Front matter (continued 2)

"It would be better for your health if you went out every day."

He was glad when company came in, after tea. It prevented Annie from noticing his mood—it freed him from her distracting endearments. Maurice Gurnell was among the visitors. He staid until the others had all gone, giving his friend a vivid and eloquent account of what had befallen him, what he had seen, done and heard in the last year-and-a half. Dr. Carollyn's manner was always so quiet, that the young man noticed nothing unusual about him; but when he had nearly exhausted his resources of foreign gossip, he rose, with a gay laugh.

"You look tired, Leger, and I don't wonder, the way I've rattled on. I must beg Mrs. Carollyn's pardon for engrossing you so long. It seemed so pleasant to be talking away at you again. I say talking at him, Mrs. Carollyn, for I always had to do all the active part of our conversations."

How easy and graceful was his manner—how free from any appearance of acting a part! Leger looked at the radiant face, the enchanting smile of his handsome friend, so bright, so changeful, so fitted to win the admiration of women, and cursed himself as a dark, severe, repelling man, whom the fickle sex could find nothing in to really love.

As Maurice gave his hand to Mrs. Carollyn in saying good-night, Leger, standing apart, and seeming to be arranging a book on the table, was certain that he heard a whispered sentence, though he could not make out its import.

We need not dwell minutely upon the two days of intolerable torture which intervened between this and the evening of the party. Dr. Carollyn had wrestled with himself, and had almost thrown the demon of jealousy which was invisibly tearing him. The last few hours he had enjoyed comparative peace. He could have gone down on his knees and begged pardon of the wife he had been wronging in his thoughts, when she came into the study to look for him, to get his opinion of her dress, and to tell him it was time to take his place beside her in the front saloon, to receive their guests.

Whether it was because her apparel was really so becoming, or whether the intensity of his feelings hightened every effect, certain it is that she had never appeared so beautiful to him—not even on the wedding-day. She wore a blue velvet dress, with the pearls which had been his bridal gift. A wreath of matchless japonicas circled the golden coils of hair at the back of her head, while a few glimmering ringlets shadowed her cheeks and throat, exquisite in contour and color.

He had reason to remember every minutest detail of dress, looks and action, for the picture at that moment stamped upon his heart was destined to glow there during long and desolate years, unobscured by any more recent impressions. He sprung to his feet and kissed her.

"You admire me, then?" she said, with a happy smile.

"You are looking beautifully, Annie."

The bell rung, and they hurried through the glittering and perfumed vista of rooms, to take their place at the upper end. For a couple of hours a stream of gay people poured into the saloons. It was destined to be a brilliant party; for, in addition to the luxury of the apartments, the host and hostess were in just that mood which made their guests most delightful.

"A wife improves Dr. Carollyn. I never saw him so brilliant," remarked everybody.

When the tide of pleasure was at its hight; when all had arrived and the music was loudest, the dancers whirling; when the heat and light had called out the full perfume of the flowers not yet beginning to wither, a shadow fell upon Dr. Carollyn. His wife had disappeared; so had Maurice Gurnell, who had been flashing his wit and mirth amidst the company collected in his honor. Striving to conquer his uneasiness, Leger waited, while moment after moment rolled away, to him like hours.

"Perhaps they have gone to look at the supper-table;" and unable to resist his maddening suspicions, but trying to believe that he was not suspicious, he descended to the supper-room, where the last touches were being given by skillful servants to the elegant table.

Again he passed through the thronged apartments, through the dancing saloons, into the conservatory, the little study, out upon a little balcony, chill with the winter twilight. They were in none of these. He ascended to the dressing-rooms, passing on until he reached his wife's chamber—that sacred, secluded room, into which he never entered unbidden. He paused before the door with an icy heart and hand. He heard voices—his voice and hers in earnest conversation; he heard him say:

"And now, Annie, before we go, let me thank you again and again for all you have done for me."

"Let us hasten," was the low reply, "before Leger misses us. Oh, dear! he will be so surprised."

The chill left the listening husband, and a hot fever of rage took its place. Flinging the door wide open, he stepped in.

"Not so surprised, madam, as you may think. I have guessed at your secret days ago."

Annie was about to make some answer to this; but when she met his eyes, she grew white and said nothing.

"As for you, Maurice Gurnell, I will not kill so mean a man as you. I will not even strike so base a thing. Only take her with you, and get out of my presence forever;" and with a slight, contemptuous gesture toward his wife, he turned upon his heel.

"Stay!" cried Maurice; "you are mad, Leger. Let us explain;" but he continued down the hall, till Annie, with a faint cry, sprung to his side, grasping his arm.

"Leger Carollyn!"

He flung off her hand, and she shrunk back into her chamber; but before he had reached the turn in the hall which led to the dressing-rooms, a slight figure, robed in white, with a long vail sweeping about the floating drapery, sprung before him, seized both his hands, and commenced talking rapidly in French—so rapidly, that he, not of late days very familiar with the sounds, hardly understood her, but he was compelled to hear enough to rivet his attention.

"Ah! you do not understand," she cried, half-laughing, half in tears. "I am Victoire. Maurice is not a bad man—no, no, you must not call him so. He is my husband—ah me, this very day. Your sweet, angel wife, she help us—it was her own good pastor marry us this day. It was your wife who kept it secret—because, you see, I was in the convent—and I run away. I run away and came across the sea to wait for Maurice—that is it, because we love each other so. He was my cousin. Come; your sweet, pretty wife said we should have a wedding-party, and surprise them all. Come; we must go down. Ah me! I tremble so, to think of it!"

The pretty creature, all childish animation, pushed him back with eager gesture, to the chamber he had left in such a tumult. An infant could have led him, the reaction had left him so unresisting. Maurice met him at the threshold, saying, gravely:

"I forgive your too hasty words, Leger. It was foolish of me to try to keep my little plan a secret from you; but I thought the surprise would be pleasant. In five moments I can tell you all that is now necessary with regard to Victoire. She is my cousin once removed. Her mother's family live in Paris. When I went to see them, Victoire was at school in a convent. Her mother was extremely religious, and, having married two daughters comfortably, had resolved that this one should enter a nunnery. She gave me permission to call upon my cousin at the convent. I did so. Notwithstanding the icy presence of the lady-superior, we contrived to fall in love with each other. Look at her, Leger, and you will not wonder! I went back and proposed to my aunt for her daughter's hand. She rejected the idea. I could not soften her. Of course, the more I was opposed, the more passionate became my resolution. I contrived to correspond with Victoire; I laid a plan for her to escape from the convent, and take passage in the vessel which was to sail the month before I left. This I did to avert suspicion and pursuit. Of course if they saw me still in Paris, they would know she had not fled with me; and if they looked for her in connection with me at all, they would confine their search to the city. She accomplished her flight in safety; the captain of the vessel, a friend of mine, took her in charge. Not wishing to send her to my own family (knowing they would oppose the match bitterly, and probably return her to her mother), I bethought me of Annie St. John, the woman of all my acquaintance I most respected and admired, and I gave Victoire letters to her in which I begged her to take charge of my poor little blossom and keep our secret in her own breast until I arrived, and our marriage was safely consummated. She found the lady married, but she had heard me speak of you too often not to feel the same confidence in her as before. She came to your house with her letters, and her poor little lonely heart frightened and trembling; but she was not willing Mrs. Carollyn should even tell you her story, which was a little foolish. Mrs. Carollyn obtained board for her with the same lady in whose family she herself resided before her marriage, keeping watch and ward over her until I arrived to relieve her of the charge. She thought it a pretty plan to give us a wedding-party. With the sanction of her presence and approval, your pastor married us privately this afternoon. And now we are ready to face the whole curious, condemnatory, applaudatory and astonished world, are we not, little girl?" And with a look of tender fondness Maurice turned to the young creature, shy but happy, clinging to his arm. "Come, Dr. and Mrs. Carollyn, give us the support of your countenance through this trying ordeal."

Leger offered his arm to his wife. She did not take it, but walked by his side, with a strange luster in her pale face—a fixed, resolute expression, that did not change through the evening. With admirable dignity she introduced the bride and bridegroom to the surprised assemblage, his own relatives included.

The supper was a marvel of costly luxury. It was late when the dancers tired, the music faltered, and the house was gradually left to solitude. Mr. and Mrs. Gurnell had been previously invited to spend a week with their hostess, and their chamber awaited them. Mrs. Carollyn left them at its door with a pleasant good-night.

When the Doctor knocked at his wife's door, his heart drenched in tears of humble regret, she did not respond to the summons, and he retired to await the subsiding of her just displeasure.

But when she was summoned to the late breakfast, her room was found empty. Nothing was disturbed. The blue velvet dress lay on the bed. A traveling-dress and bonnet was gone from the wardrobe. The casket of pearls was on the bureau. Of all her wealth she had taken nothing but a sum of money—amounting to a few hundred dollars, which had come in from her property—and her wedding-ring. Since she was a wife, and might possibly some time become a mother, she had kept her wedding-ring—and, yes, her marriage-certificate. One of the servants said he had heard the door open and close, very early in the morning, but he was very sleepy, from having been up so late, and had paid no attention to it.

