ACROSS THE PLAINS.
THE MOMENT Julian’s eyes rested upon the strange horseman he asked
himself where he had seen him before. There was something about him
that looked familiar. He was dressed in rough clothing, like the rest
of the emigrants, wore high-top boots and a broad felt hat. His hair
was cut close to his head, and his face, which was dark and haughty,
was clean shaven; although the blue shade about his chin and upper
lip showed that goatee and mustache had recently been growing there.
His voice sounded strangely familiar, too, although Julian could not
recollect where he had heard it before.
The man announced that he was bound for San Francisco, and that having
been obliged to make his preparations for the journey in great haste,
in order to join that wagon train, he had had no opportunity to lay in
a supply of provisions. As their mess appeared to be small he would
be glad to join it, if the men had no objections, and was willing to
pay liberally for the privilege. Julian’s new friends had no objection
whatever. They liked good company, and if the stranger would agree to
pay his share of the provisions he might come in and welcome. And so
the matter was settled, and the new-comer became a member of Julian’s
mess.
Our hero had never carried a lighter heart than he did during that
afternoon’s ride. He no longer felt that he was utterly forsaken in the
world. He had some one to talk to now—men who had never seen or heard
of him before, who did not even know his name, but who nevertheless
sympathized with him and took an interest in his affairs. And it was
because these new-found friends were strangers to him that Julian
felt safe in their company. He was still suspicious of the guide,
notwithstanding the high terms of praise in which he had been spoken of
by the members of his mess, and he disliked the appearance of the new
emigrant also.
The latter seemed desirous of cultivating the boy’s acquaintance. He
addressed a good many of his remarks to him, and whenever he said
anything that he thought to be particularly interesting or witty,
he would look at Julian and wink. This was quite enough to excite
the boy’s suspicions; but he comforted himself with the thought that
neither the guide nor the emigrant would dare molest him in the
presence of the whole wagon train, and that he would take care never to
be left alone with them.
The afternoon passed quickly away, and it was sunset almost before
Julian knew it. His day in the saddle had severely tested his
endurance, and he was glad indeed when the train came to a halt. Being
desirous of showing his new friends that he appreciated their kindness
to him, he assisted them in making the camp, unharnessing the mules,
providing the wood for fire, and bringing the water with which to fill
the camp-kettle. The guide, whom he had not seen during the whole of
the afternoon, made his appearance when supper was ready, and so did
the emigrant; but the latter did not approach the fire. He stopped at a
respectful distance, looked hard at Silas, whose back was turned toward
him, and then walked quickly out of sight. Julian, astonished at his
singular behavior, looked around at the other members of the mess to
see if any beside himself had observed it; but the men were too busy
with their corn-bread and bacon to pay any attention to what was going
on outside their own camp.
Supper over, Silas and his companions stretched themselves on their
blankets to enjoy their pipes, while Julian busied himself in gathering
up the dishes and packing the remains of the supper away in the wagon.
This done, he went out for a stroll down the road; he wanted to see how
the camp looked by moonlight.
The day’s journey, although it had been a hard and fatiguing one,
seemed to have had no effect upon the spirits of the emigrants, who
were as merry and laughed and sang as loudly as when they left St.
Joseph. They seemed to be supremely happy and contented, and Julian did
not wonder at it. They had everything their hearts could desire to make
them happy, and he had everything to make him miserable. If he had had
parents and brothers and sisters there he would have laughed too, and
felt as light of heart as the best of them. But there was not a soul
with whom he could claim relationship in less than a thousand miles,
and perhaps not in the world. Julian was falling into his melancholy
mood again, and he wanted to be alone; the sounds of merriment grated
harshly on his ears. He left the camp and hurried down the road. On he
went, regardless of the flight of time, through the woods in which the
wagons had halted, to the prairie that lay beyond, brooding over the
past and speculating on the future.
How long his fit of abstraction continued he could not have told;
but when he came to himself the camp-fires were out of sight, and he
was standing on an extensive plain which stretched away before him
as far as his eyes could reach, without even a tree or bush to break
the monotony. He was alone; there was not a living thing within the
range of his vision. This was Julian’s first glimpse of the prairie,
and it was not without its effect upon him. He gazed in wonder. What
an immense region it was that lay between him and his home—all India
could be put into it twice, he had read somewhere—and until that
moment what a ridiculously faint conception he had had of it! What
would he not have given to have been able to tell what lay beyond it?
