect of the evening's

carousal and the tales of the great herds of buffalo they would overtake

the next day.

There was little sleep for any one in the camp that night. When

darkness fell the camp-fire was lighted, and the supply of fire-water

with which Red Snake had liberally provided himself while he was in

Bellevue was sent around. No limit was put upon it, and after a time

the prairies rung and the night was made hideous by the yelps and howls

and wild orgies of the Indians, who, unaccustomed to the poisonous

stuff, were made fairly mad and frantic by it.

When the start was made in the morning they were still drunk. Many of

them were like mad men, while others were stupefied and logy, scarcely

able to sit their ponies and utterly unfitted for the chase. Whether

the tales of Red Snake in regard to the great herds of buffalo between

them and the Minne-to-wauk-pala were intended as fiction or not they

turned out to be true, and shortly after daylight they spied a vast herd

feeding to the north of them, for which the Indians started with wild

whoops of delight.

Red Snake followed, cursing. His plan was not working out exactly as he

intended.

Riding like maniacs the crazed young warriors soon came close enough to

the herd to fire, and a volley of arrows whizzed through the air,

stinging and maddening the animals, and while not wounding severely

making them ready to fight.

Instead of fleeing in terror, as they did from gunfire, they turned

about and made a dash into the ranks of the drunken Indians, who,

utterly unprepared for such action, became panic-stricken and many of

those who sat their ponies unsteadily were thrown and trampled in the

wild stampede that followed, while others fired wildly and recklessly,

their arrows stinging and maddening the beasts, which gored and trampled

the hunters that fell at their feet.

With wild shouts Eagle Eye urged his pony in among them, trying with all

the might that was in him to rescue his friends, who, maddened and

stupefied by the deadly effects of the liquor they had drunk the night

before, were unable to help themselves.

As he stood with his bow curved, his arrow poised for flight, his eye

chanced to fall upon Red Snake, the baleful and malign influence that

had brought this and other troubles upon his people. Eagle Eye was a

hereditary chief, and loved his people with the love of a father.

Suddenly as he gazed upon the renegade white man a fierce anger burned

in his breast. He saw red. His blood surged madly through his veins.

And changing the aim of his arrow with the quickness of lightning he

bent his bow strongly and let it fly, carrying his vengeance with it.

He saw Red Snake throw up his hands, heard above the uproar his yell of

rage and pain, and saw him fall and the buffaloes charge on and over

him, galloping away over the plains.

When they had gone the survivors of the disaster, sobered by their

peril, drew close together and looked about them. On the ground were

strewn the carcasses of a number of buffaloes, and among them, mangled

and crushed out of all human semblance, were many of the young Indians

who had set out that morning so recklessly.

Black Bear, who remained unhurt, went among them turning over those that

lay face downward, lifting those that were alive, passing by those that

were dead with a grunt. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and stooped

over a prostrate figure. Eagle Eye moved nearer. As Black Bear lifted

the trampled and mangled form he saw that it was Red Snake.

"Is he dead?" he asked in his own language.

Black Bear put his ear to the chest of the wounded man.

"No, he is breathing," he answered in the same language.

"Then put him on your horse and take him home," thundered Eagle Eye.

"He is your friend. You brought him among us to bring death and trouble

and disgrace to your own people. Now look out for him. And you"--he

pointed his finger in the face of Black Bear with a look that made him

cringe, "go to the chief when you get there. I know what you were going

to do. I heard your plan. The chief will settle with you for it."

Without a word the Indian stooped and picking up the body of Red Snake

threw it across his horse, mounted behind it, and rode away. Eagle Eye

stayed behind to bury the dead, look after the wounded, and see that the

Indians who were too drunken to take care of themselves were mounted and

started back toward their village.

When he arrived Black Bear was there.

"Does Red Snake still live?" he asked.

"He still lives," replied Black Bear.

"So much the worse for you," Eagle Eye told him, and driving Black Bear

before him went straight to the lodge of the chief, where he told him

the whole story.

When it was finished the old man turned to Black Bear.

"Have you no love for your people," he asked, "that you are willing to

lead them to death and destruction? Well are you named 'Black Bear,'

who sees not the danger when his nose is tickled by the honey-pots of

strangers. You would have betrayed your people. You would have led

your own kindred into the snare laid for you by the white man who has a

bad heart toward Indians. You have caused the death of our young men.

You are not worthy to live in the lodge of your people. Go; from this

day forth you are no longer one of us. We cast you out. Now go!"

He slunk away, and at the same moment a young squaw entered the lodge of

the chief in search of Eagle Eye.

"You speak the tongue of the white man," she said. "Come!"

Leading him to a teepee not far away she pushed aside the skin that hung

over the door. He entered and saw Red Snake lying on a pile of skins

and blankets in a corner, crushed and bleeding, the seal of approaching

death upon his face.

As Eagle Eye approached him he opened his eyes.

"You die," said the Indian, looking down upon him sternly, his arms

folded across his breast.

Red Snake looked up, the dew of death upon his forehead.

"Yes," he sneered. "It's all over. The game's up--and I'm glad of it."

"Who are you? What you name?" asked Eagle Eye.

"No matter who I am. I've sacrificed all claim to the name I was born

with. I'll die as I have lived, as '_Red Snake,_' a squaw-man, a

renegade, a drunkard, an all-around bad egg."

As the words left his lips a shudder ran through his body, his eyes flew

wide, and he clutched wildly at his breast; then with a gasping breath

fell backward, the blood gushing from his lips.

Eagle Eye bent over him. The Indian head-dress had been lost or cast

aside and his thick mane of red hair fell loose about his face. Beneath

the buckskin shirt which he had thrust aside in his agony his skin was

smooth and white, and, as if in immutable justice for the deed that he

had done, a feathered arrow protruded from his breast.

The Indian stood looking down at the dead body for a moment, then

spurned it with his foot.

He turned presently and cast his keen eyes about the wigwam. With a

step as soft as that of a panther he skirted its walls, and from under a

heap of hides, blankets and rubbish in a corner drew forth a battered

tin box.

For a moment he stood holding it in his hands and gazing at it

curiously. Then he tucked it under his arm under his blanket, and with

a backward glance at the body and a muttered "Ugh!" lifted the flap and

passed out into the night.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*THE BLIZZARD*

With the coming of November, bitter winds and cold rains began to beat

across the prairies, and the thoughts of the pioneers were turned with

deep concern toward providing for the winter.

On an expedition up the river one day Joe and Lige came upon a quantity

of wild grapes and plums, and directly after the first frost the whole

family made a day's excursion to the place and returned laden with

bushels of fruit, a most precious commodity on the prairies, where other

fruits were not to be had. Mrs. Peniman set to work the next day and

made it up into jelly, jam, and preserves, which constituted a most

welcome addition to their meals throughout the winter.

The pressing work at hand kept the whole family busy from daylight until

dark, and December was upon them before they were aware.

Early in the month there came a break in the bad weather, followed by a

series of mild, warm days.

Joshua Peniman, who had been carefully going through his stores and

feeling some uneasiness in regard to the condition of their winter

supplies, hailed this weather with joy, and determined to take advantage

of it to make a trip to Omaha, then the nearest point at which they

could obtain the needed commodities.