And from that time, for weary, heart-withering years, Dr. Carollyn obtained no clue to the fate of his wife.

CHAPTER V.

THE HUNTER AND THE MAIDEN.

And still thy mane streams backward At every thrilling bound, And still thy measured hoof-stroke Beats with its morning sound!—Bayard Taylor. Now he shivers, head and hoof, and the flakes of foam fall off, And his face grows fierce and thin! And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go. Mrs. Browning.

For once Nat Wolfe was disappointed in his best friend—his long-tried, much-lamented steed, Kit Carson. All the long afternoon he pursued the northerly course which the bison had taken, and which, he knew, led to more fragrant streams and better pasturage. The same moon toward which Elizabeth, riding merrily in the ox-drawn wagon, was looking with such longing eyes, found him still striding on, throwing keen glances in every direction, but without having met a living thing of any kind in his six hours' journey. He was certain that he was on the track of the herd; and, more than that, frequently, before it grew too dark for such observations, he detected the print of horse-shoes here and there along the way. As long as the moon shone he continued to walk; but when it set, there was nothing to do but to eat his dry biscuit, take a draught from his canteen and lie down to sleep with a tuft of grass for a pillow. This he did, still feeling confident that when he awoke it would be to find Kit grazing quietly by his side.

The first rays of the morning roused him. He had slumbered heavily, for he was fatigued; and as he tried to shake off the chill and stiffness of his night's exposure by running swiftly, he remarked to himself:

"Well, I may as well run in the right direction, and that is, toward the point I started from. Poor Kit's gone forever, I fear. I must get back to the trail, in order to follow the route to Denver. I'll have to foot it all the way, unless I overtake some train that'll be willing to sell me some kind of an animal. I wouldn't have taken a thousand dollars for Kit Carson! Confound me if I think the girl was worth it!"

Yet, at the recollection of the maiden in whose behalf he had sacrificed his horse, a sudden warmth thrilled through his veins, very beneficial in dispelling the effects of the night air; he slackened his speed insensibly, forgetting his breakfast for some time in visions of a young, wistful face, with eyes so lustrous and yet melancholy that they made his heart yearn to fill them with smiles instead of tears to which they seemed more accustomed.

"It's a burning shame in that shiftless farmer to be dragging that kind of a child out to Pike's Peak—an infernal hole for men, at the best. She don't feel at home, poor thing, that's evident! Her place is with the ladies of the land—instead of being set down in a shanty among a crowd of rough, swearing miners. She needs a protector, that child does—blast me if she don't." Here a thought rushed through his mind which deepened the flush of his sun-burned cheek. Presently he shook his head, continuing, "No! no! it's too late for that with Nat Wolfe. A man that's been fooled by a woman as I was, would be a double fool to trust one of the kind again."

Coming to a pool of water in a deep gully, Nat refreshed himself with the remains of his dried meat and biscuit, filled his canteen with water, and pushed on. It was noon when he reached Pike's Peak trail—at almost the spot where he left it. There were no travelers in sight.

"I must overtake that train again. It's going my way, and—and—I shan't just feel easy without seeing that girl again. I'm a good match for an ox-team; but when it has at least twenty miles the start, that makes it harder. I'll be likely to be hungry before I reach the next station, if I don't come across a stray buffalo or antelope, and we're about out of their range now. However, it's too early in the day to borrow trouble. I've been fifty hours without food, more than once."

With long, steady, gliding steps, which took him over the ground with surprising rapidity, yet which had not the appearance of haste or effort, he continued his march, reaching the place at which the emigrants had stayed the previous night, before sundown. Here he was fortunate enough to find, among other relics of their encampment, some of the remains of their breakfasts. He did not pause to scrupulously examine the nicety of these fragments; for he had eaten nothing since early morning, and was very glad of these providential crumbs. Having somewhat rested and refreshed himself, he had about concluded to push on, until nine or ten in the evening, so as to come up with the train by evening of the next day. It was now after sunset. As he arose to resume his journey, he perceived, afar, against the northern hemisphere of the horizon, a party of horsemen sweeping on; he knew them, even at that distance, by their attitudes and manner of riding, as a band of Indians.

"They'd like right well to know I was here, alone and on foot," soliloquized Nat, "though I doubt then if they'd care to approach me, when I was wide-awake and looking out for them. Let 'em come! the whole snaky set! I suppose it would be just as prudent not to show myself until they are out of sight; though if they come where I am, I'm agreeable! I'd like to dislodge a red-skin from one of those horses, and take his place. Perhaps they'll camp here for the night. Ha! here they come; I'd better be looking out for a covert."

He crept along the ground and dropped down the embankment into the river-bed. Here he could conceal himself from observation, unless the party stopped for the night, or came for water. In case he was discovered before the twilight enabled him to escape, he had only to depend upon his weapons, and the dauntless courage which had made him so famous.

It was true that most of these vagrant bands of red-skins were not at war with the whites; but their natural cruelty and covetousness would lead them to murder any solitary traveler they might chance upon; and toward Nat Wolfe they all felt the fury of revenge for the frequent losses they had sustained from him.

As the tramp of the approaching horses drew nearer, he raised his head cautiously and reconnoitered. "They're a well-mounted set of devils—plenty of 'em, too, I'll swear!" he muttered; and seeing a bush hanging over the bank a little further down, which would afford him a better chance to make observations, he crawled on his hands and knees along the yellow clay until he came to the spot over which it grew. This new position was a safer one in this respect—it was around a bend of the stream; so that if the Indians came to dip water from the half-dried pool above him, they would not observe him where he lay, sheltered by the bend; the ground above, also, shelved over, so that he stood a good chance of escaping their keen eyes. Looking well to his trusty rifle, and mechanically feeling the knife and revolvers in his belt, he pressed as closely as possible under the bank and listened until the party drew rein, as he had anticipated they would, and dismounting made preparations for encamping for the night. Nat's trail was so mixed up with that of the company who had occupied the ground the previous day that the new-comers perceived nothing to arouse their suspicions.

It was extremely irksome to Golden Arrow to lie crouched under the bank all the time the new-comers were kindling their fires, broiling their venison and feeding their horses such forage as they had; he had rather have darted upon them like the weapon after which they had named him; but, brave as he was, he knew that one white man was a poor match for thirty Indians, and he restrained his hatred and impatience as best he could; varying the tedium with the rather dangerous amusement of raising himself to watch them behind the shelter of the bush. The two hours which they spent, before they finally stretched themselves in a ring with their feet to the ashes of the fire they had made, seemed to him endless. They had secured their horses by tying a knot in the end of the ropes about their necks, and burying these knots in the earth of the prairie, in lieu of trees to tie them to. Twilight had deepened into the wan moonlight of a chilly night before all was so quiet as to warrant Nat's attempt to escape from his present unfriendly proximity. Quietly creeping along the river-bed, until out of hearing distance of any wakeful ear, he finally stood up, climbed the bank, and struck across the desert—as the stream took him away from instead of toward the track he intended to find and follow.

Nothing interfered with his intentions, and he was soon traveling briskly along the trail, which the descending moon enabled him to follow. For an hour he made good progress; but as the moon went down the wind arose, and soon that terrible tempest which was working such destruction in the camp of the emigrants came upon him also, defying his utmost efforts to hold his own against it. Not a rock to shelter him, not a shrub to cling to, and wrapped in impenetrable darkness, all he could do was to fling himself flat upon the ground, shut his eyes, and let the winds trample him at their pleasure. During all the first fury of the tornado he lay thus; when it had somewhat abated he arose and struggled on against it. His only guide was the fact that the wind had come from the direction in which he wished to go; so he now set his face against it, feeling his way through the starless night. But the wind has the reputation of being fickle, and it is not surprising, therefore, that when the wished-for morning began to break, Nat Wolfe found himself, instead of several miles on the way toward friends, back in the camp of the enemy.

The Indians were already stirring, on the alert to discover what losses they had sustained by the storm. Nat, fearing discovery on the open plain, again took to his hands and knees, creeping along to seek for some shelter in the bed of the stream until the party should have mounted and ridden off. Scarcely had he gained a secure position, with a friendly shrub again giving him an opportunity to reconnoiter, when he perceived another band of mounted men swiftly approaching from the west, along the Denver trail. That these, too, were red-skins, and a part of the former party, he at once decided; but great was his surprise to perceive that one of the savages rode his own lost steed, Kit Carson.

