Chapter XIV · CONCLUSION.

Leonidas Swipes continued dancing, shouting and gesticulating like a madman. He threw his hat in air, and, as it came down stamped upon it, turned summerset, hooted like an Indian, and finally shouted to the upturned faces below him.

“By jingo! just come up here! Did you ever see such a sight! Ki ’yi!” and he executed another double shuffle as a vent to his superabundant glee.

Fred Wainwright finally accepted the invitation and clambered up beside him.

“Just look off there!” shouted the Yankee, before the man has fairly reached him, “aint that enough to make your eyes sparkle? I swan! Ki ’yi!”

The next moment, the young hunter saw that the fellow had good cause for his unusual excitement; for there, right below him, were resting the five thousand and odd sheep, which the Comanches had taken so unceremoniously from him a few days before. Their multitudinous baaing, made it a source of wonder that their proximity had not been suspected ere this.

It was yet early in the morning, and the sheep were resting from the severe marching to which they had been subjected. The Indians could be seen, scattered here and there on the outer confines of the immense drove, where any stampede would be sure instantly to arouse them. Here they were slumbering, their faithful animals cropping the grass close beside them, where they could be reached in a second’s call.

One Comanche had just risen, and stood leaning against his horse, and appeared to be yawning and gaping. As there was imminent danger of Swipes being seen, Fred pushed him down from his perch.

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“You want to alarm them, do you, and have them all get away, not that you have a chance to recover your property?”

“Well, I swan it makes a feller feel so good that it don’t make much difference whether I get ’em back agin or not.”

“Little good will it do you, then. Let’s go down again and have consultations with Ward, and decide upon our means of recapturing them.”

“But won’t they give us the slip while we’re talking?”

“Not much.”

“I guess I’ll stay here and watch while you go down and make the arrangements. Be as quick as you can.”

“Come along; you’ll get to dancing and hooting again and alarm the whole country, so don’t wait.”

The prospect of recapturing the entire herd of sheep was too tempting to pass by. When a man sees an opportunity of recovering a fortune lost, is he apt to shut his eyes and turn his back upon it? Not much.

The arrangements were soon made. Ward Lancaster, Fred Wainwright and four of the best mounted men dismounted and led their horses up the ridge, and as carefully descended on the opposite side. Here they remounted, consulted a few moments, and then with a series of resounding whoops, dashed around the southern side of the drove, firing their guns at the Comanches at the same time.

The latter comprehending that the game was up, vaulted upon their mustangs and sped away like an arrow over the prairie, firing as they rode. In a few minutes, the entire body of sheep was in motion to the northward. They kept along the western side of the ridge, while Florence Brandon and her friends followed the eastern slope, both parties instantly remaining within call of each other.

In the afternoon of the same day, the entire company united with the emigrant train and the march westward was resumed.

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Messrs. Swipes, Bircham and Doolittle with the occasional assistance of the others kept the sheep drove in motion losing a very slight per cent. When the point was reached where they were to divide, they met a party from Sacramento who were going east to purchase sheep and cattle. They had an abundance of funds, and, after considerable bantering, they took the entire flock off of Swipe’s hands, giving him thirty thousand dollars.

The Yankee divided the money as he had agreed, with his companions, and compelled Lancaster and several others to take quite a handsome present.

“And now,” said he, as the three set their faces toward San Francisco, “I’m going hum.”

“But how about the Fort Mifflin Institute for the Education of the Youths of both Sexes?” inquired Fred Wainwright.

“Fort Mifflin Institute be hanged. I’m going hum to buy Deacon Popkin’s farm and settle down with Araminta.”

And home he went.

It was a beautiful day in spring time some years ago, and the emigrant train was proceeding leisurely through Southern California. It was within a few days of its destination. A few hundred yards in the rear of the company, a lady and gentleman were riding, their horses walking closely together, while the riders conversed in those slow sweet tones, so unceremoniously by persons under such circumstances. They were our old acquaintances, Fred Wainwright and Florence Brandon. There was a peculiar smile on the face of the latter, as she said, after a moment’s lull in the conversation.

“Do you suppose Mr. Fred Wainwright, that I do not know who you are?”

He looked inquiringly at her.

“What do you mean?”

“You are Mr. Frederick Ashland, of Missouri.”

“Florence! Florence, who has betrayed me?”

“No one, but yourself, on the night you so nobly 100 rescued me from the Apaches. I penetrated your disguise.”

“Why didn’t you let me know it?”

“I thought I would wait and see your object in thus remaining INCOGNITO; but I can’t divine your meaning, as I thought I would let you know that I generally keep my eyes shut. Mr. Frederick Ashland, what is the cause of this?”

“You.”

“Please explain.”

“You know after we were engaged, I called several times to see you, and was told you were out. I felt hurt very much at this, as I knew it was untrue. Finally, when I concluded to go to California, I made up my mind I would call and bid you good bye, your aunt, Miss Sillingsby told me you positively refused to see me, and I received a note which I had sent unopened. This was the last drop in the bucket and I left you, resolved never to look on you again, and I should never have done so until we were so strangely brought together, and I believed you did not suspect my identity.”

Whereupon Florence told how she had been deceived; that Miss Sillingsby had taken a fancy to a rich old crusty bachelor, and resolved that Florence should marry him. She had started the false message between the two, and finally succeeded in making both believe that the other had committed the transgression, and hopelessly estranged them.

But now all was made right—and well, we have nothing more to say. Our readers can fill in the minor details of a little scene at Fort Mifflin a few months later, when Miss Sillingsby had the chagrin and the others the exquisite pleasure of seeing our hero and heroine made happy in each other’s love.

THE END.

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