When Mrs. Peniman was told of the project she looked much troubled. "It

has to be done, Hannah," he said, answering her look. "When the winter

storms set in we are liable to be blockaded here for months, and we must

be provided with sufficient supplies for our needs. Besides," he added

with a smile, "you know Christmas is coming. Santa Claus must not fail

to visit us this year--even if we are away out on the prairies."

"Dear man," she replied, patting his arm, "thee never fails to think of

everything, does thee? Of course Santa Claus must come this year. But

it chills my heart to think of thee crossing those dreadful prairies.

Of course Joe must go with thee----"

"No, Joe and Lige must stay here to guard you and the little ones. But

I will take Sam. He is a bright boy, and will be great help and company

for me. Come now, let us make out our lists, for I would like to start

this morning while the weather is bright and clear."

Before ten o'clock he was on his way, a long list of necessities in his

pocket and Sam by his side, driving Jim and Charley, now sleek and fat

and in fine condition from grazing on the rich grass of the prairies.

Joe and Lige were somewhat disappointed when they learned that they were

to be left behind, but when their father told them that he was leaving

them to take his place and act as the head of the house during his

absence the pride they felt in the trust he reposed in them almost made

up for the disappointment.

Sam, however, was jubilant. The prospect of the trip across the

prairies with his father, of again seeing a town, thrilled him, and he

chattered away gleefully as tucked cozily under the buffalo robes (made

from the hides of the animals Joe and Lige had killed in a great buffalo

hunt they had gone upon with Pashepaho), as they clattered away over the

prairies.

The first night they put up at Lancaster, the little settlement on Salt

Creek at which they had stopped on their way out, and the third day

reached Omaha, after a rather wearisome and uneventful journey.

They put up at the American House, and his father gave him three

dollars, and suggested that he might like to buy some things to bring to

the folks at home, and also to purchase some Christmas presents for the

family.

This was the first time that the thought of Christmas had come to him,

and it brought with it something of a shock.

_Christmas!_

This would be a queer Christmas, away out there on the plains all by

themselves!

He thought of the Christmases at home, of the comfortable old house

wreathed with greens and holly, of the great Christmas tree in the

parlor, the Christmas dinner, the stacks of presents, and the jolly

crowd of aunts and uncles and grandmother and cousins and other

relatives gathered about the board.

A wave of homesickness went over him, then the exciting thought of three

whole dollars to spend took possession of him and he forgot his homesick

feelings in planning what he should buy.

When his father set forth in the morning to make his purchases Sam, with

his three dollars locked firmly in his hand, ran from store to store.

He bought candy and peanuts and apples and popcorn, a lace scarf for his

mother, ties for Joe and Lige, ribbons for Nina, Ruth and Sara, a top

for Paul, a doll for Mary, and a hobby-horse and a large candy cane for

little David.

The candy cane took his last penny, and, in fact, he was obliged,

greatly to his embarrassment, to change his order from a larger to a

smaller candy cane, because the one he had selected cost three cents

more than he possessed.

Well satisfied with his purchases he returned to the American House,

where he found his father with the wagon loaded waiting for him, a fine

new heating-stove for the living-room standing up grandly behind the

seat.

"Jump in, son," he said quickly, "I have been waiting for thee. I want

to get on the way. I'm afraid from the looks of the sky we are going to

have a change in the weather."

They drove fast, and reached Lancaster by about six o'clock in the

evening, by which time it had grown much colder. They awoke the next

morning to find a grey sky and a high northwest wind blowing.

His father had bought an ear-cap and a pair of warm mittens for him in

Omaha, and these he was glad to put on, and he noticed when he took his

place in the wagon that hot bricks had been tucked away in the bottom

under the buffalo robes.

As they drove he noticed that his father was unusually quiet and kept

casting glances at the sky. He urged the team forward as fast as they

could go, even using the whip, a thing he would never do except in

extremities.

By ten o'clock the wind had risen and scattering snowflakes had begun to

fall. By noon the sky had changed to a deeper grey and the wind had

increased to a biting gale.

It was shortly after one o'clock, and they were clattering fast across

the prairies, when a sudden blackness, almost as of night, seemed to

fall upon them. For a moment the wind died down and a hush fell over all

the earth that was like the hush of death. All about them over the

vast, lonesome prairies came a tense, ominous silence, as if all nature

were holding its breath. Then, with a whoop and a shriek that was like

all the demons of the Inferno let loose, the blizzard was down upon

them.

Its onslaught was so fierce and sudden that it staggered the horses and

almost upset the wagon. The snow that came on the breath of the

terrific gale did not fall in flakes, but in solid whirling _sheets_,

which blinded, smothered, and utterly bewildered them. It stopped their

breath, it stung their eyes, it slashed and beat in their faces like the

beating of nettles.

All about them was a blackness almost like that of midnight, and the

eddying wall of swirling, blinding snow, driven by a ninety-mile gale,

caught them in its embrace, drove the breath from their lungs, froze on

their mouths and nostrils, and buffeted them with a fury that almost

left them senseless.

The horses, covered with snow almost as solidly as if it had been spread

over them with a trowel, stood with drooped tails and heads, dazed and

shivering, not knowing which way to go.

Through the demoniac shrieking of the wind Sam heard his father's voice.

"Get down in the bottom of the wagon under the robes," Joshua Peniman

shouted, and tried to urge the terrified horses forward against the

blast.

He knew that he dared not let them stop now. He knew that come what

would he must keep them going as long as they could stand. He could not

see a step before him. All about them was a maze, a stinging, dazzling,

whirling wall of white, that blown on the breath of the fierce northwest

wind pelted and buffeted the very breath from his body.

In a shorter time than would have been believed possible the prairies

were covered with snow, all traces of the wagon-trail blotted out, and

no indication anywhere which way to go.

The horses seemed utterly bewildered. Finding it impossible to keep

them headed against the blast, and fearing that if they once swerved

from the direction in which they had been traveling that he would lose

his sense of direction and become lost on the prairies, he leaped out of

the wagon, and grasping the terrified team by the bits led them forward,

resolutely keeping his face toward the west. He knew that the wind was

blowing from the northwest. If he kept it on his right cheek he knew

that he was keeping in the right direction.

The breath of the horses froze on their mouths and noses, and walking

beside them he had to continually wipe it away so that they could

breathe. Stumbling along, now protecting his own face and ears, now the

faces of the horses, he prayed continually for guidance and help.

Down in the bottom of the wagon against the hot bricks and under the

buffalo robes Sam gradually recovered his breath and began getting warm.

But fear and anxiety for his father made it impossible for him to keep

still.

He wiggled out of the robes and suddenly appeared at his father's elbow.

"You get in and get warm now, Father," he shouted above the shrieking of

the blizzard. "I'm warm now; let me walk by the team."

The temperature had fallen to thirty degrees below zero by this time,

and warning prickings of his face, ears and feet told Joshua Peniman

that he must take every precaution against freezing.