He listened but not a sound came to his ears. An unearthly silence
brooded over the vast expanse—a silence so deep that he could hear the
beating of his own heart. Julian was awed, almost frightened by it; and
turning quickly about he started for the camp at the top of his speed.
Perhaps Julian would have been really frightened if he had known that
he was not so utterly alone as he imagined himself to be. There were
no less than four persons in sight of him all the while, and part of
the time, five. Three of them were Sanders and the men who had left St.
Joseph in his company. Having watched the train from a safe distance
all that day, they entered the camp as soon as it grew dark to satisfy
themselves that the boy of whom they were in search was among the
emigrants. They saw him as he strolled through the woods and followed,
hoping to find an opportunity to make a prisoner of him. The fourth
man, who watched every move Julian made during the time he remained
within sight of him, and who carried in his hand a revolver cocked
and ready for use, was the emigrant; and the fifth was Silas Roper.
The latter, unlike the others, who made use of every tuft of grass to
cover their bodies, walked erect down the road, keeping always within
rifle-range of Julian, whose form, being clad in dark garments, was
thrown out in bold relief against the gray background of the prairie.
The emigrant saw him, if Julian did not, and for some reasons of his
own thought it best to abandon his pursuit of the boy. He concealed
himself in the grass until the trapper had passed on, and then
scrambled to his feet and slunk away in the direction of the camp.
Julian had not retraced his steps very far before he began to wish most
heartily that he had turned back long ago. There was some one following
him—following, too, for the purpose and with the determination of
overtaking him. His ears told him that such was the fact, and there
was no need that he should look back to make sure of it—he dared not
do it. He heard the sound of the pursuit very plainly—the stealthy,
cautious patter of moccasined feet on the hard road, which grew louder
and more distinct every instant. Who was his pursuer? The guide, beyond
a doubt, for he was the only man in the train who wore moccasins. Fear
lent Julian wings, and he made headway astonishingly; but there was
some one beside the clumsy Jack Bowles in pursuit of him now, and the
lightness of foot that had brought him off with flying colors in his
race with that worthy could not avail him.
“It’s no use, Julian,” said a gruff voice behind him. “I’m a comin’,
an’ if I don’t overhaul you thar ain’t no snakes. You’re ketched, an’
you might as well stop an’ give in.”
But our hero was not one of the kind who give in. He strained every
nerve to escape, but his pursuer gained rapidly. He was close behind
him now—Julian could hear his heavy breathing; but just as he was
expecting to feel his strong grasp on his collar, a blinding sheet of
flame shot out of the gloom directly in advance of him, and something
whistled through the air close to his ear. In another minute Julian had
run squarely into the arms of Silas Roper, and his pursuer had faced
about and was making his way through the tall grass as if a legion of
wolves were close at his heels.
“I reckon I throwed away that chunk of lead, didn’t I?” said Silas.
“You needn’t be skeered now. I know you ain’t hurt, ’cause I’ve had my
eyes on you all the while.”
Julian, weak with terror and utterly bewildered to find the guide in
front, when he had all the while supposed him to be behind and in
pursuit of him, could not reply. But if he was surprised at this, he
was still more amazed at the manner in which Silas received him. He
did not show the least desire to do him an injury, but on the contrary
extended his arm around him protectingly, and supported him until he
had somewhat recovered himself.
“You’re lively on your legs fur a little one,” continued the trapper,
“but you’re well nigh give out, ain’t you? If thar had been just a
trifle more light Sanders would have been past harmin’ you now.”
“Who?” gasped Julian.
“Sanders. You didn’t think to hear of him again so soon, did you?”
“I never expected to hear from him again.”
“Sho! Wal, you’ll hear and see more of him durin’ the next few weeks
than you’ll like, _I_ tell you. That was him a chasin’ you, ’cause I’ve
seed him often enough to know him,” added the trapper, leading the way
toward the camp, loading his rifle as he went.
“You said you were watching me,” said Julian. “Why did you do it?”
“‘Cause I’m a friend to you.”
“I begin to believe you are,” replied the boy, casting all his
suspicions to the winds. “If I had been sure of it to-day when I first
saw you, I shouldn’t have run away from you; but I have seen so much
treachery lately that I distrust everybody.”
“I can easy b’lieve that. I know purty near what Dick an’ Ned have been
up to.”
