THE LAST OF EARTH.
It was near morning when Kent was awakened by a hand on his shoulder and
a gentle shake.
Starting up, half asleep, he asked in a whisper:
“What is wanting?”
“Git up,” was the reply, in the well-known voice of Nathan Rogers.
“_Thar’s Injuns clus at hand, an’ we can only save ourselves by
slidin’!_”
Wide enough awake now, the young man rose to his feet, and saw that Vic
stood near, with the horses ready saddled.
“How close are they?” he asked.
“Not forty rods off,” was the startling reply, “an’ we’ve got to be off
at once.”
Stepping along a few feet to where Marion lay in innocent slumber, Kent
stooped and touched her arm.
“Marion,” he whispered, gently, “Marion, awake.”
The girl moved uneasily, and the loved voice mingling with her dreams,
she murmured:
“Wayne, dear Wayne. Oh, be careful! They will kill you if they discover
you. Have a care!”
“Poor child,” murmured her lover, “even her dreams are haunted by the
thought of our foes. Marion,” he added, louder, “awake.”
She started up in affright, and collecting her scattered senses, asked
what was wanted.
“We are forced to continue our journey,” answered Kent; “the Indians are
near enough to render our presence here dangerous.”
She sprung to her feet, frightened but calm.
“Wayne,” she said, steadily, “you do not tell me all. I am not afraid.
How near are they?”
“Forty or fifty rods,” was the answer. “We must make haste. Are you
ready?”
“Yes.”
He assisted her to mount, the other three men being already in the
saddle, and then springing to his seat, they were off.
It was dark—so dark that they were in some danger of encountering foes,
or making some noise that might betray them; but, the dexterity of the
old trapper carried them safely to the edge of the plain, where they
halted a moment to make sure of their bearings.
“All right, this way,” said Wild Nat, in a suppressed voice, as he led
the way in the darkness. “Keep powerful still.”
Fortunately, the trapper’s expertness and knowledge of woodcraft enabled
them to avoid the Indians, who were lurking on the opposite side of the
timber, unaware, as yet, of the proximity of the whites.
Silently the little band, led by Wild Nat, kept on in the darkness, and
were soon two miles distant from the grove, and under the shelter of
some low hills and timber. The east was beginning to grow light, and
morning would soon be there. They kept on at a sharp trot for a few
miles, the darkness slowly lifting till the eastern horizon was bathed
in rosy light, and the last shadows of the night vanished in the west.
A desultory conversation was maintained by the rest, in which Wild Nat
did not join. He appeared unusually grave and preoccupied. Marion
watched him furtively, and at length thinking his grave demeanor caused
by apprehensions of danger from the Indians, she spoke to him.
“What is it, Nathan? Is there great danger?”
“No, guess not,” he replied, absently. Then rousing himself to consider
her question, he continued: “Probably they’ll find our trail, but I
guess we’ll be near enough the fort tew distance ’em. Shan’t worry,
anyway.”
An animated discussion of the probabilities of their being pursued
sprung up, while the trapper relapsed into his former gravity and
silence.
Mile after mile detached itself from the distance, and stretched itself
away behind them, until only a few remained between them and their
destination, when, suddenly, a long shout reached them, and looking back
they beheld a slight eminence about half a mile distant, covered with a
war-party of Indians.
“We’re in for it,” muttered Wild Nat. “Forrard all!”
The fugitives quickened their pace at once, and whooping and yelling the
Indians followed, and the race was fairly begun. Our friends felt but
little anxiety, as their horses were comparatively fresh, and the
distance to Fort Laramie so short, but a race with Indians, even under
the most auspicious circumstances, can not fail to be exciting.
For a time the two parties maintained their relative positions, and then
the Indians began to gain slowly. Already the fugitives felt
comparatively safe, so near were they to their destination, and the
knowledge of this fact served to stimulate their pursuers with renewed
energy. On they flew, their horses straining every nerve, their
battle-axes and war-spears glittering in the sun, and a deafening roar
of whoops filling the air.
“Thet’s lovely music,” remarked Vic, with a grin, “an’ thar’s the
akompanyment,” he added, as a shower of arrows flew around them.
“’Tain’t no use tew dodge, after they’ve gone past,” as Scip made
frantic efforts to elude the flying arrows. “We’ll be out of danger in a
few minits. See, thar’s the fort!”
Amid a shower of death-winged missives the little band of fugitives flew
on, up the little rise that led to the fort, closely followed by their
pursuers, who were evidently determined to abandon their purpose only
when forced to do so. Occasionally a bullet, from a rifle in the hands
of the savages, whizzed through the air with its peculiar whistling
music, losing itself in the space beyond.
Suddenly Kent, who was near Wild Nat, observed a deadly pallor
overspread the trapper’s face, and saw him reel in his seat. With a
presentiment of danger, the young man caught the falling man and
supported him, until in an instant they were all safe within the walls
of the fort.
Vic caught sight of him and hurried to him.
They laid him down carefully, Marion holding his head, and bathing his
brow with water.
He opened his eyes with a faint smile.
“It’s all over,” he said, looking up. “Vic, my boy, we’ll go trapping
together no more. I’ve hunted my last buffalo. Good-by.”
Vic grasped his hand and wrung it without a word, turning away to hide
his emotion.
The old trapper looked from one to the other.
“Good-by boys, I’m going! Good-by, little ’un; don’t forgit me. Don’t
cry, it’s best so. We’ll meet ag’in, I hope.”
He closed his eyes with a smile, holding one of Marion’s hands in his.
The pallor deepened on his rough face, the labored breathing grew
fainter.
“He is asleep,” said Marion, reverently, with fast-dropping tears.
“Asleep forever in this life.”
Kent was kneeling beside him, holding one hand.
“Yes, he’s gone,” he said, in a low tone, rising to his feet. “The
bullet passed near his heart.”
Marion disengaged her hand from the tight clasp of the trapper, and with
earnest sorrow for the life gone so suddenly, withdrew from the room.
Vic came up, brushing his rough hand across his eyes, as if ashamed of
his emotion.
“He is gone,” he said, with a glance at his peaceful face, “an’ a braver
man never lived.”
The baffled Indians had withdrawn, fearing pursuit by the garrison.
Much to the surprise and pleasure of the party, they found at the fort a
party from the Willamette River Mission, on their way to the States,
with whom they might travel in company.
They remained at Fort Laramie over one day. Wild Nat was buried near the
fort, and a rude slab to mark the place was erected by Kent and Vic. It
was with sincere grief that they mourned the rough but kindly friend who
had been with them through so many perils, and gave his life for their
safety.