"Can you stand it for a few minutes?" he yelled, with his mouth close to

Sam's ear. "I'm afraid my feet are freezing. I'll get on some more

clothes and warm up a little, then I'll take them again. Keep the wind

on your right cheek all the time. The horses don't seem to know which

way to go."

Sam took the bits and his father climbed into the wagon. He rubbed his

face and ears with snow, took off his boots and rubbed his feet, then

warmed them against the hot bricks, put on his boots and wrapped his

feet in pieces torn from the blanket. With another strip of the blanket

he wrapped his head about, leaving only his eyes exposed. He knew that

the one hope of their getting through this storm alive was for him to

keep from freezing and able to direct their movements. When he had

protected himself as well as he was able he again sprang to the heads of

the floundering horses and sent Sam back into the wagon to rest and get

warm.

In this way they kept their blood circulating, and relieved one another.

He thanked his precaution of bringing the hot bricks many times. Under

the buffalo robes in the straw in the bottom of the wagon they could

escape the fury of the freezing gale, and by taking refuge there at

short intervals they were able to keep from freezing.

Every moment the blizzard seemed to increase. They could scarcely see

the struggling horses from the wagon now, and the snow, drifting on the

biting wind, was growing deeper and deeper all about them.

Sam, protected like his father with strips of the blanket tied around

his feet and wound about his head up to his eyes, was struggling at the

horses' heads when suddenly the wagon gave a lurch, tilted perilously,

then stopped.

The horses, up to their middles in snow, plunged and struggled, and

Joshua Peniman leaped out, looked, and uttered a deep groan. One of the

front wheels was broken at the hub.

For a single terrible moment the father and son stood gazing at the

damage, and hope almost vanished from their breasts. Then Joshua

Peniman set to work to liberate the plunging horses.

"We'll have to leave it," he shouted, struggling with his half-frozen

fingers at the traces. "We'll have to trust to the horses."

"But our wagon--the supplies--our Christmas presents----" Sam shouted

back, trying to raise his voice above the howling and shrieking of the

storm.

"Can't think of them now," gasped Joshua Peniman; "we'll be lucky if we

save ourselves!" And having got poor Charley loose from the disabled

wagon he lifted Sam up on his back, and wrapped him about with blankets

and one of the buffalo robes. Then taking the other robe from the wagon

he mounted Jim, and wrapping himself up as best he could led the way

straight into the teeth of the roaring, stinging vortex, that hissed and

shrieked like ten thousand demons about their heads.

"Keep close!" he shouted to the boy, "keep Charley's head right up

against Jim's tail! Don't lag, don't get out of my tracks or we're

lost!"

The drifts were now up to the bellies of the horses, and growing deeper

every moment. The wind had increased to a degree against which they

could scarcely stand, and the snow came down in such solid sheets of

blinding, dazzling white that they could not see a foot before them,

could not keep their eyes open against its pelting fury, might almost as

well have been stone blind, as they beat their way, struggling,

stumbling, floundering, against the storm.

After a few moments of frantic struggling the horses stood still,

shaking and trembling, instinct urging them to turn tail to the storm,

yet kept facing its cruel onslaught by the firm hand upon the reins.

Again and again one or the other of them stumbled and fell, and each

time they got to their feet with greater difficulty.

Joshua Peniman had given up trying to ride, and was again walking at

their heads, urging them on, patting, encouraging, helping them all he

could. He knew that none of them could last long. He knew that the

horses must soon fall and perish, and that no human creature could hold

out long against the cold that seemed to grow more intense with every

passing hour.

With all the strength, all the faith that was in him he prayed for help.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*TO THE RESCUE*

In the sod house on the prairies meanwhile there was fearful suspense

and anxiety.

From the moment of the departure of her husband and son Hannah Peniman

had watched the weather with an anxious eye. When the wind rose and the

snow began to fall fear took hold upon her. With eyes scanning the

horizon she went from door to window and window to door, hoping every

moment to see the wagon approaching over the prairie.

But the hours passed on and they did not come. As the temperature fell

and the wind rose her fears increased; and when the pall of darkness

fell, and with a whoop and shriek and roar that she could never forget

the blizzard swept down upon them, her heart almost died in her breast.

"A blizzard, a _blizzard_!" she moaned. "Oh, God, help them; God have

mercy on them out there on those plains in this storm!"

The children, terrified at the blackness, almost like that of night,

that had fallen over the prairies, and at the shrieking and howling of

the wind, gathered close about her. She concealed her own fears to

comfort them.

At the first approach of the storm the boys had put the cow and horses

in the dugout and closed the doors. At five o'clock when they started

out to feed them the door of the dugout was drifted half-way up to its

top with snow, and the wind was so terrific and the whirl of the wall of

snow so blinding and bewildering that they were unable to make their way

from the house to the dugout.

Lige, who had started out ahead of Joe, became lost almost before he had

left the shelter of the house, and were Joe not close behind him he

might have wandered away and perished on the plains.

Battling their way back to the house, holding to one another, they

sought the shelter of the kitchen, beaten, breathless, even in those few

moments almost frozen. When they made another attempt to get to the

dugout they were obliged to tie a rope to the handle of the door and

clinging to it grope their way to the dugout, where they made the line

fast, and when they had fed and attended to the stock were able to guide

themselves by it back to the house.

As the hours passed on and the travelers did not return the anxiety of

the family became almost unbearable. At last Joe drew his mother aside.

"I can't stay still any longer, Mother," he said. "It is getting dark.

Father and Sam ought to have been here long ago; they must have lost

their way in this blizzard. Let Lige and me go out to meet them."

Hannah Peniman turned her white face upon him.

"What good would that do?" she asked. "You could not find them--perhaps

you too would get lost--perhaps none of you would ever come home. Oh,

God, have I not given enough, enough!"

Joe took her hands. "But, Mother," he said firmly, "we can't stay here

and let Father and Sam perish in this storm without trying to save them!

Lige and I are strong--we can take ropes--we'll tie ourselves to the

house so we can always get back. We must go, Mother! They must have

got nearly home before the blizzard struck them. They may be out

there--not far away--lost and fighting their way through this storm----"

Hannah Peniman cried out and covered her face with her hands. A moment

later she turned to the boy and said quickly, "Yes, you must go. It is

thy duty--I would not keep thee from it. Go--go quickly! Thy father may

be needing thee!"

It was bitterly hard for Hannah Peniman to send her two oldest boys--all

that she and the little ones had to depend upon now--out into the

howling blizzard. As she gazed out into the whirling, blinding,

shrieking tempest it seemed to her almost like giving them up to

inevitable destruction. But her husband, another child, were out there

somewhere on those prairies in the blizzard. It was the duty of these

boys to go to their rescue. All her life Duty had been her guide. So

with prayers upon her lips and in her heart she wrapped them up and let

them go, fighting their way into the storm inch by inch, unwinding as

they went a great coil of rope that had been provided for a well-rope,

but which, fortunately, had not been put in use.

As the two lads emerged from the shelter of the sod house the storm

caught them in its icy embrace and almost drove the breath from their

bodies. They had the wind to their backs, so fortunately were not

obliged to head their way into it, but the cold was so intense that it

froze the breath in their nostrils, the lashes of their eyes, and the

wind so fierce that it fairly lifted them off their feet, causing them

to stagger and stumble in the great drifts of snow.

