THE SUDDEN AWAKENING.
"Listen to me, Olive, and believe that I feel very deeply the words my
tongue utters. You have become very dear to me--dearer than any thing
else of this world--and I love you, Olive."
The girl glanced swiftly up from under her long lashes, then dropped
her eyes again and her face was crimsoned with blushes, and the little
hand he had obtained and was holding firmly, though tenderly, trembled
fitfully, and nothing save a sigh escaped her lips.
"Olive," he continued, drawing still nearer to her, "it can not be that
I am mistaken--that you look coldly upon me--that you take no pleasure
in my society--can not be that you have not seen the true state of my
heart? Tell me, am I disagreeable to you?"
"Oh! no, no," she murmured, in deep agitation.
"Then, darling--may I not call you so? Give me hope for the future.
When we have finished our journey and the shores of the Pacific are
reached, may I not believe you will become mine--be my wife?"
As actions speak even louder than words, so hers told him all he
desired to know, and with the clouds of doubt drifted away from their
souls, peace came, and love given and returned made them very happy.
Like all unmarried men who cross the plains, when there are pretty
women in the company, the doctor, Ernest Mayo, soon found that he had a
heart, and that its longings took but one direction.
He met Olive Myers for the first time--a girl slightly his junior, with
a fair, pure face, laughing blue eyes, hair of the color of the ripe
chestnut when just bursting from the shell, and a mouth that appeared
to woo kisses. She was of good parentage (though now an orphan) and
well educated.
She was drifting California-ward with an uncle and his family, and as
Mayo was a gentleman, gladly accepted his company and protection.
More secure from molestation during the lonely night-watches than at
any other time, she was accustomed to keep him company, and this night,
when no one was within hearing, the intensity of their hearts strung to
passion found vent for the first time.
With his arm around her waist, with one hand clasped in his, with her
head resting on and showering down its wealth of chestnut curls upon
his shoulder, they remained whispering such impassioned words as only
lovers use until near the hour for changing the guard. Then the girl
suddenly asked if Parsons had returned.
"No, dearest," he answered. "Do you take an interest in him?"
"I have no interest in any one but you," she answered, turning her
blushing face to him and proffering her lips for a kiss. "But I fear
him."
"Fear him? On what account?"
"Not for myself, but you, darling."
"I can not understand why, Olive."
"Because, he is envious--jealous!"
"Of me?"
"Yes. He once offered me his love and I refused it, and no later than
yesterday he accused me of loving you."
"Which you denied, of course," he replied with a smile.
"I neither denied nor admitted. But I fear when he learns the truth, he
will seek an opportunity to injure you," and the bare anticipation made
her shudder.
"Don't tremble, little one," he answered, glad of an opportunity to
again kiss the red lips. "No harm will come of it. He is a coward."
"But if he should. Oh! heaven!" and her beautiful eyes became misty
with tears.
"He will not, be assured. Yet I can pardon him for something of his
feelings, in being robbed of so great, so lovely a prize. Olive,
darling, what would I have done without you?"
"And I without you?" she murmured in response, as she gave and returned
his passionate caresses.
"Indians! Indians!"
They sprung apart, and the scout, who had been sleeping, as he was wont
to say, 'with one eye open,' was instantly upon his feet and by their
side. But "wolf," had been cried so often that he was disposed to doubt
its truth, and springing upon a wagon he looked abroad. The prairie lay
as dead and silent as when he last looked upon it, and he would have
laughed at their fears had not something in the actions of the horses
arrested his attention.
"Thar's something not exactly right thar," he muttered, "for stock
don't ginerally make a fuss at this time of the night."
"What do you think can be the cause?" asked the doctor, who, with the
girl he loved so tenderly, had drawn near.
"That's mighty hard to tell. It may be a pack of wolves have come
between them and ther wind, or ef we war near the timber I should say a
b'ar, but that couldn't well be ther case heah. Howsomever, I'm goin'
to find out."
"Let me go with you," suggested the doctor.
"For the love of heaven, no!" whispered the distracted Olive, clinging
to his arm. "If any thing were to happen to you, darling, I should die."
"The gal am right," replied the scout, sedately, though there was a
merry twinkle in his eye. "I had better go alone. Hark!"
He dropped to the ground as suddenly as if felled by a blow, and
remained for some time unstirring. His entire manner had changed; all
of recklessness departed, and his movements became as cunning as those
of a serpent. Still keeping his recumbent position he motioned the
physician and said:
"You go and put out ther fires, and mind yer don't git in the light on
'em any more than you kin help."
"But I hear nothing but some wolves whining and howling."
"Yes, wolves. That am ther very name, fer that's what Sioux stands fer.
Yes, wolves. Two-legged ones, whose bite ar' death!"
"You can not mean that those sounds are counterfeit?"
"It war well done--very well done--and would have deceived most any
one, but, it can't me, by er long shot."
"For goodness sake tell me what you think."
"That ther red-skins am eround--am er callin' ter one enuther, and
that they'll most proberbly be down upon ther wagons like er drove of
bufflers, that's all!"
"Then do not venture out. Your rifle might be worth a hundred men."
"It kin do some good shootin', that am er fact. But I must try and
gather in ther hosses. They am ther fust thing ther red devils will be
arter. Ther hosses must be saved or we am lost. Hist! No more talkin'.
Get ther gal inter ther most likely place fer safety, and then out with
ther fire and see that every one am ready fer fight. Ef I shouldn't
ever come back, good-by, and may ther Lord take a likin' ter yer
and--and yer sweetheart, and say that Wash Lawton did his dooty, and
died like er man."
He crawled swiftly away toward the horses, and it was time some
controlling spirit was among them. A few had already broken loose and
were running hither and thither, with heads and tails erect, eyes wild
with terror, snorting and whistling, while the remainder were straining
at their halters and threatening instant stampede.
"Thar am deviltry afoot," he whispered to himself, "and ef I can't save
all ther horses I'll try and git one fer ther gal ther doctor loves. Ef
ther watch had been good fer any thin' it wouldn't have happened, but
it is too late now."
Indeed it was. At that very instant the terrible war-whoop of the
Indians rung on every side, and almost countless dark forms skulked in
every direction toward one common center. Then all further attempts at
concealment were useless, and, with an answering shout, the scout arose
and dashed forward, determined--as he had said--to secure at least one
steed.
He reached the nearest, cut away the rope, struggled to get within
mounting distance, was dragged along in the mad race, nearly trampled
under foot, hurried into the tall grass, lifted from his feet and
thrown headlong into an ambush of his enemies. Then he was instantly
bound and left helpless until the battle was over.
The war-whoop had aroused those about the wagons to a sense of danger.
They crowded together like sheep when encircled by enemies--evidently
wanting a head. Like painted demons the villains crowded around the
doomed emigrants, dancing, leaping, shouting and making the most
frantic gestures, accompanied by a shower of arrows, that were answered
by the sharp ringing of rifles.
Then the savages rushed forward _en masse_, and the battle became
hand-to-hand. The massacre of men and helpless women and innocent
children followed, while the air rung with shrieks for mercy and the
groans of the dying as they were cut down, hewed by hatchets, pierced
by arrows, crushed by clubs, scalped and hurled into the plundered and
burning wagons, even before life was extinct.
An hour after, three wretched prisoners--all that survived of the band
of emigrants--were dragged along with ropes around their necks--tied
to the horses' tails of the exultant Indians--three only--Olive, the
doctor and the scout.
A forced march brought them to a village of the Indians, and the two
men were bound and thrown into a wigwam, while the girl was given into
the care of the squaws.
What a sudden and bitter awakening from dreams of safety and of love!