His astonishment was swallowed up in a still greater emotion the next instant; trained as he was to the suppression of all outward signs of excitement, he could scarcely repress a cry, at perceiving, bound to a pony, which was led by the rider of his own horse, a white captive whom he recognized as the very young girl whom he had rescued from the bisons. The east was now golden with the coming sunrise, and as the party drew nearer he plainly observed the face of the captive—that young, beautiful face—now so pale with terror and fatigue, as to excite his deepest pity. The storm had blown the polished braids of her hair into streaming tresses which rippled about her form in dark waves. She was quiet, for her hands were tied, and effort was hopeless; but her features had an expression of dread and anguish impossible to depict. Nat remembered her pitiful avowal to him of her extreme horror of Indians, and his stern heart shook with sympathy, as he noted the still despair—aversion of her look. The one who led her pony Nat recognized too—a dirty, repulsive savage upon whose face he had once inflicted a wound, in a battle between the settlers and red-skins years ago, and who had since concealed the marks of his disgrace with a bandage. This fellow evidently knew that he was riding Golden Arrow's horse; he was in high spirits, as he galloped along, forcing the smaller pony which he led, into doing its best to keep up with him. As the party swept by within two rods of where he crouched, Nat's eyes almost met those of Elizabeth, who turned an eager piercing gaze at the bush, as if her mind or senses had detected the presence of a friend. The two companies now met; the new arrivals would not dismount, making such gestures toward the girl, and the path they had come over, that Nat easily understood they were afraid of pursuit, and were resolved to press on to some more distant ground, before pausing for rest. The others, acquiescing in this, mounted their horses, only pausing to water them at the stream. During this brief interval of grace Nat Wolfe had to make up his mind whether or not there was any thing to be done for the salvation of that poor child whose beauty and distress alike appealed to all the bravery, all the daring and chivalry of his nature.

It was one man, on foot, against forty mounted devils, who, however cowardly some of them might be under equal chances, would be fired with exultant ferocity by the advantages of the occasion. And, however willing he might be to throw away his own life in the effort to preserve the maiden, he felt that any failure on his part would only hasten her fate. All these thoughts rushed through his brain in the brief time he was given for reflection; but his pulse remained as steady, his eyes as cool and quick as ever in his life; indeed, all his faculties, while they intensified in power, gathered to his aid like soldiers rushing to the call of their leader.

If he could have given Elizabeth warning of his proximity, so that she would have been prepared to take advantage of any momentary opportunity, it would have been increasing the chances of success, but she was too lost in dread and too hopeless of succor, to be on the look-out for friends in this unlikely spot. She did frequently turn her head and gaze off over the track they had passed, as if with some hope of the emigrants sending aid, and after such a fruitless search over the desert road, would drop her head despairingly. Once, while all the Indians were busy among themselves, and she seemed to be looking toward the bush behind which he knelt, he ventured to raise his hand an instant. Whether she perceived the signal he could not decide; she certainly started, lifting her head with so eager a motion that her savage captor turned toward her sharply, when she immediately resumed her drooping attitude.

The one narrow chance which Nat saw, was to kill the rider and secure his horse, who, he knew, would bound to him at the first call. If he could do this before they wreaked a sudden revenge upon the girl, he hoped to seize her and to fight his way free of the band. It would be as good as a miracle if they should indeed get away without injury from the shower of shot which would be poured upon them, as the Indians, more than half of them, had guns.

"Kit knows I'm somewhere about," muttered the hunter, as his horse began to grow restive—so restive that the red robber could hardly retain his seat in the saddle. "I wouldn't give that horse for all the human friends you could give standing-room on this prairie."

That instant the animal made a plunge which compelled his rider to loosen his hold upon the pony's rein or lose his own equilibrium—he dropped his hold upon the captive, and in three seconds Nat had pulled trigger upon him. Simultaneously with the crack of his rifle the shriek of the dying savage rung upon the air as he leaped from the saddle, and fell headlong to the earth. Before the astonished enemy could comprehend what had happened, with a sharp, low cry to his steed, Golden Arrow sprung full into sight, appearing to their superstitious gaze to have dropped from the sky. Kit needed no second signal. With a joyous whining he bounded to meet his master, who was upon his back before one of the savages had presence of mind to attempt retaliation. In half a moment more he had snatched the girl from the rope which bound her to the pony, flung her across his horse's neck, to whom he gave an encouraging whistle, and turned to fly, with the whole pack, now yelling with hate and fury, upon his track. Into the bed of the stream Nat guided his horse, whose immense leaps, doubly burdened as he was, showed his almost human sagacity in the consciousness of deadly peril. More than twenty bullets whistled above and around them. Nat felt one cut the rim of his cap, while another grazed his leg as it plowed through his leather breeches. Whether any struck the frail form hanging over his saddle-bow, he had no time to see—only there was neither motion or cry. A few rods more placed them under the protection of a rise in the bank, from whence he could act upon the defensive; here, sheltered from their aim, he wheeled in the saddle and shot down his nearest pursuer. Three or four more came recklessly on, but as many shots from his revolver sent them dead to the earth, or wounded and yelling back again. Finally the whole troop paused and backed out of rifle-range, where they seemed to be holding a consultation. With all possible speed Nat reloaded his rifle—he had yet two charges in his revolver—then, patting his horse, gave him rein, and with a shout of triumph, flew off over the plain in the direction of the trail to the West. He feared nothing now, for he had a little the start, and there was no animal in the group behind that could distance Kit Carson. Of this the red-skins were as well aware as he; looking back, he perceived they were not attempting pursuit, but were sullenly gathering about their killed and wounded companions.

It was well for the escaped whites that this was the result. For a while, Kit galloped on with fierce energy; but suddenly, and while they were yet almost within sight of the enemy, he began to fail and stagger.

"What is it, Kit? What is it, my beauty?" questioned his owner, stroking his neck, and speaking as softly as to a lady. "He is hurt—bleeding—poor Kit!" he cried, as, stooping, he perceived for the first time the life-blood flowing from a wound in the chest received by the noble animal. "We must dismount and see what we can do for him."

The slackened speed and the voice of her preserver aroused Elizabeth; she lifted herself from the neck to which she was clinging, and comprehending what had happened, slid to the ground. Nat, with evident distress, dismounted and examined the wound.

"Poor Kit, we can do nothing for you," he cried.

"Take this—perhaps you can stanch the blood," said his companion, taking off her apron.

He tried to bind up the wound, but his efforts were of no avail—he had only time to relieve him of the saddle before the faithful steed sunk shivering upon his knees and rolled over upon his side.

"We have not even a drop of water for him," said Nat, in despair.

With a most pitiful, touching look of affection, the dying eyes of the horse were fixed upon those of his master, who knelt beside him, caressing and talking fondly to him. In a few moments all was over—Kit Carson was dead.

The grief of his master was such as Elizabeth had not expected in so hardy and self-possessed a character. With his face bowed upon the proudly-arched neck now stiffening in death, Nat Wolfe remained silent, lost in sorrow, not even looking back to be sure of his own safety from lurking enemies. She saw how manfully he strove to restrain himself, but how, in despite of his efforts, the breath came harder and more labored until great sobs shook the breast of the brave stranger who had twice periled life in her defense, and whose loss and trouble now had been occasioned by his rescue of herself.

A little while Nat's face was hidden, ashamed of the tears which flowed as a tribute to the memory of a friend the noblest and truest, whose life had been given a sacrifice to crown years of faithful and intelligent servitude—a little while, and then his face was lifted up by a pair of small, soft hands; eyes glistening with tears of sympathy met his, and a kiss fell upon his forehead. As she would have comforted her uncle had she seen him in distress, the innocent child, moved by pity, remorse and gratitude, strove to comfort the person she had brought into this trouble—only the shyness, the sweet modesty which she herself scarcely understood, made her actions the more lovely. The timid touch and kiss, the sight of the fair face full of womanly solicitude, thrilled the hunter's heart with a fire which his companion little dreamed of kindling. It was a propitious moment for a new feeling to steal in and usurp the place of the desolate, friendless sense of loss which afflicted him. The little brown hand crept into his.

"It is all my fault. If it had not been for me, he would not have been killed," said Elizabeth, sadly. "I am so sorry—so sorry—and yet—ah, sir, if you had not come what would have been my—" she could not finish the sentence—a shudder shook every fiber of her frame.

"He could not have died in a better cause. I would have sacrificed Kit twice over to save you, so you must not blame yourself," he said, becoming in his turn the comforter. "We are hardly safe yet," he added, looking uneasily to the east. "If those prowling scoundrels should discover our loss, they would be after us with a vengeance. I will look well to my arms, and then we will take up our march without delay. Poor child! how do you think you can stand thirst, hunger and fatigue? I will try to shoot some stray game before night; but it's scarce here, I can tell you, and we may not find a drop of water till we get to the next station."

"I do not fear any thing in the world but those hateful Indians," was the reply. "I had rather starve to death in the desert, than to ever see one again. Oh, sir, let us get as far from them as we can."

He laughed at the beautiful, frightened eyes, lifted so confidingly and appealingly to his own.

"I don't wonder they make you nervous, little girl. Wait until I cut a lock of hair from Kit Carson's mane, and we will speed along. Poor Kit, good-by!"

"Cut a lock for me, too," whispered Elizabeth.