They were warmly clad and well protected, but they had not gone many

yards from the house when they began to realize how slight were the

chances that their father and brother, caught out upon the prairies in

this storm, could ever reach home. In twenty minutes their feet were

like chunks of lead, their hands numb and aching, their faces, in the

small space left exposed, tingling and freezing. Their breath was gone,

their limbs numb and lifeless, and an exhaustion so great upon them that

they were scarcely able to forge ahead and keep firm hold upon the rope.

As they stumbled and staggered forward, Joe, far in advance of his

brother, stopped abruptly, while a muffled cry came from his numb lips.

Spotty, whom they had taken with them, gave vent to a sharp, yelping

bark and leaped forward in the snow. Under a drift, with something

black protruding from its edges, lay a humped-up form.

Joe sprang to it with an agonized cry.

He bent and with his hands began to scrape away the snow, while Spotty,

whimpering loudly, aided him by digging at the drift with his sharp

claws. A body, lying face downward, was soon uncovered. Joe turned it

over quickly, then gave a choked, quivering sob of relief. The body was

that of an Indian.

Lige, fighting his way through the drifts with head bent almost to his

knees, heard Spotty's whining bark and stopped.

"What's the matter?" he called out. Then seeing the body, "My Lord,

_what is that_?"

"It's an Indian." Joe rose from his inspection shaking and trembling in

every limb. "It scared me almost to death. I--I thought at first it

might be--be--Father--or Sam."

"Who is it? Anybody we know?" Lige shouted above the howling of the

blizzard.

"No, never saw him before. Poor fellow, I suppose he lost his way in

the storm."

"I don't wonder," panted Lige; "I never saw such a storm. Lord, I wish

we knew where Father and Sam were! They can't live long in a storm like

this."

As they started forward there was a new fear, a new horror in their

hearts. The sight of the Indian, young, strong, inured to the hardships

of the plains, yet stark and dead in the drift, brought to them a

hideous picture of what at that very moment might be happening to their

father, older and not so agile and strong--and to Sam--their chum,

playmate and brother--little more than a child!

Lige had not approached the Indian, but with a shuddering glance had

pushed on. As Joe started forward his foot struck something imbedded in

the snow. At another time he would have stopped to see what it was, but

all his thoughts, all his fears were with his father out there in that

whirling, blinding, shrieking blizzard, and his one thought to reach him

if that was possible.

At the metallic click Lige turned and looked back.

"What was that?" he asked.

"I dunno, a tin can, I guess," answered Joe, and could not guess as he

plunged forward through the blizzard that the solution of the mystery

about which he had puzzled so much lay close at his feet.

When the two boys reached the utmost length of their rope they stood

still, not knowing what to do next. They knew to abandon it and go

forward would probably mean death, that they would soon become lost in

the tempest, in which they could tell neither location nor direction,

and probably perish in the storm.

They stood side by side, holding on to the rope and one another, their

backs to the wind, gasping, panting, exhausted, half-frozen from the

stinging blast that beat about them, half blinded by the snow that was

almost waist-deep where they stood, and which covered them from head to

foot while they stood still.

Spotty, crouched up close against them, whined and looked up in their

faces as if trying to ask why they should be out in that storm.

"Do you suppose we'd have any chance of finding them out there, Joe?"

Lige asked between chattering teeth.

"Not much," Joe answered huskily. "I don't believe anybody could live

long in this."

"I wonder if we shouted----"

"They'd never hear us through this blizzard."

"Let's try it anyhow. The wind is blowing that way. They might

hear--and if they were lost----"

Presently the two young voices were joined in a shout as loud as they

could force from their aching chests. Spotty hearing it seemed to get

some inkling that there was trouble and set up a loud barking. He ran

round and round them in circles, nosing in the snow, and when Joe

pointed off ahead into the reeling wall of the blizzard and cried "Go

get Sam, Spotty, go get Father!" he looked up in his face, whined,

barked, ran forward into the snow, then back to leap and bark about

them.

Again and again they shouted, calling upon their father's name, upon

Sam's, with all the strength that was in them.

After each shout they listened, straining their ears for a reply. But

all that came to them was the wild roaring of the blizzard, the

shrieking of the wind as it whipped up the snow and tossed it in

blinding clouds over the plains.

For long they stood, the cold eating into their very vitals.

At last Lige spoke. "I can't stand it any longer, Joe, I'm freezing to

death. Let's go on. They can't be very far----"

"If we ever get away from the rope we'll never get back home," answered

Joe. "And you know we've got to think of Mother and the girls. If

Father never comes back----"

His voice faltered and stopped.

"We'll have to go back then," gasped Lige; "we can't stand here any

longer. We'll both freeze to death."

They stood, the two young, strained faces turned toward the cruel storm,

their eyes trying to penetrate the reeling, swirling wall of white that

eddied and whirled about them.

At this moment, when all hope was dead in their hearts, when they had

both abandoned the last expectation of ever seeing their father and

brother alive again, there came to their ears a far, faint cry.

They clutched each other.

"What was that?" whispered Lige, trembling like an aspen leaf.

Joe's only answer was to draw in his breath and send forth a shout so

strong, so thrilling with the hope that awoke in his breast that even

the tempest seemed to heed it. For a second the wind seemed to ease,

and in that second they both called and shouted at the top of their

lungs again and again.

Spotty too had heard the call. He seemed to know now what the trouble

was, and what was expected of him. Barking loudly he plunged forward

through the drifts, constantly looking back and stopping to bark and

whine, as if begging the boys to follow him.

Only for a moment was he visible, then the storm closed about him and he

passed out of their sight.

Presently the call came again.

"It's them--it's Father--it's Sam!" the boys shouted in chorus.

"It's them, it's them! They're alive! They're out there somewhere.

Oh, Joe, let's go after them!" panted Lige.

For a moment Joe hesitated. All his heart was urging him to rush on

into the blinding tempest toward the point from whence the faint calls

came. But the judgment with which nature had gifted him, that judgment

that was to mean so much to so many people in his after life, restrained

him.

"No, we'd better stay here," he answered. "If we get away from the rope

we might get lost ourselves, and make things worse. We'll do them more

good by staying right here and shouting to them so we will guide them to

us. I believe by the sound they're coming nearer. Listen!"

Again they sent forth a great shout.

For a moment there was no sound other than the roaring of the blizzard,

then more distinctly than before came the answer.

"There!" shouted Joe, "it is nearer! They are coming this way. Listen!

That's Spotty barking! I believe he sees them! All we've got to do now

is to keep shouting."

With hope renewed they redoubled their shouts and yells. Nearer, and

yet nearer came the answer, and at last, staggering out of the wall of

white they could make out two huge shapeless bulks, which as they came

nearer gradually developed into two floundering, staggering horses, with

heads down and nostrils clogged and caked with ice and snow, and on

their backs two shapeless creatures, which they at last saw, with a joy

too great for expression, were their father and Sam, wrapped up in the

buffalo robes and blankets.

