CHAPTER IV.

THE EMIGRANT PARTY.

The dust raised by the multitudinous drove of sheep was so dense, as almost to suffocate the trappers as they rode along, even when they waited till the yelling, gyrating Comanches were far in the west with their terror-stricken animals.

A thin coating of the powder settled upon their garments, so that when they emerged with the free air beyond, they were all of a yellowish white color; but a vigorous brushing and shaking of their clothes speedily resumed this, and they became themselves again.

A half hour later, the party reached the “Old Man’s Point,” but as they swept the horizon, saw nothing of the approaching emigrant train. The rocks themselves were a mass of irregular boulders piled above each other to the distance of fully a hundred feet, while the base covered an area of fully a quarter of an acre, so that no better spot could be selected as a rendezvous, or from which to take observations.

“Fred, go to the top and take a look!” said Lancaster, “I expect they must be in sight.”

“I was just thinking of doing so,” was the reply of Wainwright, as he dismounted and began clambering up the rocks. His agility soon carried him to the top, and shading his eyes with his hands, he looked off toward the east a moment, and then called out,

“_They are coming!_”

“Make right sure,” called Lancaster back to him, “for you are powerful apt to make blunders in this part of the world. Be you sure they ain’t Comanches or Apaches or some other party of stragglers.”

“I can see the white tops of their wagons.”

“I guess you’re right then,” was the comment of both the hunters below, as they considered that this fact established the other truth.

Turning their heads in the direction indicated they were able to discern the caravan, at that great distance, apparently standing still, but, as they knew, moving as rapidly as possible toward them.

Having assured himself that it was all right regarding them Fred Wainwright turned his gaze toward the vanishing Comanches and their stolen sheep. There was no difficulty in locating them, as the vast volume of dust indicated their whereabouts as unmistakably as does the smoke the track of a fire on the prairie.

The young hunter observed something which struck him as rather remarkable. The Comanches, after reaching a point, when it was plain they could not be discerned by any one, standing at the base of the Rock, made a bend fully at right angles to the course they had been pursuing. This they continued, until they grew faint and finally vanished from sight altogether.

This rather puzzled Fred until he mentioned it to the two hunters below when he descended, when Harling explained its meanings. From whomsoever the Comanches had stolen the sheep, it was evident they had fears of pursuit. It is the easiest thing in the world to follow a sheep trail over the prairie; but, if the pursuing party should ever happen, for the sake of convenience, to leave the trail, they would be very apt to take a general direction in their pursuit, without going to the trouble of keeping to the main path. In this manner, unless some such ruse were suspected, they would never notice the change in direction made by the thieves, and thus give the latter just what they wanted, sufficient time to get themselves and their prizes into safety.

But the emigrant party was now close at hand, and Fred reascended the rocks and waived his hat as a signal that all was right. This demonstration relieved them in a great degree, for upon discerning the figures, the company had come to a dead halt, and seemed to be consulting together; but now they immediately moved forward; and as the trappers moved out to meet them, the two parties speedily mingled with each other.

The emigrants numbered about a hundred,—ten wives, a young woman, a half dozen children, while the rest were strong, stout bearded men, well-armed, and willing to dare anything in the defence of their property. They had got pretty well used to Indians, storms and danger in coming thus far, and felt considerable confidence in themselves.

“But we’ve never traveled this way before,” remarked Mr. Bonfield, a pleasant, middle aged man, who by virtue of having the largest family, and owning almost all the horses and wagons, was looked upon as a sort of leader in the enterprise; “and, of course we ain’t acquainted with the route. We engaged a capital guide at St. Louis, but several days ago he was shot.”

“He oughter known better than that,” remarked Lancaster; “if he learned enough to be a guide, he oughter learned enough to take care of himself.”

“He did; but this was one of those things which sometimes happens when we don’t dream there is any danger. He and Templeton here were chasing an antelope, just at sunset, when they struck him, and he limped a short distance, and finally tumbled over in a small grove not a half mile distant from camp. Of course they dashed after him, when, just as they went down into the timber, I saw a flash from behind one of the trees, the poor fellow threw up his arms, rolled off his horse and fell dead to the ground. Templeton dashed on into the grove, when a single Apache warrior on foot, started on a run across the prairie, but he hadn’t taken a dozen leaps, jumping from side to side, so as to distract his aim, when he put a ball through his skull and laid him dead in his track. I suppose, when the Apache saw them coming, he knew it meant sure death to him, and as he did the best he could—shot one and run for it; but who of us, if we had been in the guide’s place would not have done precisely as he did?”