Tears were in the eyes of both as they took their last look at their murdered friend; but the presence of still imminent danger, and the necessity of losing no time in seeking their party before their strength should be exhausted, admonished them to linger no longer. Under a burning sky, across the desolate, hot, unsheltered desert, without food or water to refresh them, they took up their march.

CHAPTER VI.

FOR LIFE OR DEATH.

Before his swimming sight Does not a figure bound, And a soft voice, with wild delight, Proclaim the lost is found? No, hunter no!—Alfred Street.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the plain.—Lotus-Eaters.

It was noon of the second day since Buckskin Joe and the sallow stranger of the other train left their respective companies in search of the missing girl.

"It's no use, Mister; we may as well put back in time to save our own skins. We'll never set eyes on that gal ag'in. Vittals is scarce and water scarcer; we may as well put back to the train. If we start now we can overhaul 'em before morning—the way back is more direct than the one we've took, and the moon'll be up so we can travel a'most all night."

They had been trotting along at a languid pace, their horses panting with heat and thirst, for some time before Joe made this remark. He made it now in a tone which told how reluctant he was to come to such a conclusion.

The stranger, who had not spoken for two hours, reined up his animal with a jerk; his eyes flashed fire as they met those of the guide.

"So you abandon her to her fate, do you?"

"Wal, I reckon there's no use of you curlin' up your nose at me if I do," responded Joe, angered by the fierce sneer of his companion's face. "What man kin do to save that child I'm willin' to do, though she's no kith or kin of mine. But there's no use keepin' on this way—'twon't save her and 'twon't do no good. We've got to give up for the present—she's dead or out of our reach 'fore this. But this I say—if them pesky red-skins has had any thing to do with carrying her off, we'll find it out sooner or later. I'll track her, dead or alive, if it takes ten years—and I'll have my revenge on 'em—for I took a fancy to that little critter." He drew his sleeve across his eyes, and then, ashamed of the weakness, looked as if about to whip his companion, as a more natural way of giving vent to his emotions.

"I will not, I can not give her up!" said Mr. Carollyn. "I will perish here in the effort to find her. Friend, do not leave me yet. I will cheerfully give you a thousand dollars if we are successful."

"I'd do more for Miss 'Lizabeth than I would for a thousand dollars, stranger. Buckskin Joe'd never give up while thar' was as much hope left as thar' is white on a black cat. But gold won't water our horses nor bring game to our feet in this cussed desert. We're on the trail now, and our only chance for ourselves is to keep it, and catch up with our company. If it would do her any good, the Lord knows I'd starve to death in welcome."

A repressed groan was the only reply of the other, whose eyes roved restlessly over the broad and burning expanse. There was a look of wildness and misery in his face which caused Joe to mutter to himself:

"The sun on his head is onsettlin' his brain."

The next moment the flash of something against the light dazzled him; looking to see what it was, he perceived the stranger, as if oblivious of his presence, holding a ring in his hand and utterly absorbed in gazing upon it. He knew it in an instant—it was Elizabeth Wright's! Indignation and astonishment struggled in the honest mind of the guide. His acquaintance with Mr. Carollyn, developed as it had been by the intimacy of the last two days, had increased his respect for the courage, endurance, the great learning and the real manliness of his companion, whom he both respected and admired.

The matter of the ring had been almost driven from his mind by greater anxieties. Now he recalled the young girl's suspicions, and his promise that he would restore the lost jewel to her if he should discover it, even upon the person of the haughty gentleman. Resolved to risk the consequences of giving offense, he at once inquired:

"Where did you get that, Mr. Carollyn?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because it belongs to the gal we're after. She felt mighty bad at losing it. I promised to help her find it. I s'pose it lost off her finger and you picked it up?" The half-suspicious, half-inquiring tone in which this last sentence was put brought a faint smile to the haggard countenance of his hearer.

"It shall be returned to her—be sure of that, friend—that is, if she be not lost forever! My God, I can not give up! After so many years—and now—is my punishment never to cease? Man! man!" he cried, catching and wringing Joe's hand, all the pride vanished from his manner, "she is mine, my child! my only child! I have found her only to lose her. Oh, say, is there not something yet to be tried? I can not go back!"

"Wal, that beats all," muttered Joe, looking curiously to see some token of insanity in his companion's eyes.

"I'm telling you the plain, simple truth; that girl is my own daughter; this ring is mine as well as hers—her mother's wedding-ring. Say that you will not give up, friend," he persisted.

"I s'pose there's water about five or ten miles easterly, and we mought possibly find some kind of game near it, to make a supper on. If it'll relieve your mind any, stranger, we'll camp thar' to-night, and let the train go on without us. It's risky, and it won't do no good—but it shan't be said that Buckskin Joe ever give up, while any body else held out—so thar'!"

Their hands met in a strong grip which sealed the promise; again their horses were started on, and for the next hour they rode along the sultry plain silently, with sharp, attentive glances, discovering nothing to stimulate their sinking hopes.

"What's that! what in thunder?" suddenly spoke Joe, stopping his horse, and pointing to a dark object lying in a little heap nearly a mile away on the yellow plain.

"It looks like an antelope," said Mr. Carollyn, looking in the direction indicated.

"It looks like a human critter," said Joe, and without further parley, the two struck off at full speed for the little dark spot which had attracted their curiosity. "It looks like two on 'em!" was his next remark.

"A man and a woman!" he added presently.

"White!" was his next observation.

"Nat Wolfe, I'll be dogged!"—a moment later.

"And 'Lizabeth Wright," he shouted, exultantly, bounding forward.

In ten seconds more he sprung from his horse, ran up to the hunter—who had risen to his feet and waved one arm while with the other he supported the slender form of a female—and shook his fist in his face.

"Thunder and blazes! Nat Wolfe, if you hain't went and gone and been the first in the field ag'in! You're a mean, impertinent, sneaking fellow—what business, I say, have you with this gal? Didn't you know I was after her? Couldn't you let her be? You might a' known I'd been all right, in the course of time. This is the second time you've stepped in between me and her—and, by hokey, ef you do it ag'in, I'll consider it a personal matter."

"You must be a little faster on your pegs, then, my boy," said Nat, a little faintly, but trying to laugh. "You've come in very good time now, though, and if you've got something for the girl to eat and drink I'll give you all the credit of saving her."

In the meantime, Dr. Carollyn, with the eye of a physician, had detected at one glance the state of the case; he, too, sprung from his horse, and snatching the maiden from Nat's arm, poured between her lips a spoonful of brandy from a flask in his belt. The liquid ran through her veins like pleasant fire; she opened her eyes, smiled, and made an effort to sit up unassisted. Hope and joy equally with the more material stimulus revived her from the state of almost insensibility in which she had been lying for some time.

"She's about beat out," muttered Joe, "that's sartain. If I hadn't a' come just as I did, she'd been a goner. Here, Miss 'Lizabeth, here's a biscuit—eat it, every crumb of it, for you're starved, I know."

She caught at the food eagerly but the firm hand of the stranger withdrew it.

"Cautiously, at first," he said, breaking off little bits, and feeding her as he would a baby.

"I'll be danged if anybody'll let me do any thing fer that gal," scolded Joe. "Everybody meddles."

"Do something for me, then," said Nat. "I shouldn't object to a bit of bread and meat, if you've got it to spare."

Joe, who was only discontented when he could not be useful to somebody, turned his wallet inside out in his generous search for provisions.

"Be careful," again said the calm voice of the Doctor, "do not waste any thing. We have got to make our way to the train on that limited supply. Joe, you have water in your canteen? Mix a little of this brandy with it and give him."

The hunter ate and drank sparingly, for he was well aware of the necessity of prudence; it was a feast to him to see the light and color coming back into the maiden's face. Although he had fasted much longer than she, he was inured to just such hardships, and was much the least exhausted of the two. Their sufferings had been chiefly from thirst, increased by the heat and the necessity for constant exertion.

They had been disappointed in finding the stream which Nat had been certain was within marching distance on their route, the previous day. They had walked all day, and far into the night, in hopes of reaching it, and finding perhaps an antelope or even a stray prairie-dog upon which they might sup.

Of course the hunter was obliged to shorten his steps to those of his little friend; and she, tasking her energies to the utmost, would not say that she must pause for rest, until she finally sunk down in the darkness, unable to proceed further.

That was a strange night in the experience of both. The young girl, clinging to him like a child to its mother, was cherished as sacredly. She complained neither of hunger or thirst, nor of her fear of prowling savages and animals, but as the wild wind of midnight grew more chilly, she shrunk closer to him; he took her to his breast, wrapped about her his own leather jacket, and she slept away all memory of danger and fatigue. We can not protect and shelter any helpless thing without softening toward it, even if it be troublesome and stupid—how, then, could Nat Wolfe care for this most beautiful and innocent maiden, as circumstances obliged him to do, without feeling the growing of a golden chord binding their interests together in bands never more to be broken? The soft cheek upon his shoulder, the softer bosom close to his own, returned the sacrifice of his jacket, by kindling a warmth in his heart which bid defiance to the cold wind.

