CHAPTER XLV.

A WARNING AND A RAID.

Far from the home of his kindred, far from the home of any of his race, and in the wilds where Indians roamed without restraint, was the cabin of Alfred Carter.

Three years before the opening scenes of this story, Alfred Carter had squatted upon the banks of the Republican River, and with the aid of only his brave wife and pretty daughter Rose, and his young son Edgar, he had built a stout and comfortable cabin, half fort, half house.

The prairies around him furnished food for his small family, and his cattle roamed near at hand. A quiet, sad-looking man, ever generous and peaceable, Alfred Carter had no enemies.

Even the Sioux were friendly to him, although they were at war with the whites, for the settler had often fed them from his table, and when their great chief was severely wounded and would have died for want of care, Alfred Carter had nursed him back to life, and forever won his friendship.

Seated in the cabin door, upon the day that the scout ran the gantlet of the band of Sioux warriors, was a girl of eighteen, with large, velvety eyes, a dark complexion, and long, waving black hair.

This girl was Rose Carter. She was engaged in knitting a pair of cotton socks for her father, for she was a true frontier girl, ever industrious and brave.

Presently a shadow fell upon her, and glancing up she saw an Indian girl of sixteen, a beautiful child of the forest, with a graceful, slender form, clothed in a handsome suit of bead-wrought buckskin, and with a crown of richly colored feathers upon her head.

“Who are you, girl, and what can I do for you?” said Rose, struck by the great beauty and grace of the Indian girl.

“I am the Red Bud of the Forest, the child of the mighty Pawnee chief, and I have come from my village beyond the prairie to tell the paleface maiden to beware of the false tongue of the paleface brave with eyes like the skies, for he would lead her from her happy home.”

“Of whom do you speak, Red Bud of the Forest?” said the mystified Rose.

“Of the white brave whom the Forest Rose loves as she does the sunshine, the trees, the birds, the rivers. He has a false tongue, so let the White Rose beware. Red Bud of the Forest has spoken.”

Without another word the Indian girl turned and glided away, turning no ear to the call of Rose Carter, who urged her to return.

After the departure of the Indian girl, Rose Carter sat for a long time, pondering over what she had heard, and wondering if the warning given could refer to one whom she loved most dearly, and who was then absent, and had been for months, gone to the Eastern settlements for a while before he returned to make her his wife.

Then over her face stole a look of distrust of him who had won her young heart, for the words of Red Bud had left a deep impression.

Presently her mother returned from milking the cows, and Alfred Carter from a day’s hunt, loaded down with game, while her brother, two years younger than Rose, came up from the river with a long string of fish.

The night shades fell upon the earth, and around the well-spread board gathered the settler’s family--the cheerful fire, comfortable room, and pleasant faces presenting a happy and homelike scene.

Yet a feeling of dread, of coming evil, clutched at the heart of Rose Carter, and the smile upon her face was forced. A little later there was a loud bark from the watchful dog without, a shot followed, a yelp, and then heavy blows upon the door.

Springing to their feet, the father and son seized their rifles, while the mother and daughter, in considerable alarm, awaited the result.

“Who is it that thus comes to my cabin?” cried Alfred Carter, in a stern voice.

“Open your door, old man, or it will be the worse for you,” replied a coarse voice outside.

“And why should I open my door to you? Had you come as a friend you would have been welcome; but as you come as a foe I will meet you as you deserve.”

“The Branded Brotherhood do not parley long, old man,” suddenly rang out a clear, stern voice.

Then, with a few heavy blows the door was crushed in, and one of the Brotherhood rushed across the threshold, to fall dead by a shot from Edgar’s rifle through the heart.

Another shared the same fate at the hands of Alfred Carter. Then into the cabin poured a score of desperate men, and the brave old settler fell beneath a sweeping blow from the chief’s fist, just as Red Roark brought the butt of his pistol down upon the head of Edgar.

“Ha, spare the women!” the chief cried.

But the order was too late to save poor Mrs. Carter, who, with a shriek of terror and agony, met her death at the hands of one of the band, while another seized the fainting Rose around the waist, crying:

“I’ve got the richest prize; the gal’s mine!”

One glance in the beautiful face, and the bandit chief staggered back, his hand upon his head, while he cried aloud:

“God in heaven! Who is that girl?”

“It don’t make no difference, chief, who she mout be, but she’s my prize,” insolently replied the ruffian, who still held her in his arms.

“Release that girl instantly!” cried the bandit chief, his face strangely pale and stern.

“You bet I won’t do it!” replied the man.

A quick shot followed, a cry of agony, and a stream of hot blood burst from a bullet wound in the head of the renegade, as he fell dead, still clutching in his strong arms the fainting form of Rose Carter.

“Take that girl from that hound’s grasp; and see to it, Red Roark, that no harm comes to her, for if there does, there shall be weeping and wailing in this band.”

Thus saying, the robber chief set to work to examine the contents of the cabin, for to gain booty had this raid been made by the Branded Brotherhood upon the quiet home of poor Alfred Carter.

It did not take long for those experienced hands to go through the cabin, and then the order was given to mount. The band departed. By his side, mounted upon her own horse, which the chief had ordered saddled for her, was the weeping Rose, who had returned to consciousness to find her mother and brother slain, and herself and her father in the power of the bandit chief.

Strangely soft and kind was the chief’s manner toward the sorrowing girl, but he was, nevertheless, so firm in his purpose that she had to accompany him to his stronghold.

What her fate would be she dared not think, as she rode quietly along, with the bitter, scalding tears coursing down her cheeks, and a terrible dread at her heart.

Swiftly on rode the band of the Branded Brotherhood, taking a course down the river, until the quick ear of the chief detected distant firing, and he suddenly drew rein.

“What can that mean?” he asked, striving to pierce the darkness of the prairie in the direction of the sound.

“I’ll tell you, chief; it’s the train being pitched into by some roving band of Injuns. Ef we wants any of the goods, we’d better ride fur it, kase you see thar’s a host of redskins whar all that shootin’ is going on.”

“You are right, Long Dave, and the train is bearing to the southward, contrary to our expectations; so come on, and we’ll drive off the redskins, and then wipe out the settlers.”

A yell of joy answered the words of the chief, for the men were anxious to get a chance to make a capture of the wagon train, which Long Dave had reported to be an exceedingly rich one in supplies of all kinds and money.

Almost with the speed of the wind the cavalcade spurred on, the leader leaving Rose and her father with a guard and the led horses bearing the booty taken in the recent foraging expeditions of the band.

After an hour’s ride, the flashes of distant firing were visible. The rapid discharges proved that the battle was raging most savagely, and that the defenders of the wagon train were holding out bravely against the overwhelming numbers that were attacking them.