Behind them, before them, around and about them leaped Spotty, barking

and leaping upon them as if he could not express his joy. He it was who

had reached them in their bewilderment and guided them back to the rope.

They were hopelessly lost, had neither sense of location nor direction

left, and had been wandering about for hours in circles when they heard,

faint and far away, the sound of shouts. They answered, with all the

strength that was left in them, but even then so paralyzed and

bewildered had they become by cold and exhaustion that they should never

have been able to follow it, but that Spotty came bursting through the

storm like a guiding angel and barking and leaping about them had guided

them on.

With the blizzard at its height the worn and weakened party would never

have reached home but for the rope that anchored them to safety.

Holding tight to it and leading the way Joe and Lige beat their way

forward leading the almost dying horses, whose knees were fairly giving

way beneath them from exhaustion, while the man and boy upon their backs

were almost insensible from numbness and cold.

It seemed an endless fight against the tempest, but the rope held, and

step by step they fought their way back by its aid, until suddenly out

of the impalpable shroud that wrapped them in its icy embrace they

fairly bunted into the walls of the dugout.

"_The dugout!_" gasped Joe, "thank God, oh, thank God! I began to fear

we would none of us live to get home!"

Seizing Jim's bridle he led him up to the wall and lifted his father

down in his strong young arms. Lige was already lifting Sam from

Charley's back, so weak, so numb and exhausted that he could neither

move nor speak.

As Joe was staggering toward the house with his father in his arms the

door was burst open and Mrs. Peniman rushed out into the storm.

"Thank God, thank God!" she sobbed over and over, as together they

lifted the wayfarers into the house, rubbed snow on their frozen faces

and ears, got them into hot blankets, poured hot drinks and nourishment

into them, and worked over them until life began to revive. Then they

got them into bed with hot irons about them, and with a gratitude and

thankfulness too great for words saw them gradually fall into a natural

and healthy sleep.

Sam had a badly frozen ear, two frost-bitten toes, and a frosted finger,

and Mr. Peniman's left foot was so badly frozen that it was many weeks

before he could walk again. But these injuries were as nothing compared

to the fact that they had come out of the most terrible blizzard ever

known in the territory alive, and the thought that the lost was found,

the dear ones given up as dead restored to life again, was joy enough to

overbalance any amount of pain.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*CHRISTMAS ON THE PRAIRIES*

The blizzard which so nearly cost Joshua Peniman and Sam their lives

raged unabated for three days. When it was over the prairies lay a vast

wilderness of unbroken white from horizon to horizon, the snow lying

five feet deep on the level.

For several days Mr. Peniman was compelled to remain in bed, completely

prostrated by the experience he had been through. But Sam, though

somewhat frost-bitten in places, awoke the next morning as well as ever,

and greatly exalted by the sense of being a hero.

The blizzard was followed by a spell of bitterly cold weather, the

thermometer going down to thirty-six below. While the family all felt

great anxiety about the abandoned wagon and its precious contents it was

impossible to go after it until the weather moderated. In the meantime

they employed the hours of the long cold days by making runners, one

pair of which they affixed to Joe's wagon, carrying the other pair with

them when a day at last came when the weather had so far moderated that

they dared face it without danger of freezing.

They set out with all six horses, Jim and Charley drawing the wagon on

runners, in which Mr. Peniman, Joe, Sam, and Lige rode, Joe leading his

own team and Lige the Carroll horses, which had been rechristened Major

and Nellie.

There was a hard, solid crust over the deep drifts, that carried them

safely, and the sun sparkled like diamonds over the vast unbroken

expanse of spotless white. On their way they saw three grey wolves and

ten elk, which came within two hundred yards of them, driven to forget

fear by hunger.

As the improvised sledge glided smoothly over the snow the thoughts of

the whole party were busy with the dangers and terrors of the blizzard.

"It was just about here that we found that poor old Indian, Lige," said

Joe, scanning the snow-covered prairies about them.

"Yes; I don't see any sign of him now though," replied Lige.

"What Indian?" asked Mr. Peniman.

"When we were coming out to meet you we came upon the body of an Indian,

dead and half-covered by snow," answered Joe. "I thought after we'd got

you safe home we'd come back and bury him; but I guess the snow has done

that better than we could, poor fellow!"

"Did you know him?"

"No, I never saw him before."

"Did you see any signs of any other Indians about?"

"No, he seemed to be all alone. And the funny thing to me was that we

didn't see any signs of his pony. It seemed queer that an Indian should

be way off here alone, on foot."

"If you'd looked far enough you would probably have found his pony in

some draw or ravine. The poor fellow probably got lost in the blizzard,

and feeling himself freezing to death deserted his horse in a drift

somewhere, perhaps, and was making for some place of shelter when cold

and exhaustion overcame him."

"Golly, it sure gave us a shock when we found him," broke in Lige; "I

didn't see him, but Joe thought at first it was you or Sam."

"Thank God it was not," said Joshua Peniman fervently. "I know what the

poor fellow must have suffered. I thought at one time his fate would

surely be ours."

They found the wagon exactly where they had left it, completely covered

over by a drift, its contents undisturbed, and practically uninjured by

the storm.

When it was unloaded they removed the wheels and affixed to the bottom

the extra pair of runners. They then replaced the contents, harnessed

Kit, Billy, and black Major to it, while Jim, Charley, and Nellie were

put to the other wagon. It was well for them that they had six powerful

horses to pull the load, for weighted as the wagons now were they

continually broke through the crust, and the journey back to the

homestead required constant use of picks and shovels, and all the

strength, initiative, and energy of both drivers and horses.

They reached home at last, and as soon as they had warmed, eaten, and

rested a little immediately set to work to install the new

heating-stove.

That night the family did not shiver about the stove in the kitchen, but

clustered about in the warm glow of the new heater, cozy and

comfortable, and thankful from the bottoms of their hearts, they enjoyed

with the relish of appetites long denied the candy and popcorn and

peanuts that Sam had brought to them.

That winter--the winter of 1856-7--will long be remembered on the

prairies. From December until March storm followed storm, blizzard

followed blizzard, the time between filled in with the coldest weather

ever known in the west.

The young Penimans, who had run as free as wild antelopes over the

plains ever since their arrival, were now compelled to stay in the

house, which, small and circumscribed as it was, was sometimes almost

too small to hold them.

One morning when the snow drove against the windows and a bitter wind

howled across the prairies Mrs. Peniman looked across the breakfast

table at her husband with a smile.

"Father," she said, "does thee not think that the time has come for us

to begin our school?"

"I certainly do, my dear," replied Joshua Peniman. "I was thinking of

suggesting it this morning. The children have been out of school too

long now, but with all the work we had to do to make living conditions

possible for the winter we have not had time to get our school started

before. But now is the time to do it. They cannot be outdoors, there is

little work about the place that can be done in this weather, and it

will occupy their time and attention."

"But we haven't any school to go to, Father," cried Ruth, "nor any books

or teachers!"

Mrs. Peniman laughed. "Just wait and see," she said. "Your school is

going to be right here, and Father and I will be the teachers. Didn't

you know that Father used to be a teacher in the Friends' School at

home? And the books are right in the trunk over there."