As soon as the deep darkness preceding the dawn began to lighten, he aroused his slumbering companion.

"You can walk better now than in the heat of the day," he said; "poor child, I wish I had food to offer you."

"I feel much rested now, sir; and perhaps we shall find something to kill before many miles."

She spoke cheerfully, and, for a while, felt so; but as the sun came slowly up, and rose higher and higher in the heavens—as the sand grew hot under her blistered feet, and the sky hot on her aching head—as hour after hour rolled away and no stream met her feverish gaze—as her lips began to parch with thirst and her frame to faint with hunger—then she could no longer conceal from her companion how terribly exhausted she was. Several times he took her in his arms and carried her a long ways, for he did not dare to pause to give her the needed rest—every moment which kept them from the expected stream and possible succor took away from their faint hopes of relief.

Nat Wolfe's own powerful frame was severely tried; he had staggered more than once, for it will be remembered that he had but scanty fare for a day or two before his rescue of Elizabeth, and the torture of thirst was upon him too.

"Go on—oh, do go on and leave me here, I can not take another step, and you must not kill yourself by staying to see me die. If you were not hindered by me you could go so much faster," pleaded the young girl, sinking at last under the meridian heat.

"Leave you, Elizabeth?" said Nat, for the first time using her name in addressing her; and once more he swung her into his arms, though her light form seemed made of iron, so weak was he growing. "Look ahead! don't you see trees? don't you see the glimmer of water? I'm sure we're not a mile from the spot."

"Yes!" she cried, in a strange, excited voice, "I see trees and water—a lovely lake—oh, so beautiful! like those of my childhood, and apples on the trees! cool, delicious apples and peaches. Walk faster, Nat, to the cool, cool water—" her voice sunk to a whisper, her head drooped—she had fainted even while longing for the beautiful mirage which reached her strained and feverish vision.

Filled with anguish, almost cursing fate, Nat staggered on. He threw away his rifle—his precious rifle, next in rank to his lost Kit Carson in his affections—for he could no longer be burdened by it. On—on—feeling that water, at least, could not be far away—until, finally, he, too, was compelled to rest. He knew very well that the rest might be fatal to both—but nature refused to be longer overtasked. Sinking upon the ground, he gazed in despair upon the fair face drooping back over his arm, the long tresses of dark hair sweeping about it, the breath scarcely fluttering over the parched, parted lips. To think that he had not even a drop of water with which to stay that departing soul! He was almost mad with the bitterness of the truth. He chafed the limp hands, he fanned the pale brow.

"At least we will die together," he murmured, fixing his lips upon hers with the first, last kiss of love and despair, of life and death. As if it called back her fluttering senses, she opened her eyes and smiled upon him—a dreamy smile, yet a smile, he was sure of it, full of love such as filled his own heart.

How long he sat holding her thus, his eyes bent upon hers, half closed and quiet, but full of passionate devotion, he knew not. The clatter of horses' hoofs roused them from their dying dream, and thus it was that Buckskin Joe had his full share in the rescue of the little girl, after all. It was the contents of his canteen and wallet which brought life back to the perishing.

As soon as the rescued were sufficiently revived, Dr. Carollyn took the girl before him on his horse, supporting her firmly in one arm. Joe gave up his animal to Nat, and trudged along on foot, with that long, loping step which takes these guides over the ground with such ease and rapidity. He was not wrong in his conjecture as to the vicinity of water; a few miles brought them to a stream which was one of those depended upon by emigrants for a supply. Here it was thought best to recruit the strength of all parties by tarrying in the shade of some sickly cottonwoods until the sun was down, and pursue their journey as far as possible during the cooler night. No sooner were the horses secured and the others comfortably seated, after bathing feet and hands in the refreshing water, than Joe crept away with his rifle down the stream in the hopes of meeting something eatable. In the course of half an hour they heard the crack of the rifle, followed in due course of time by the reappearance of the little old guide, tugging a young antelope after him.

"Thar' now, Miss 'Lizabeth, don't say I never did nothin' for you," he remarked, casting his treasure at her feet.

"You do nothing but kind deeds to me and every one, Joe," she said, with something of the accustomed arch smile sparkling about her eyes and mouth.

"A piece of broiled antelope will be the best thing possible for the young lady," said Dr. Carollyn, with almost a glow of admiration on his dark face, as he assisted at gathering stray branches and leaves under the trees, and kindled a fire, while Joe dressed the game.

"'Young lady!'" muttered Joe, to himself; "'young lady' be danged! If that ain't cool to his own daughter, after bein' in such a fidget as he was a spell ago. The circumstances is ruther curious, anyhow; and if I don't see that ring back on Miss 'Lizabeth's finger I shall have to tell her what I know about it."

"Joe," said Dr. Carollyn, a little while later, as he came close to the guide to help him in cutting some steaks from the antelope, speaking in a low voice, "of course I can trust in your discretion for the present. It would be dangerous, in the exhausted state of my daughter, to speak to her on any exciting subject. She knows nothing whatever of the relationship between her and myself—I dare not reveal it yet. Wait until she is restored to those who seem now to have the best right to her, and she and they and yourself shall hear the story."

"I reckon you can manage your own business—I shan't presume to meddle," responded the guide, mollified immediately by this evidence of regard for his favorite's interest, and confidence in himself; "to be sure, any thin' startlin' would finish her up jes' now. It's dreadful lucky we didn't turn back when we was goin' to. I'm right glad you held out as you did. Nat Wolfe hasn't told us yet how it all come about."

"Wait till we have supped on fresh meat, and we shall have all the particulars, no doubt."

In the mean time, the two most exhausted of the little party reclined beneath the cottonwoods, quiet and silent. It was delight enough to see the water glittering before them, to hear the parched leaves rustle, to inhale the delicious odor of the venison broiling over the coals—their frames were in that state of weakness and languor when soul and sense are both most easily stirred. It was such a joy to feel safe, to be cared for, to wait for the feast which kind hands were preparing. The hour to both was one of strange, new happiness, as of souls taking their first repose in Paradise. Although neither of them tried to analyze their own emotions, the consciousness of what they had thought and felt and read in each other's eyes during those perilous hours just past was secretly thrilling the heart of each. Nat's eyes dwelt almost constantly upon the young girl's face, who scarcely raised her own, so conscious was she of that ardent gaze—a slight red spot in either pale cheek telling the story of her own feelings.

While this little tableau was being silently enacted, the brow of Dr. Carollyn was growing dark as a thunder-cloud, while his eyes flashed covert lightning from beneath. He was troubled, discontented, angry. He had found a child, a daughter, whose want of accomplishments suited to the rank he should soon confer upon her was fully counterbalanced by her exceeding beauty, grace and natural refinement. He had already felt more pleasure than had filled his breast in seventeen years, in dreaming of how he should develop that fine mind and cultivate those unconscious charms. That she still retained all the innocence of childhood his keen observation had convinced him, the first hour of their meeting—that strange chance meeting, which had told him in that wild place and in that unexpected way that he had a child!—a truth he had often dreamed over, doubting and wondering. When he first went, in the camp of the emigrants, to do a kindness to women and children, he had been moved in a mysterious manner at the first sight of that young face—he had felt thrilled by an electric shock, before he perceived the ring. That was the key unlocking the marvel. He knew in an instant, more certainly than as if it had been sworn to, that he saw his child—the child of his Annie. He knew as certainly that Annie was dead—else, never would his daughter have been here under such circumstances. He had no need to question any party now—indeed, he could not at first, the shock was so sudden. That night he had crept to the side of the slumbering girl—he had sat and watched that sweet face bathed in the lustrous moonlight, while great, hot tears rolled over his cheeks. Her face was not Annie's—it was very lovely, but it was not Annie's—so fair, so angelic, with golden ringlets and deep-blue eyes. No, this was his own likeness softened by youth and sex, but his own. The dark, curling lashes, the raven hair, the clear brunette skin, the passionate mouth, the proud brows were the softer type of himself. This was his child, indeed, only that the pride of his own expression in hers was a calm melancholy, telling, ah, how piteously, of the heart-broken musings of the desolate mother who bore her.

With tears such as men seldom have such occasion to weep, he had kept watch, in the repose of midnight, by his daughter's slumber; then, softly slipping the ring from her hand, he had stolen back to his own camp-wagon, to waste the rest of the night in the recollections of bliss and agony which the sight of that wedding-ring had brought back almost as vividly as if the events of those long-vanished years had happened yesterday.

It was not surprising that the next day should find him too much shaken in spirit to feel like unraveling the thread of mystery connected with his wife and child. He would linger by her side another day, observe her, and the people who had her in charge, and, as soon as he was calm enough to hear what there might be for them to tell, he would make himself known to them.

The devastation of the tornado the following night had interrupted his plans and plunged him into new distress. But, through all his fears for the fate of Elizabeth, sweet hopes had whispered to him that he should find her, that he should take her with him to the home which nature had fitted her to adorn, and he had exulted in the thought that she was still but a child—"in maiden meditation, fancy free"—whom he could guide, develop, sway. She was pure and beautiful—this was enough for him.