“You’re right,” replied Harling. “What was his name?”

“Hackle.”

“Joe Hackle?” asked Lancaster, with considerable interest.

“That was it.”

“Poor Joe; he and I trapped together for three years on the upper forks of the Platte, and a braver or better fellow never lived. He knowed every mile of ground between the Mississippi—that is if you follow the route travelers generally take.”

“And that reminds me that we were told that we should find Mr. Ward Lancaster, and George Harling at this place, and that they would act as our guide into Lower California. I presume you are the gentlemen?”

“Well, yas,” replied Lancaster with a huge grin, “I s’pose we be: that is I’m Ward Lancaster without the _Mr._”

Mr. Bonfield laughed; for he evidently understood what it all meant. The emigrant be it remembered had halted, and the leader and several of the men had advanced a hundred yards or so, and were consulting with the hunters. The rest of the emigrants were busy attending to their animals, or to themselves and their private affairs.

“Can we engage you as guides?” asked the leader, unable to conceal his eagerness.

“I rather think so, as we come out here for that thing.”

“There’ll be no difficulty about the compensation; for we need a guide badly enough. Most of my party had concluded to halt here and wait until we could procure one; and, although I opposed this conclusion, I should have disliked very much to have penetrated further into this country, which is entirely unknown to every one of us.”

“It wouldn’t have done,” said Wainwright. “You would have lost your way among the mountains and every one of you would have been picked off by the Indians before a week had passed over your heads.”

“So I thought; or else taken prisoners.”

“Those Indians in these parts, ain’t apt to take prisoners, unless they are in the form of valuable animals, or fair women.”

“He is right,” said Lancaster, deeming it necessary that the statement should receive his endorsement before he could pass for genuine in such a promiscuous company.

Mr. Bonfield and Lancaster now went apart by themselves for a few moments, and talked together in low tones. They soon rejoined the others when the trapper announced that the arrangements were completed, and they were to accompany the party to their destination, which was Fort Mifflin, on the western side of the Coast Range, or Rocky Mountains, in the midst of a gold region. At the little town which encompassed this fort, were a dozen of their friends, who had been there a couple of years, and who had sent for them. They had a young lady, whose father was the principal man at Fort Mifflin, and who had sent for his daughter to join him, at the time the party crossed the plains.

The preliminaries being settled, the party rode back to the emigrant train, made the acquaintance of the others and the march was resumed. They had all breakfasted, and it was concluded to make no halt until they reached a small stream, which Lancaster hoped could be found by noon, when they could rest as long as they chose.

“What part of the States are you from?” inquired Fred Wainwright, of the gentleman who had been referred to by the leader as Mr. Templeton.

“Missouri,” was the reply.

“Ah! what part of it?”

“From the capital.”

The young hunter could not avoid an exclamation of surprise, uttered so naturally that the emigrant turned abruptly toward him.

“Are you from there?”

“I—ahem!—I know several persons from that part of the country—that is I used to know them, but it is a good while ago.”

Mr. Templeton gazed at him sharply, and remarked by way of explanation of his apparent rudeness:

“Most of us are from there, and I thought at first there was something in your voice that was familiar, but I don’t remember your name. We have a young lady—Miss Florence Brandon, whose name you may have heard, as she was a belle at home.”

“I think I have heard of her.”

“Would you like to renew your acquaintance with her?”

“No; I thank you; we hunters are hardly in a condition to appear in the presence of refined ladies, as I judge Miss Brandon to be, and our lives are such that we should cut a sorry figure, if we attempted to do so.”

“But you talk like one who has not always led a hunter’s life.”

“I have some education, but at present, I am simply a hunter and trapper.”

_Florence Brandon!_ Little did Mr. Templeton dream of the strange emotions awakened in the breast of Fred Wainwright, the young hunter, at the mention of that name.