"I don't want to go to school," grumbled Sam, "I want to play outdoors."

"I do," cried Joe. "I want to study. Can you teach us history and

language and algebra, Father?"

Mr. Peniman smiled. "I have taught older and wiser boys than you, Joe,

and I think I can teach you any branches that you will need to take up

now."

"All right then, I'm all for it," declared Lige; "let's get our school

started this morning."

It was quite a game after all, and they all entered gaily into the

spirit of it, everybody helping to push the furniture about and arrange

boxes and tables and chairs for the "school."

Mrs. Peniman took Sara, Paul, Mary, and David into the rear part of the

sod house and drew the curtains between, and Mr. Peniman got out the

school-books they had brought with them from Ohio and set Joe, Lige,

Sam, Nina, and Ruth at work.

The program was so arranged that while some of the more advanced pupils,

as Joe and Lige, were studying, the less advanced, as Sam and Ruth, were

reciting. As Sam and Ruth had always kept pretty well together in their

classes they were a great help to one another, but Nina was a problem.

While far in advance of Sam and Ruth in English, geography, reading, and

spelling, she was hopelessly behind them in grammar and mathematics.

Indeed her whole curriculum of studies had been so superficially and

sketchily acquired that Mr. Peniman scarcely knew what to do with her.

"I think I'll have to put you up a grade, Nina," he told her jokingly.

"You are far and away beyond Ruth and Sam, yet I hardly think that on

account of your arithmetic you could keep up with Lige and Joe."

"Oh, please do put me up with Lige and Joe, Father Peniman," begged

Nina; "I have never really studied in my life, but I believe that I

could keep up if I studied with Joe."

At first she made sad work of her lessons. Her work was brilliant but

superficial, and Mr. Peniman, who insisted on thoroughness, was

completely discouraged with her. On one occasion when she had signally

failed in a recitation and had retired to her seat in tears Joe came to

her side to comfort her.

"You don't know how to study, that's what's the matter with you,

Princess," he told her. "Let me help you. We'll get our lessons

together this evening."

Nina smiled up at him through her tears. "Oh, thank you, thank you,

Joesy," she whispered. "I know I don't know how to study. I never

really went to school, I always had governesses and tutors and never had

to. But I can learn--I know I can--if you will teach me." And after

that Joe and Nina always studied together, Joe's thorough, methodical

mind acting as a balance as well as an incentive to the more brilliant

but less logical mind of Nina.

Mrs. Peniman meanwhile with her little flock gathered about her knees

had various and sundry milestones on the road of knowledge to start

from. While Paul read and spelled well, wrote a fine large hand and had

been initiated into the mysteries of addition, subtraction,

multiplication, and division, Sara was only staggering through simple

addition, stumbled sadly in reading, and was still scrawling huge

hieroglyphics that only by the greatest courtesy could be called

writing, Mary knew her letters and was in the c-a-t, cat, and r-a-t,

rat, stage of development, and little David was still at sea in an ocean

of letters, from which he could pick out a round O or a crooked S on

occasion.

It was not easy teaching, but the parents had given up their home and

friends and all the comforts of life to obtain for these young people

greater and better opportunities, and were not to be balked by small

difficulties. Day after day while the snow fell and the wind howled

across the prairies the little school went on, and soon began to grow

accustomed to the conditions, and the pupils to make rapid strides.

They rose early, and while Mr. Peniman and the older boys went outside

to do the necessary work, Mrs. Peniman with Ruth, Nina, and Mary got the

breakfast, washed up the dishes, made the beds, put the house in order,

and arranged the two rooms for the "school" by nine o'clock, when the

father and boys came in to begin the morning session.

At noon Mrs. Peniman dismissed her little pupils, with orders to play

quietly and not disturb the students in the front part of the house,

while she prepared dinner. At twelve-thirty Mr. Peniman closed the

morning session, and they all ran out for a tussle with the wind or a

frolic in the snow before dinner. When the meal had been eaten and

cleared away the afternoon session was begun, and until four o'clock the

little sod house was a very hive of activity, after which time they were

all free, and while Mr. Peniman and the boys went out to do the evening

chores and other outside work the younger children romped about until

supper time, soon after which they all went to bed.

On the morning of December 24th Mr. Peniman announced at the breakfast

table that they were to have a half holiday.

"As this is the day before Christmas," he continued, "I think we will

have to go out and see if we can't find some mistletoe and greens of

some kind, and a tree that might serve for a Christmas tree."

"_A Christmas tree?_" the children all shouted in a breath. "Are we

going to have a _Christmas tree?_"

"Why, of course," smiled Mrs. Peniman. "Santa Claus has never failed to

visit us yet, has he, Ruthie? And I don't believe he'll forget us this

year, even if we are away off out here on the prairies."

Nina looked up with beaming eyes. "Oh, I'm so glad! I thought maybe we

weren't going to have any Christmas. I've been thinking and thinking

about it, but I didn't like to say anything, 'fraid it would make you

feel badly."

"We'll have some kind of a Christmas, my dear," said Mr. Peniman. "It

may not be the kind of a Christmas that you have always been accustomed

to, but we will celebrate the dear day in some way."

Directly after dinner they all set off down the river bank, the boys in

high boots, ear-caps, big coats, and mittens, the girls muffled to the

eyes in coats, furs, scarfs, big Alaska overshoes, and leggings, and

Mrs. Peniman looking very fat and pudgy in a pair of Mr. Peniman's

trousers, over which she wore a huge woolly coat and hood, with scarf

and mittens, and was bundled up so she looked like the Little Old Woman

Who Lived in the Shoe.

They all set out in high spirits, and slid, slipped, coasted, snowballed

and indulged in wild frolics over the snow, while Mr. and Mrs. Peniman

took turns riding on the sled, which their wild young chargers took

delight in upsetting as often as possible.

After long search they at last found a young pine tree which came to a

fine apex at the height of about five feet, and in the woods they found

bright red berries, mistletoe in the tops of some trees, which Lige and

Sam were only too pleased to climb, and deep under the snow some

kinnikinick, which with its dainty green leaves and red berries made

wonderful decorations.

They returned home with the sled laden and in high glee.

The tree was set up in a corner of the soddy that evening after supper,

and when pop-corn was strung from limb to limb, apples and oranges hung

from the branches, small sacks of candy tied on, and the candles, which

Mr. Peniman had thoughtfully provided on his almost fatal trip to Omaha,

carefully disposed among the branches and lighted, it was a gorgeous

sight. Beneath it on the floor were a great heap of queer-looking bumpy

bundles, to which each one brought his or her contribution with great

secrecy, and which were not one of them opened until the next morning.

It was scarcely light on Christmas morning when a great jingling outside

(which _of course_ no one recognized as the notes of the dinner-bell)

announced the arrival of Santa Claus.

There was a great hemming and hawing, a great stamping of feet in the

snow, and then the door opened, and Santa Claus, in a marvelous wig and

whiskers (made out of the wool of a pair of old grey woolen stockings)

and a wonderful costume (which of course no one recognized as a suit of

red flannel underwear elegantly trimmed in strips of white cotton

flannel), came prancing in with a sack on his back and began dispensing

presents with a generous hand.