This was the cause of the thunder-cloud now gathering over the heaven of his anticipations. In these two days that his child had been snatched from him, had come a change. He saw the blush in her cheek, the new luster in her drooping eyes. He saw the man who had found and cherished her would be loth ever to resign the treasure he had, as it were, secured a right to.

Nat Wolfe little suspected the searching jealousy that was reading his every thought and action. He did, indeed, although he had scarcely thought at all about it, feel as if Elizabeth was his own—as if he never more could leave this child to the dangers of the rude life she was compelled to live—as if he must take her in his strong arms, shield her against his strong breast, and keep, hereafter, the winds of heaven from blowing upon her too roughly.

But if he had been conscious that the haughty gentleman who had taken so deep an interest in her rescue, had claims stronger than his, and would bitterly deny his right to advance his own, it would not have changed his resolves.

Nat Wolfe was not a man to yield the mastery to any one. His will was not to be ruled. His pride was as stubborn in its way as Dr. Carollyn's. He despised the effeminacy of city civilization more thoroughly than anyone despised the rudeness of his handsome, courageous manhood.

If he could win the shy maiden to love the tangles of unshorn hair, the tried strength of his protecting arm, the sincere passion of his untutored heart, she should be his by the right of affinity.

The lion of his nature lay, however, for the present, unaroused. He only dreamed of the young form that he had held through the chill watches of the preceding night, and of the soft eyes that had answered his own with mute promises of deathless love in moments they had thought their last of earth—of the long, wild kiss with which he had sought to hold the sinking soul of the girl on his breast. And now they were safe and well again, almost strong, drinking delicious draughts of life, free to love, to live, to be happy!

The welcome supper was prepared. Dr. Carollyn himself attended to the quantity and quality of Elizabeth's share of the feast. Every morsel was ambrosial. The whole party were renovated by the needed refreshment. Nat told the story of his rescue of the kidnapped girl, his voice quivering slightly over the mention of Kit Carson's death.

The faithful horses who had borne Joe and the Doctor on their long, sultry ride, received their share of attention, being carefully watered, and fed on the short, coarse grass along the bank of the stream. Then, as the sunset hour approached, with wallets well filled with cooked antelope, and canteens overflowing with water, the quartette set out in good spirits, along the trail, hoping by traveling nearly all night, and making good speed next day, to overtake their company. To Buckskin Joe it was reserved to walk, he generously resigning his animal to Nat, while Elizabeth, as before, rode with Dr. Carollyn.

Without further accidents, and with only such events as were common to the journey, the party reached the encamped emigrants at the time they expected. A great shout of joy rung over the plain as the lost ones were welcomed back to the anxious company.

CHAPTER VII.

THE REVELATION.

I shrink from the embittered close Of my own melancholy tale; 'Tis long since I have waked my woes— And nerve and voice together fail.—Willis. How may this little tablet feign The features of a face, Which o'erinforms with loveliness, Its proper share of space.—Pinckney.

"It was right kind of you, stranger, to put yourself out so much to help find our Lizzie," remarked Mrs. Wright, after the first excitement of the morning was over.

Dr. Carollyn had just returned from a visit to the wagon, where lay the man with the broken leg, who was doing as well as possible. The camping-ground where they had been so long detained was, fortunately, pretty well supplied with grass and water, so that the cattle were rather enjoying their holiday. The men had been kept busy repairing the damages done by the tornado, and now were in unusually good spirits, both on account of the safe return of the lost ones, as also in the prospect that another day's successful march would bring them into the belt of comparatively fertile prairie at the foot of the mountains. The dreaded part of the journey was over; to-morrow there would be wood and grass and water in plenty—in three days at furthermost they would be at the scene of their anticipation—their El Dorado; to realize something of their feverish dreams or to be overwhelmed with bitter disappointment—which?—there was plenty reason to fear the latter; but the human heart is more elastic than any other earthly substance—it will hope, it must hope—it does hope always; and these men talked as if seas of gold were rolling at their feet.

"We shall never forget it, sir, so long as we live," added Mr. Wright, looking affectionately over at the maiden, who was sitting on a buffalo-skin under a canopy made of a wagon-cover stretched upon some poles.

She looked wearied out with exposure and excitement, but her smile was one of the most brilliant content; and she had not refused little Mary a place in her lap, fatigued as she was. The child had missed her so much as to fairly pine, and was now close in the shelter of her arms, sleeping, and laughing in her sleep. The two boys hung about, looking at their cousin as at some new and wonderful creature, their pleasure being testified by bashful smiles and giggles.

"Perhaps I have been more selfish in the matter than any of you dream," replied the gentleman, with a peculiar look at the young girl. "Elizabeth, you are not strong enough to hold that little one; let me give it to its mother. And now, I'm going to sit here, and tell you something strange."

He sat down on the robe beside her, and lifted one of her small, brown hands in his; there was something in his manner which arrested the attention of all. Mrs. Wright leaned forward, her husband took his tobacco-pipe from his mouth, leaning his elbows on his knees; Buckskin Joe, who was on the alert for this little episode, strolled alongside, standing, with a great quid in one cheek, and whittling away with his hunting-knife at a green switch; while Golden Arrow, who was also lounging on the grass, and near enough to hear every uttered word, straightened himself up, with eyes that began to flash as he saw the way in which Elizabeth's hand was taken possession of. His first thought was that this proud, reserved gentleman was about to make a declaration of love to the young girl, and the maddening jealousy which fired his veins taught him the full strength of the feeling she had awakened. The words which followed, however, gave a new direction to his fears.

"What do you say, friends—do you see any resemblance between this maiden and myself?" and the speaker drew the soft, oval face up beside his older and sallower countenance.

"La me! if they don't look enough alike to be father and child! don't they, Tim?" exclaimed Mrs. Wright.

"They sartainly do look alike, wife."

"Since we look so much like parent and daughter, and since this maiden has neither father nor mother, why not give her up to me, and let me have her for my child? This life you are bringing her up to is too hard and rough for her."

"So 'tis—so 'tis, stranger!" said Timothy, "but it's the best we can do for her—and we couldn't spare Lizzie. No! no!"

"You have others to provide for—I have no one. I am rich; I could give her all she wishes and ought to have."

"Wal, in the first place, stranger, if you're in earnest, you'd have to give purty satisfactory proofs of who and what you was, before you get our Lizzie. As for the rest, we love her too much to want to be selfish—and she can speak for herself."

"What do you say, Elizabeth? Will you be my daughter?"

She made no reply; she was looking at him with a startled, wistful gaze—something was stirring in her blood and brain which moved her mysteriously—her subtle sense was half conscious of the affinity between this stranger and herself.

"You never knew your father, Elizabeth?"

"Never."

"Or your mother?"—how his voice trembled.

"She has been dead many years—since I was three years old—but I remember her," and the tears rushed into voice and eyes.

The cautious prudence with which Dr. Carollyn meant to approach the avowal was swept away by a sudden torrent of emotion—tears blinded him, his lips quivered, he endeavored in vain to speak, to compose himself—until finally he caught the surprised girl to his breast, held her closely, exclaiming:

"Oh, my lost Annie! you are her child, yes, you are her child and mine. You are indeed my own flesh and blood—I am your father, my darling!"

"Wal, if that don't beat all," was Mrs. Wright's comment amid the silence of the rest of the group. "I always told you, husband, this very thing would turn up some time."

"How do I know he's speakin' truth?" growled Timothy.

"Did you know Elizabeth's mother?" asked Mr. Carollyn.

"I reckon we did, when she lived with us full four years—she was with us before this child was born, and stayed with us till she went to a better place—to the heaven where she belonged," and the woman put her apron up to her eyes.

"I will show you the likeness of my wife," said Dr. Carollyn, putting Elizabeth gently aside, and drawing a miniature case from an inner vest-pocket over his heart.

Wright and his wife sprung forward to look at it.

"It's her!" they both cried, lingering as if they could not look enough—another was also hanging tranced above it, the maiden gazing at the picture of her mother, whose girlish face was scarcely older than her own—gazing, breathless and tearless, upon the delicate, lovely vision whose blue eyes looked out of ripples of golden hair like an angel's out of a cloud.

"It is my mother," she said, "I have never forgotten her."

"And I am your father—oh, say that your heart no longer denies me the title."

The young girl looked into his face, full of the most yearning love and anguish; her own soul was deeply stirred. The dreams with which her melancholy childhood had been haunted, had ever pictured to her something different from the commonplace, narrow, poverty-enthralled life about her. Her vague memories of a mother, beautiful and refined, together with long musings over the few jewels and fine articles of clothing she had left, had helped her to build up a world as different from the coarse scenes of her daily experience as Paradise from common earth. It was in this world of dreams she moved when those dark eyes floated with those far-away, lustrous looks which made those about her feel that she was different from them, and leave her undisturbed to her reveries. Kind and gentle as she had ever been to her friends, winning their warmest love, she was conscious of affections and aspirations which their companionship never called forth.