“You told me this morning that you know who I am. Of course, then, you
know my father.”
“Sartin I do.”
“Is he alive?”
“He is.”
“And my mother?”
“No, she’s dead—died when you was a little feller.”
“And my brother?”
“He’s all right.”
“Can you take me to my father?”
“I reckon not.”
“What’s the reason?”
“‘Cause I don’t know whar he is—that’s the reason. I’ll allers be a
friend to you, howsomever.”
During the walk to the camp Julian asked innumerable questions about
his home and friends, but the information that we have just recorded
was all he could extort from the trapper. He taxed his ingenuity to
the utmost, and propounded his inquiries in a dozen different ways,
but Silas could neither be surprised or coaxed into revealing more
than he had already told. Nor did Julian ever hear anything more from
him, although he saw very plainly that the trapper knew all about
him, and could easily gratify his curiosity if he felt so inclined.
Day after day he renewed his endeavors to worm out some small item of
information, but all he could ascertain positively was that his father
and brother were alive and well, and with that he was obliged to be
content. Of another thing he was also pretty certain, and that was,
that he should not find his home—if he found it at all—the pleasant
and inviting place that Sanders had represented it to be. But in this
respect he was not much disappointed, for he had built no hopes upon
anything his false friend had told him.
During the journey across the plains nothing worthy of record occurred
to vary the monotony of Julian’s life. He met with no more adventures,
for Sanders had disappeared, and although the boy was certain that
Silas could tell what had become of him, all his questioning failed to
elicit the desired information. The emigrant kept himself as much as
possible out of sight. The members of the mess expressed some surprise
at his abrupt desertion of them, and asked one another what could have
been the occasion of it; but no one knew, and in a day or two the
matter was forgotten.
As the days progressed Julian’s friendship for and confidence in
his silent friend steadily increased. Silas on his part cherished
an unbounded affection for his young companion, and manifested it
by a thousand little acts of kindness. He beguiled many a weary
mile of their journey with stories of what he had seen and done,
and descriptions of life in the Far West, but said not a word about
Julian’s affairs unless he was asked.
At last the Rocky Mountains began to loom up before them, and on the
same day Silas, who as usual was riding in advance of the train with
Julian, pointed out a hostile Indian on the summit of a distant swell.
“How do you know he is hostile?” asked Julian. “Can you see the paint
on his face at this distance?”
“No, but I know who’s been a smokin’ an a talkin’ with his tribe around
the council fires,” replied the trapper. “You think you’ve been through
a heap since you fust seed Dick Mortimer, and p’raps you have; but
you’ll go through a heap more if you live a week longer. You needn’t
be afeared of the Injuns, howsomever,” added Silas, seeing that the
boy’s cheek blanched, and that he cast anxious glances toward the
distant warrior. “They won’t harm you. If every man, woman and child
in the train is massacred, you’ll be kept safe, unless you are hurt by
accident.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I don’t think so, I know it; but I hain’t got time to talk about it
now, ’cause I must ride back an’ keep the wagons closer together.”
This was always the way with the trapper after he had said something
that Julian was particularly anxious to have explained—he had no time
to say more on the subject just then, but must see to something that
demanded his immediate attention.
Julian was greatly perplexed by what he had just heard. It sounded very
unreasonable, but he did not doubt the truth of it, for he had learned
to put implicit faith in the trapper’s word.
In two days more Bridger’s Pass was reached, and the emigrants made
their camp for the last time.
We have already related how Julian was enticed away from the wagon
train by the outlaws, who carried him on horseback to Reginald
Mortimer’s rancho, and that during the ride he heard the sounds of a
fierce battle going on between the Indians and the emigrants, and saw
the train consumed by fire.
We have also told of his introduction to the man who called himself
his uncle, and described the reception that gentleman extended to him.
He was conducted into Mr. Mortimer’s sleeping-apartment, and saw the
outlaws receive a heavy reward for delivering him into the hands of the
owner of the rancho, after which Sanders and his companion took their
departure, and Julian was left alone with his new relative.
Then for the first time he raised his eyes and took a fair look at the
man. Surely he had seen that face and figure somewhere. They were those
of Richard Mortimer. He had left him on board a flatboat more than a
thousand miles away, and here he was in the mountains where he least
expected to see him, ready now and able to carry out his plans against
Julian’s life.
One glance at him was enough for our hero, who, with a cry of terror,
turned and ran toward the door.