There were dolls for Mary and Sara, writing paper and ribbons and pretty

handkerchiefs for Nina and Ruth, books and neckties for Joe, ties,

handkerchiefs and a handsome muffler for Lige, balls and bats and tops

and gloves for Sam and Paul, and a great lot of toys, including the

remarkable hobby-horse that Sam had bought him, for little David.

But if the children had been remembered well neither Mr. nor Mrs.

Peniman had been forgotten. Mrs. Peniman's heart was deeply touched by

the gift of a beautiful white apron, made from one of her own pretty

white dresses with infinite pains and secrecy by Nina, who gave Ruth a

beautiful sash-ribbon with hair ribbons to match out of her own little

store, Sara ribbons, a sash ribbon and a pretty white dress, and Lige

and Sam her own gold pencil and a box of drawing crayons. But to Joe

she gave her dearest treasure, a pretty red morocco book of verses,

which her father had given to her on her last birthday, with an

inscription written on the inside which deeply touched Joe's heart. For

Mr. Peniman she had made a penwiper out of one of her own little felt

shoes.

Joe and Lige had nothing to give their father and mother but their

kisses and love, but for each of the children they had made or contrived

in secret some little toy that added to the merriment of the day, and

fully as welcome and as much appreciated as if they had come from a city

store. Mrs. Peniman delighted her husband by bringing forth from one of

the knobby bundles under the tree three fine new shirts, made at night

and in secret with the labor of her own tired hands, and Mr. Peniman

handed to her a bundle from beneath the tree, that had come all the way

from Omaha the day of the blizzard, and had lain out in the wagon under

the snow for more than a week. It contained a handsome new dress, which

everybody praised and admired tremendously, and was as delighted over as

if it had been given to themselves.

Altogether it was a most wonderful Christmas.

The dinner, at which a wild turkey took the place of the usual tame one,

and at which the wild grape jelly and the plum preserves and a real plum

pudding (made weeks before and hidden away for the occasion), was

pronounced a grand success.

The afternoon was spent in games, winding up with a great snow-frolic,

and snow-cream for supper. But when the evening came and the younger

children had gone to bed the others gathered close about the fire and

quiet gradually settled down upon them.

It had been a happy day, but now as the evening shadows gathered

memories of other Christmases came out of the dusk and lingered about

them.

To Mr. and Mrs. Peniman the memory of the little one they had lost, the

tiny grave left behind there on the desolate loneliness of the prairies,

was seldom out of their thoughts. And now as their thoughts traveled

back over the past, bringing up to them the memories of Christmas at the

old home, and the dear ones they were perhaps never to see again, there

came a deep sadness that neither of them would permit themselves to

express.

To Joe and Lige and Sam and Ruth this Christmas evening was also

bringing memories. They could never forget the old home they had loved

so well in the Muskingum Valley, nor the dear grandmother, the aunts and

cousins and friends whom they had left behind.

But to Nina, sitting with her chin cupped in her hand and her lovely

violet eyes gazing into the fire, came the saddest memories. She

thought of her last Christmas, and of that dear father and mother whom

she had so loved and who had always done so much to make her life a

happy one, and the tears brimmed her eyes. She thought of her father's

illness, the strange cloud that always seemed to be hanging over them,

of their journey westward, and of the tragic death of both her parents

on the plains. She remembered as if she had seen it yesterday the two

long graves, side by side, with the wooden cross at the head and the

morning sunlight shining down upon the fresh earth and newly-turned sod.

Then her thoughts went forward over the months since, with all the

mystery and terror that had surrounded her, and a great wonder and

terror grew in her mind. Wonder of that mystery that hung about her;

terror of that menace that seemed to so darkly pursue her; fear of what

the years might have in store for her, who knew so little of who she was

or where she belonged.

As the recollection of her lonely state came over her she heaved a deep,

quivering sigh. The room was in darkness except for the firelight that

threw its flickering light upon their faces, and as tears welled into

her eyes she felt a hand slipped into her own and turned to see Joe

sitting on a box at her feet and looking up at her with an expression of

such deep tenderness and sympathy in his eyes that she knew he

understood what was passing in her mind.

"It's all right, Joesy," she whispered, blinking the tear-drops from her

lashes; "I was only thinking--and you know----"

"I know, Princess," he said, pressing her hand tenderly, "I know."

That was all. But it was enough for Nina. The pressure of that warm,

strong young hand in hers, the sympathy in those honest grey eyes,

banished the shadows that had been creeping round her as if by magic.

Somehow the knowledge that Joe was near, that Joe understood, chased

away the feeling of loneliness and mystery, and made her feel safe and

happy again.

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*RUTH MAKES A DISCOVERY*

The winter passed swiftly. With the school to take up their time and

attention in the daytime and games and talk and popping corn and telling

stories in the evening the time crept by, and almost before they knew it

it was spring.

March brought sunny days, thawing weather and big rains, with blue skies

and balmy winds that soon melted the snow and sent it scurrying in

foaming torrents down the beds of all the creeks and streams.

Very soon after the snows began to go a wonderful thing happened.

They woke one morning to see a train of emigrant wagons coming across

the plains, and that day a new settler came to the Blue River, bringing

with him a wife, two sons and a daughter.

They came directly to the Penimans' homestead for advice and directions,

and the original settlers on the river were delighted beyond measure to

find them refined and intelligent people, who, like themselves, had

desired to better their condition and had dared the dangers of the

frontier life to provide themselves with wider opportunities and a

better home.

The name of the family was James, and they came from Iowa. The two

sons, Herbert and Arthur, were seventeen and fifteen, while the

daughter, Beatrice, was nearly the same age as Ruth, a pretty,

fair-haired, slender girl, with soft brown eyes that looked like the

heart of a pansy.

They remained with the Peniman family that day, and the two families

fraternized immediately. It was a great joy to those who had been

living in such lonely conditions to meet and talk with people from the

outside world. Mrs. James and Mrs. Peniman exchanged confidences in

regard to heating and housing and obtaining fuel and provisions, the men

talked farm-land and crops and sod houses and dugouts, while the young

people explored the river and became friends from the very beginning.

Few papers or news of any kind had reached the homestead during the

winter, and Joshua Peniman heard with a sinking heart of the slavery

agitation that seemed to be continually increasing and growing daily a

greater menace to the security of the nation. Joe, too, was listening

to the news from the outside world with great interest. Herbert James,

a tall, fine-looking, manly young fellow of seventeen, who had been

attending school in the East, was full of the threatening conditions of

the country. He talked of the issue with keen, intelligent interest,

and Joe listened with a strange thrill passing through his breast. The

two boys soon became fast friends, while Lige and Arthur, who was past

fifteen, also struck up a great friendship. Ruth, usually shy and quiet

with strangers, expanded sunnily in the company of Beatrice, and she and

Nina soon became fast friends with her, a friendship that endured to the

very end of their lives.

