CHAPTER XI.

THE LAST OF EARTH.

It was near morning when Kent was awakened by a hand on his shoulder and a gentle shake.

Starting up, half asleep, he asked in a whisper:

“What is wanting?”

“Git up,” was the reply, in the well-known voice of Nathan Rogers. “_Thar’s Injuns clus at hand, an’ we can only save ourselves by slidin’!_”

Wide enough awake now, the young man rose to his feet, and saw that Vic stood near, with the horses ready saddled.

“How close are they?” he asked.

“Not forty rods off,” was the startling reply, “an’ we’ve got to be off at once.”

Stepping along a few feet to where Marion lay in innocent slumber, Kent stooped and touched her arm.

“Marion,” he whispered, gently, “Marion, awake.”

The girl moved uneasily, and the loved voice mingling with her dreams, she murmured:

“Wayne, dear Wayne. Oh, be careful! They will kill you if they discover you. Have a care!”

“Poor child,” murmured her lover, “even her dreams are haunted by the thought of our foes. Marion,” he added, louder, “awake.”

She started up in affright, and collecting her scattered senses, asked what was wanted.

“We are forced to continue our journey,” answered Kent; “the Indians are near enough to render our presence here dangerous.”

She sprung to her feet, frightened but calm.

“Wayne,” she said, steadily, “you do not tell me all. I am not afraid. How near are they?”

“Forty or fifty rods,” was the answer. “We must make haste. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

He assisted her to mount, the other three men being already in the saddle, and then springing to his seat, they were off.

It was dark—so dark that they were in some danger of encountering foes, or making some noise that might betray them; but, the dexterity of the old trapper carried them safely to the edge of the plain, where they halted a moment to make sure of their bearings.

“All right, this way,” said Wild Nat, in a suppressed voice, as he led the way in the darkness. “Keep powerful still.”

Fortunately, the trapper’s expertness and knowledge of woodcraft enabled them to avoid the Indians, who were lurking on the opposite side of the timber, unaware, as yet, of the proximity of the whites.

Silently the little band, led by Wild Nat, kept on in the darkness, and were soon two miles distant from the grove, and under the shelter of some low hills and timber. The east was beginning to grow light, and morning would soon be there. They kept on at a sharp trot for a few miles, the darkness slowly lifting till the eastern horizon was bathed in rosy light, and the last shadows of the night vanished in the west.

A desultory conversation was maintained by the rest, in which Wild Nat did not join. He appeared unusually grave and preoccupied. Marion watched him furtively, and at length thinking his grave demeanor caused by apprehensions of danger from the Indians, she spoke to him.

“What is it, Nathan? Is there great danger?”

“No, guess not,” he replied, absently. Then rousing himself to consider her question, he continued: “Probably they’ll find our trail, but I guess we’ll be near enough the fort tew distance ’em. Shan’t worry, anyway.”

An animated discussion of the probabilities of their being pursued sprung up, while the trapper relapsed into his former gravity and silence.

Mile after mile detached itself from the distance, and stretched itself away behind them, until only a few remained between them and their destination, when, suddenly, a long shout reached them, and looking back they beheld a slight eminence about half a mile distant, covered with a war-party of Indians.

“We’re in for it,” muttered Wild Nat. “Forrard all!”

The fugitives quickened their pace at once, and whooping and yelling the Indians followed, and the race was fairly begun. Our friends felt but little anxiety, as their horses were comparatively fresh, and the distance to Fort Laramie so short, but a race with Indians, even under the most auspicious circumstances, can not fail to be exciting.

For a time the two parties maintained their relative positions, and then the Indians began to gain slowly. Already the fugitives felt comparatively safe, so near were they to their destination, and the knowledge of this fact served to stimulate their pursuers with renewed energy. On they flew, their horses straining every nerve, their battle-axes and war-spears glittering in the sun, and a deafening roar of whoops filling the air.

“Thet’s lovely music,” remarked Vic, with a grin, “an’ thar’s the akompanyment,” he added, as a shower of arrows flew around them. “’Tain’t no use tew dodge, after they’ve gone past,” as Scip made frantic efforts to elude the flying arrows. “We’ll be out of danger in a few minits. See, thar’s the fort!”

Amid a shower of death-winged missives the little band of fugitives flew on, up the little rise that led to the fort, closely followed by their pursuers, who were evidently determined to abandon their purpose only when forced to do so. Occasionally a bullet, from a rifle in the hands of the savages, whizzed through the air with its peculiar whistling music, losing itself in the space beyond.

Suddenly Kent, who was near Wild Nat, observed a deadly pallor overspread the trapper’s face, and saw him reel in his seat. With a presentiment of danger, the young man caught the falling man and supported him, until in an instant they were all safe within the walls of the fort.

Vic caught sight of him and hurried to him.

They laid him down carefully, Marion holding his head, and bathing his brow with water.

He opened his eyes with a faint smile.

“It’s all over,” he said, looking up. “Vic, my boy, we’ll go trapping together no more. I’ve hunted my last buffalo. Good-by.”

Vic grasped his hand and wrung it without a word, turning away to hide his emotion.

The old trapper looked from one to the other.

“Good-by boys, I’m going! Good-by, little ’un; don’t forgit me. Don’t cry, it’s best so. We’ll meet ag’in, I hope.”

He closed his eyes with a smile, holding one of Marion’s hands in his. The pallor deepened on his rough face, the labored breathing grew fainter.

“He is asleep,” said Marion, reverently, with fast-dropping tears. “Asleep forever in this life.”

Kent was kneeling beside him, holding one hand.

“Yes, he’s gone,” he said, in a low tone, rising to his feet. “The bullet passed near his heart.”

Marion disengaged her hand from the tight clasp of the trapper, and with earnest sorrow for the life gone so suddenly, withdrew from the room.

Vic came up, brushing his rough hand across his eyes, as if ashamed of his emotion.

“He is gone,” he said, with a glance at his peaceful face, “an’ a braver man never lived.”

The baffled Indians had withdrawn, fearing pursuit by the garrison.

Much to the surprise and pleasure of the party, they found at the fort a party from the Willamette River Mission, on their way to the States, with whom they might travel in company.

They remained at Fort Laramie over one day. Wild Nat was buried near the fort, and a rude slab to mark the place was erected by Kent and Vic. It was with sincere grief that they mourned the rough but kindly friend who had been with them through so many perils, and gave his life for their safety.