"Speak—let me hear you call me father!"

The deep, musical tones, whose singular power seldom failed to move those whom he addressed with earnestness, and now quivering with untold pathos, pierced to her heart; her bosom fluttered like a frightened bird's—her eyes turned to each one of the group, those true, affectionate friends of hers, and lastly, lingered an instant on those of Nat Wolfe, who had risen and was standing motionless, regarding her with a keen look—then her hand slipped into Dr. Carollyn's, she kissed his cheek and called him—

"Father."

When she thought of him again, Nat had disappeared; he had turned abruptly from the scene, and was walking off the pain and anger which tormented him, out of sight of the camp. He was more wordly-wise than Elizabeth; when he saw her yield to the claim of this courtly father, he knew that all her old associations were to be shaken off like a worn-out garment. For hours he strode back and forth along the outskirts of the camp, like a sentinel doing duty most conscientiously, his mind in such a tumult as had not shaken it for years.

"It is my fate," he muttered. "The soft blessings of a woman's love are never to warm this rough experience of mine. I was mad—a fool, to dream that it could be! I will not suffer the whole accursed thing over again," he continued. "It is enough to have had life blighted once, as mine was blighted. Why have I allowed this flower to spring again on the withered stalk? I should have known some frost would blacken it. The Fates should have made me more heartless or her less pure and lovely. What man could have cherished that innocent girl through days and nights, seeing her so confiding, so entirely a child in heart yet a woman in beauty, and not have felt the hard suspicion and dislike within him melt away? I wish I had never met her? I wish that confounded dark-skinned Doctor had chanced in some other company. I'm a fool to believe in woman! Two days ago she told me with her dying eyes, that she loved me—to-morrow she will tell me that she has changed her mind. The prospect of a little worldly splendor and flattery will turn any woman's head—or heart!"

Poor Nat! it was no wonder he spoke bitterly—that he stamped and stalked about in a manner quite different from his usual careless dignity. Far back in the past of his early manhood, when his fresh, boyish soul trusted all, and adored every woman as something to be revered and idolized, he had loved a girl of his own age. He was not a hunter of bison and Indians in those days—he was a handsome, proud, well-educated youth, the son of an esteemed clergyman, who, though poor, as is the wont of village ministers, managed to send his oldest son to college, and was glad, as even a minister has a right to be, to see him so bright, so graceful, so brilliant in intellect—the peer of any of the young men with whom he associated.

The Rev. Mr. Wolfe had never been so unwise as to plan that his son should follow his own profession; for that Nathaniel was never made for the quiet, severely-disciplined life of his father was self-evident. Reckless, gay, full of wit and courage, it was yet impossible for the surliest deacon in his father's church to find fault with any action of his life. His morals were pure, his impulses good and generous—the deficiency in his character was that those impulses were not under the control of his judgment, and that his feelings were allowed too rash a rule.

He was just the young man to make the most devoted and winning lover. The maidens were all pleased with his attentions; and, of course, before he was fairly out of college, he was desperately enamored of the belle and beauty of the village, the 'Judge's' daughter. She liked him, too; she could not resist his handsome face and delicious devotion; she allowed herself to be engaged to him—and then, of course, he had to think of marriage, and the future. He had nothing, and she would be quite an heiress; he was too proud to live off her family, who wouldn't have permitted it, if he had been willing; he decided to study law, an offer having been made him by a friend of his father's in the city of New York—bade his darling betrothed a two years' passionate farewell, and set out, full of hope and ambition, to begin the struggle for the anticipated reward. Before his probation was much more than half over, he received news of the marriage of his affianced, to a wealthy widower, a squire of a neighboring town, who had seen and admired her beauty.

His friends thought that the rudeness of the shock would produce a reaction which would enable him to despise and forget her, while the disappointment would strengthen his character and subdue his too-romantic ideal. But they did not know how peculiarly the blow would fall upon his proud, dreamy, sensitive feelings. Having been offered the transaction of some rather unpleasant but profitable business in the far West, by the lawyer in whose office he was, and who did not wish to attend to the matter himself, he accepted the offer, with the secret resolution to never return to the mockery and falsehood of civilized society.

Upon reaching the wild settlements for which he was destined, the rude freedom of life in these places was a balm to his wounded and outraged spirit. Naturally fond of adventure, and brave as reckless, his present contempt for life added to his courage. He made friends with the sturdy trappers and guides; he learned their modes of living, joined eagerly in their pursuits, and soon outdid them in their own peculiar accomplishments. An incident which occurred quite early in his western experience, where a whole family of helpless women and children were savagely murdered by a prowling band of Indians, turned his dislike upon them. These barbarous bands were then the terror of the white settlers—the only too well-founded dread of them lying like a dark and stealthy shadow at every isolated cabin-door, making children shriek in their sleep, and the faces of mothers to grow pale as they rocked the rude cradles wherein their innocent infants slumbered.

Those who have had an opportunity of observing how speedily men change when going to some new country where the firm restraints of law and public opinion are taken away—a change which affects morals and actions, manners and dispositions as quickly as it does their dress and conversation—will not be surprised that ten years of border-life had changed the ardent youth into the 'Nat Wolfe' of hunter fame, whose name was the admiration of his associates and the terror of all cowardly savages.

Yet, beneath all the roughness of his hunter's frock and neglected locks, he was always the superior man in every company. There was a reserve and dignity about him which added to the respect paid to his remarkable skill and courage; his deeds were always honest and manly, his language free from real coarseness, his person neat, with a little touch of elegance even about his wild costume. While he was social and friendly on all the topics of their common life and adventure, he never betrayed his past history or his private feelings to any one. The grace of his manners, the beauty of his countenance, the superiority of his intellect, gave him great influence with men who, sincerely as they admired these traits in him, would yet have despised him had he not proved himself fully their equal in coolness, daring, and the expert wisdom required by his pursuits. Thus Nat Wolfe had become the pride and model of the hunters and guides of a vast region of prairie and forest; while the Indians, as we have said, gave him the name of "Golden Arrow," both on account of the brightness of his hair, and the preternatural swiftness and sureness they believed his darts, spears, knives and rifles to possess.

Curiously enough, right in the pathway of this hunter-skeptic, this man who had fled from the refinements of life because he believed them to gild only deceit and selfishness, the Fates had thrown this young girl, Elizabeth, a being so innocent of all worldly guile, so ignorant of life, so untempted, artless and pure, yet so lovely in spirit and form as to be fit for any sphere. They had thrown her in his pathway, left her in his protection as if purposely, that he might be made to know what truth and beauty there still could be in some women's characters; they had shaken the fixed resolves of years, melted away his stoicism like ice in tropic sunlight—until he was warmed, thrilled, entranced—made over again in all the delicious trust and poetry of his boyhood—ready to give this maiden a love as sweet and hopeful as the first enthusiastic dream—Fate, or circumstance, had done this—what for? To drive him back again into a desolation more dreary than before! Ere he could fashion his hopes into words, ere he could ask the maiden to share with him the life of mingled luxury and wildness which he had painted as best fitted for both their natures, this specious tempter must come, in the shape of a haughty and wealthy father, to snatch away his Eve and feed her on the apples of knowledge. It was no wonder his thoughts were bitter as he tramped to and fro beneath the large, bright stars of the prairie-sky, which here seemed to come almost close enough to earth to be reached by his weary longing.

In the mean time, Dr. Carollyn was deeply engaged with the Wrights, listening, the most of the time with his face bowed and hidden in his hands, to the particulars of his wife's residence with this family. They were no relatives of hers; although they had taught Elizabeth to regard them as such, for the sake of making the orphan feel at home, as if she had a claim on them.

"They were a new-married couple themselves," Mrs. Wright said, and "had just sot up for themselves in a little house her father had built for them on a part of his own farm, in O— county, York State. They hadn't been to housekeeping but a few days when the lady came along, and wanted to board with them for the summer. She had no family then, nothin' much to do, and was right glad to take such a nice boarder, who paid them enough and well for all they did for her. Their place was small, but it was pleasant—looked out over an orchard and wheat-fields, off to Lake Ontary, lying as blue as the sky ag'in it. The lady had a neat chamber to herself, where she could look at the lake night and day, if she wanted to, which she mostly did. They knew of course there was something queer about her comin' there alone; she give her name as Mrs. St. John—but they didn't like to ask her questions; and they couldn't have been made to believe any thing bad about her. Some of the neighbors did talk and make remarks; but she and Tim set more store by the lady than they did by their own relatives; nobody that knew her, but would see, to oncet, she was a perfect angel—(ah, jealous man, how bitterly that unmeant dart stung thee!)—she was always so sad and quiet, but so gentle, and didn't make any fuss about any thing. When it became plain she was going to be a mother before long, she took me to her room oncet, when Tim was gone, and showed me her marriage-certificate, only she covered up her husband's name; and she told me there had been a difficulty; but if she should die and her baby should live, she would leave a letter for me to open, so I could give the child to its father, that he should do by it as he ought.