Nothing else could have brought the satisfaction and joy to the Peniman

family as did the coming of this pleasant, intelligent family. It

brought to them companionship, added protection from the dangers that

always surround the pioneer, and the added incentive of a new element in

the making of their home on the prairies. The whole Peniman family went

with them to select their location, which they had all decided should be

very near, planned with them the site of their house, helped them in

building it, assisted them in every way through those first hard months

that are the lot of the pioneer in a new country, and gave them the

benefit of their valuable experience. The James family settled on a

tract of land about half a mile to the west of them, and it was a relief

to each family to know that the other was within call.

The Jameses had brought with them a pony that Beatrice had always ridden

and was exceedingly fond of, and one of the joys of the girls' early

acquaintance was in taking turns riding on the back of gentle Flora.

Ruth took to riding as a duck to water. In a few days she could ride as

well as her instructor, and was never so happy as when cantering over

the prairies on Flora's back.

One day toward the first of April, when the sun was shining brightly and

a pleasant breeze blowing, she asked her mother if she might not take a

little ride.

Mrs. James remarked that it would be perfectly safe, as Flora was most

gentle and reliable, and Mrs. Peniman gave her consent, cautioning her

not to go too far away.

Ruth had always been a passionate lover of animals, and the feel of the

horse under her, the curve of the soft neck under her hand, the swift,

smooth pace, exhilarated her as nothing had ever done before.

The snow was going fast, only in places now were there remains of the

great drifts that had covered the plains throughout the winter. As she

cantered on she looked at them, wishing that they were all gone and that

the beautiful wild-flowers which adorn the prairies in the spring would

soon come to gladden their hearts and eyes.

Suddenly as she rode Flora started and swerved, and it was well for Ruth

that she had a tight hold on the saddle or she would have gone off over

her head.

"Why, Flora," she cried in surprise, "what's the matter?" then started

violently herself, as she looked down and saw, partially concealed by

the remains of a great drift, the legs and feet of a man.

She checked the pony abruptly and sat still, not knowing what to do.

Then, being a brave girl and a true little pioneer, she scrambled down

from the pony's back, slipped the bridle over her arm, and going to the

body kneeled down and scraped away the snow that covered it.

It was still in good condition, the bitter cold of the winter and the

snow packed about it having preserved it perfectly. As Ruth pushed

aside the snow that concealed the face she screamed aloud.

"_Eagle Eye_! Oh, poor, poor Eagle Eye!" and being a real little woman

she sat down beside the body and began to cry.

For a long time she kneeled beside the body of the young Indian whom she

had so tenderly nursed back to health. The face looked just as she had

seen it often, keen, thin, silent, the eyes closed, the grave lips

motionless, the bronze-hued features set in the dignified mold of death.

"Eagle Eye, Eagle Eye," she called to him softly, placing her hands on

his and bending nearer. "Oh, poor Eagle Eye, where have you been; how,

_how_, did this terrible thing happen to you?"

The cold, immovable face remained impassive, the grave set lips made no

reply.

She rose presently, and stood for a time looking down upon him. She

knew that the body must not be left lying exposed on the prairie; that

wolves, vultures, coyotes, the hideous carrion-crows would soon find it.

"I'll come back, Eagle Eye," she said as she left him, "even if you were

not grateful to us for what we did for you, we will see that you have a

proper burial." She mounted the pony and had started to ride away when a

little distance farther on she saw a black object in the snow. Curious

as to what it might be she rode to it. As she slipped from the pony's

back and stooped over it she saw that it was a black tin box, which had

once had a lock, which had been broken and torn away.

She examined it curiously, then tucking it under her arm rode home as

fast as Flora could carry her.

"Mother, oh, Mother," she shouted as she burst into the house, "I found

Eagle Eye--our Eagle Eye--lying out there on the prairie--_dead_--under

a snowdrift!"

"_Eagle Eye_? You mean our Eagle Eye? The young Indian we took care of

after he was shot?" cried Mrs. Peniman, running to her.

"Yes, yes," the tears were running down Ruth's cheeks now; "oh, yes,

Mother, our own Eagle Eye; and oh, Mother, he was lying right under a

drift, and I saw his feet, and when I uncovered his face I saw that it

was Eagle Eye. He must have got lost in the blizzard----"

"What's this? Who was lost in the blizzard?" asked Mr. Peniman, who had

entered the house in time to hear the last words.

Mrs. Peniman explained to him.

"_Eagle Eye?_" he ejaculated; "he must have been trying to come to us!

He must have got lost in the storm! Perhaps he had some message to

bring to us--perhaps he was not so ungrateful, so careless as he

seemed----"

He stopped short, his eyes fixed with a strange stare upon the box that

Ruth had entirely forgotten, and which she still clutched under her arm.

"_Ruth!_" he shouted, "_where did you get that box_? Where did it come

from? How in the name of heaven----"

Ruth, startled half out of her wits at his face and voice, held out the

box she had found on the prairies.

"I found it, Father--out there on the prairies--just a little way from

where Eagle Eye was lying. Why, Father, what is the matter? What makes

you look so--so----"

Her words died away as her father leaped forward and snatched the box

from her hands. She saw him stoop and examine it, saw him stare into

her mother's face, and saw her mother turn pale, as she murmured in a

shaking voice, "The dispatch-box--the dispatch-box!"

Ruth had heard of the dispatch-box, although she had no remembrance of

having ever seen it.

"_The dispatch-box_? Nina's dispatch-box--that we lost--that was stolen

from us by the Indians?"

But neither Father nor Mother heard her. Tears had sprung to Mrs.

Peniman's eyes and were rolling down her cheeks, as she murmured over

and over, "Poor Eagle Eye, poor loyal, grateful friend, how unjust, how

unjust we have been to you!"

Joshua Peniman was examining the box. The lock was gone, but the box

had been roughly wrapped about and tied with a piece of deer-hide, and

appeared to have remained undisturbed while it lay on the prairies.

"He was bringing it to us," he said in a low voice. "You remember,

Hannah, that I told him the whole story. I did not know then how much

he understood. But he must have understood it all. He went back to his

own people and got the papers, and was bringing them to us when the

blizzard overtook him. Poor Eagle Eye, poor loyal friend, he gave his

life in our service." After a moment's thought he went on: "I wonder

how he got it? I wonder what became of Red Snake? If he knows that

this box has been taken from him he will never rest until he has his

revenge and gets it back again."

"God protect us," whispered Mrs. Peniman, turning pale.

Joshua Peniman handed her the box quickly. "Put it away carefully," he

said. "We will examine it more carefully when I come back. Just now

our first duty is to Eagle Eye. Call the boys, Ruth. We must go after

the body at once. I could not sleep this night knowing that the body of

our faithful friend was lying uncovered on the plains."

When they reached the spot where the body was lying Joe uttered a

surprised exclamation.

"Why, that's the Indian Lige and I found the night you were lost in the

blizzard! I remember him perfectly. But I had never seen him before.

You know I was away all the time Eagle Eye was at our house. Lige never

looked at him at all, we were both so cold, and so scared and anxious

about you. How do you suppose he came to be here?"

"He was coming to us, Joe," Mr. Peniman answered solemnly. "He was

bringing to us a thing that we--all of us--would have been willing to

pay any price to receive. And he gave his life in our service."