"Wal, she was very sick, but she didn't die; she got 'round again, but was never well—she took the consumption—sort of faded away like. She stayed with us all the time. We hadn't no children of our own yet, and we sot our hearts on our little girl—the prettiest, sweetest, cunningest little thing that ever was! She saw how we loved little Lizzie, and she finally told me, a few weeks 'fore she died, that we might keep the child, and do by it as our own—that she believed the poor little creature would be heart-broken to be sent off to cold and cruel strangers—'we loved her,' she said, and we cried and said we did, and would do far more for that baby than as if it was our own. So she put away the ring, and what little things she had, and a couple o' hundred dollars in gold, in a box to be kept till the child was growed up, with a letter to her, to be read when she was eighteen; she saved out money to buy herself a shroud and coffin; and so she went at last, as quiet as a lamb."

"And left no word for me at the very last," cried her listener.

"Maybe she would have said somethin' at the last, but she went before anybody knew it. She was about her room the day before she died; that night we heard her speak, and got right up and went into her chamber, but she was dead when we reached her. Since then we've kept our promise as well as we could, haven't we, Lizzie?—which is poor enough at the best, for Timothy has been unlucky, and we've seen hard times, and so poor Lizzie has had rough times."

"Yes, we've had bad luck," said Mr. Wright, "we mostly have had all kind of misfortunes; but the Lord has blessed that little girl to us, for all."

That firmness of will, that selfishness of purpose, which is apt to accompany the intense pride and jealousy of a disposition like Dr. Carollyn's, was already working out the problem in his mind of how he was to separate his child from these associations in which she had grown up. This very evening, while moved to agony and remorse keen as that he felt the first day of his desolation, and amid the very gratitude the recital of these kind-hearted people awakened, he was conscious of regret that the ties between them and his should be so strong, and of a resolve that they must be severed. Yet he was far too generous and noble to wish to wrong the feelings of any; he did not intend to hint at any abrupt or long-continued separation; he wished to reward, as far as money could, the care and expense his child had been to these adopted relatives, to lighten the burden of their poverty, while into the heart of his daughter he thought to win his way gradually, and when he once had her to himself, he feared not but that the awakening of dormant tastes, the bewitching influences of ease and refinement, would complete the work of alienation. The proud love of his passionate nature, so long doomed to suspense and solitude, fixed now upon his child, as it had once fixed on the orphan Annie St. John, with the wish to absorb and possess its object utterly. Could he then brook a rival at the very onset?—that rival a lover, and a man of the stamp of Nat Wolfe? He had other dreams for this beautiful girl—"sole daughter of his house and heart"—and the hunter, walking his impatient beat a mile away, knew it as well as himself—knew it better, for Dr. Carollyn had not yet realized the actualities of the case. If he took Elizabeth away with him to his eastern home, that, of course, would be the end of any incipient fancy which might be growing in her mind for her dashing preserver.

Every glance of Dr. Carollyn's at the ungainly calico frock which his daughter wore, every illiterate expression of her friends, grated upon his feelings. It was to him the most powerful evidence of the deadly nature of the blow he had struck into the heart of his sensitive, confiding wife, that she had sternly resolved to leave her little one with such people, rather than send her to him—"cruel and cold strangers," she had said, but she had meant him, or, at least when she felt that her own protection could no longer be exercised over their babe, she would have consigned it to him. He dared not linger upon the history of that past time—but now, if his wife could look from the heaven where she was sheltered from the cruelties of earth, she should see that the tenderness in which he should wrap their child from every breath of any chilling care or sorrow, would satisfy her yet.

As for Elizabeth, she was absorbed in conjecturing what the difficulty could have been which alienated such a mother from such a father in the very honeymoon of their wedded youth—of this she was thinking far more than of the change in her own prospects.

CHAPTER VIII.

FIRE IN THE FOREST.

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Locksley Hall.

Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire! The Bells.

Nat Wolfe and Buckskin Joe were traversing a wild pine forest on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. As they came out on a projecting ledge of rock from which they had a view of the mountain and plain beneath them, they turned to look back over the ground they had passed. Through the clear, bracing September air they distinctly saw where the little cluster of cabins was gathered about Pike's Peak, twenty miles away, by the smoke of the chimneys hovering over the settlement.

"We're purty nigh onto the spot now, if I recollect right," said Joe; "it's over a year sence I was here. Let's eat our grub—here's a basin of water in this rock a purpose for us to drink out of; after we've rested a spell we'll push on and find the exact locality. Cur'us, isn't it?—I didn't dream, when I traveled over this mountain the last time, that so many thousand fools would have sot foot on it in less'n a year. We made up our minds, then, me and Jim did, thar' was gold in this region—and I ain't sartain but we're responsible for givin' the fever to a good many," added the little old fellow, with a quiet chuckle. "It's a mighty catchin' disease—took more easily than the small-pox. The wust of it is, I'm afraid it'll prove fatal to a good many of them poor, white-livered chaps as have come expecting to crowd their pockets with rocks as big as goose-eggs, all ready picked up. I reckon Wright's one of the wust-up of any. He ain't naterally got any pluck, and he's out o' money and vittals, and instid of workin' for hisself and makin' thirty or forty dollars a day, he's had to hire out for a dollar a day and keepin.' I'm sorry for his wife, poor critter. But she's got more sperit than he has, and 'll make more money. She's takin' in washin' and cookin' for the men, and airns a good lot, I'll be bound. I shouldn't wonder if she got along and laid up money—which he'll be sure to borrow and have 'the luck' to lose. Have some o' this dried buffalo, Wolfe?—it's better'n your cold bacon.

"I don't wonder that saller-faced Doctor is anxious to get Miss 'Lizabeth away from such a hole as Pike's Peak," continued Joe, who grew talkative over his dried meat and whisky and water, giving a keen side-look at his companion as he spoke. "'Tain't no place for the likes of her—eh, Nat, what do you think? They say he'll leave with the first company that starts back, and take her along. I've a mind to hire out as guide, and see 'em safely back as far as Nebraska City."

"I wish you would," was the hunter's brief reply.

"Why don't you undertake the job, Wolfe?"

"I'm afraid my company wouldn't be agreeable," with a bitter laugh.

"Sho! it's the first time I ever knowed of you playin' the sneak, Nat Wolfe."

"What do you mean?" rather fiercely.

"You needn't turn on me like a trod nettle, Nat. I wouldn't like to make you mad—cos we're alone out here in the woods and you're the biggest, and nobody'd ever know what had become of Buckskin Joe if you should chaw me up. But say, now, r'ally, I'll bet a thousand dollars, to be paid the day after we find our lead, that you hain't never asked that young lady whether she liked your comp'ny or not. Come, now, own up the corn."

"I'm not so humble as to put myself in the way of being walked over," was the haughty reply.

"Oh—oh, jest as I 'spected. I ain't a ladies' man—that is, not lately," said the little guide, running his fingers through his short hair as if moved by ancient reminiscences, "but I allers thought it didn't disgrace a feller if a purty woman did put her foot on his neck. How in thunder do you expeck to know for sartain whether she likes you or not, if you're too mean to ask her. P'raps you want her to do the courtin'! Mighty generous you be, ain't you. All I can say is, if you let her go off without findin' out precisely her sentiments, you deserve to lose her—and ought to be thrashed besides for breaking her purty heart, Nat Wolfe!"

"Breaking her heart!" echoed Nat, in a softer voice, his eyes bent wistfully upon the blue smoke wreathing the distant settlement. "There's no danger of that—her heart's already mended, and stuffed full of silk dresses and diamonds, young men and flattery, elegant houses and rich friends."

"A woman wouldn't be a woman, if she didn't have a hankerin' after silk and satin and other fixin's—specially if she's young and handsome. I don't see any thing to prevent your supplyin' her with a fair share of sech—particularly if we're lucky in findin' what we're after on this tramp. As for that pesky father of hers, he'd no business poking along here jest at this time—though he's a perfect gentleman, and we hain't no reason to hate him as I knows on. 'Lizabeth's known you as long as she has him—and unless Buckskin Joe misses his guess more'n usual, she thinks a good deal more of the youngest one of the two. I should like to know if you think it's fair not to give her a chance to speak for herself?"

Nat smiled, rather sadly however, at the indignant, remonstrating tone of the guide; he felt cheered by his words, though, and brightened visibly, as he put away the remainder of his dinner in his wallet, and sprung to his feet, saying:

"Come on, then, my friend. Let's try for the gold, first, seeing we've come this far in search of it."

For a while they strode along in silence. The bracing air was fragrant with resinous odors, the dead tassels of the pines made a soft carpet under their feet; with rifles ready loaded to repel any wild animal who might see fit to resent their intrusion into his solitudes, eager, athletic, accustomed to the forest, they pressed onward with as little hesitation as if following some well-known highway.