"I'll stay with mother," she replied.

"Go child--go!" entreated Mrs. Durade.

Others urged her, but she shook her head. Horn's big hand trembled as he held it out, and for once there was no trace of hardness about his face.

"Allie, I never had no la.s.s of my own.... I wish you'd go with him.

You'd be safe--an' you could take my--"

"No!" interrupted the girl.

Slingerland gave her a strange, admiring glance, then turned his quick gray eyes upon Horn. "Anythin' I can take?"

Horn hesitated. "No. It was jest somethin' I wanted the girl to hev."

Slingerland touched his s.h.a.ggy horse and called over his shoulder: "Rustle out of hyar!" Then he galloped down the trail, leaving the travelers standing aghast.

"Break camp!" thundered Horn.

A scene of confusion followed. In a very short while the prairie-schooners were lumbering down the valley. Twilight came just as the flight got under way. The tired oxen were beaten to make them run.

But they were awkward and the loads were heavy. Night fell, and the road was difficult to follow. The wagons rolled and b.u.mped and swayed from side to side; camp utensils and blankets dropped from them. One wagon broke down. The occupants, frantically gathering together their possessions, ran ahead to pile into the one in front.

Horn drove on and on at a gait cruel to both men and beasts. The women were roughly shaken. Hours pa.s.sed and miles were gained. That valley led into another with an upgrade, rocky and treacherous. Horn led on foot and ordered the men to do likewise. The night grew darker. By and by further progress became impossible, for the oxen failed and a wild barrier of trees and rocks stopped the way.

Then the fugitives sat and shivered and waited for dawn. No one slept.

All listened intently to the sounds of the lonely night, magnified now by their fears. Horn strode to and fro with his rifle--a grim, dark, silent form. Whenever a wolf mourned, or a cat squalled, or a night bird voiced the solitude, or a stone rattled off the cliff, the fugitives started up quiveringly alert, expecting every second to hear the screeching yell of the Sioux. They whispered to keep up a flickering courage. And the burly Horn strode to and fro, thoughtful, as though he were planning something, and always listening. Allie sat in one of the wagons close to her mother. She was wide awake and not so badly scared.

All through this dreadful journey her mother had not seemed natural to Allie, and the farther they traveled eastward the stranger she grew.

During the ride that night she had moaned and shuddered, and had clasped Allie close; but when the flight had come to a forced end she grew silent.

Allie was young and hopeful. She kept whispering to her mother that the soldiers would come in time.

"That brave fellow in buckskin--he'll save us," said Allie.

"Child, I feel I'll never see home again," finally whispered Mrs.

Durade.

"Mother!"

"Allie, I must tell you--I must!" cried Mrs. Durade, very low and fiercely. She clung to her daughter.

"Tell me what?" whispered Allie.

"The truth--the truth! Oh, I've deceived you all your life!"

"Deceived me! Oh, mother! Then tell me--now."

"Child--you'll forgive me--and never--hate me?" cried the mother, brokenly.

"Mother, how can you talk so! I love you." And Allie clasped the shaking form closer. Then followed a silence during which Mrs. Durade recovered her composure.

"Allie, I ran off with Durade before you were born," began the mother, swiftly, as if she must hurry out her secret. "Durade is not your father.... Your name is Lee. Your father is Allison Lee. I've heard he's a rich man now.... Oh, I want to get back--to give you to him--to beg his forgiveness.... We were married in New Orleans in 1847. My father made me marry him. I never loved Allison Lee. He was not a kind man--not the sort I admired.... I met Durade. He was a Spaniard--a blue-blooded adventurer. I ran off with him. We joined the gold-seekers traveling to California. You were born out there in 1850.... It has been a hard life. But I taught you--I did all I could for you. I kept my secret from you--and his!... Lately I could endure it no longer. I've run off from Durade."

"Oh, mother, I knew we were running off from him!" cried Allie, breathlessly. "And I know he will follow us."

"Indeed, I fear he will," replied the mother. "But Lord spare me his revenge!"

"Mother! Oh, it is terrible!... He is not my father. I never loved him.

I couldn't.... But, mother, you must have loved him!"

"Child, I was Durade's slave," she replied, sadly.

"Then why did you run away? He was kind--good to us."

"Allie, listen. Durade was a gambler--a man crazy to stake all on the fall of a card. He did not love gold. But he loved games of chance. It was a terrible pa.s.sion with him. Once he meant to gamble my honor away.

But that other gambler was too much of a man. There are gamblers who are men!... I think I began to hate Durade from that time.... He was a dishonest gambler. He made me share in his guilt. My face lured miners to his dens.... My face--for I was beautiful once!... Oh, I sunk so low!

But he forced me.... Thank G.o.d I left him--before it was too late--too late for you."

"Mother, he will follow us!" cried Allie.

"But he shall never have you. I'll kill him before I let him get you,"

replied the mother.

"He'd never harm me, mother, whatever he is," murmured Allie.

"Child, he would use you exactly as he used me. He wanted me to let him have you--already. He wanted to train you--he said you'd be beautiful some day."

"Mother!" gasped Allie, "is THAT what he meant?"

"Forget him, child. And forget your mother's guilt!... I've suffered.

I've repented.... All I ask of G.o.d is to take you safely home to Allison Lee--the father whom you have never known."

The night hour before dawn grew colder and blacker. A great silence seemed wedged down between the ebony hills. The stars were wan. No cry of wolf or moan of wind disturbed the stillness. And the stars grew warmer. The black east changed and paled. Dawn was at hand. An opaque and obscure grayness filled the world; all had changed, except that strange, oppressive, and vast silence of the wild.

That silence was broken by the screeching, blood-curdling yell of the Sioux.

At times these b.l.o.o.d.y savages attacked without warning and in the silence of the grave; again they sent out their war-cries, chilling the hearts of the bravest. Perhaps that warning yell was given only when doom was certain.

Horn realized the dread omen and accepted it. He called the fugitives to him and, choosing the best-protected spot among the rocks and wagons, put the women in the center.

"Now, men--if it's the last for us--let it be fight! Mebbe we can hold out till the troops come."

Then in the gray gloom of dawn he took a shovel; prying up a piece of sod, he laid it aside and began to dig. And while he dug he listened for another war-screech and gazed often and intently into the gloom. But there was no sound and nothing to see. When he had dug a hole several feet deep he carried an armful of heavy leather bags and deposited them in it. Then he went back to the wagon for another armful. The men, gray-faced as the gloom, watched him fill up the hole, carefully replace the sod, and stamp it down.

He stood for an instant gazing down, as if he had buried the best of his life. Then he laughed grim and hard.

"There's my gold! If any man wins through this he can have it!"

Bill Horn divined that he would never live to touch his treasure again.

He who had slaved for gold and had risked all for it cared no more what might become of it. Gripping his rifle, he turned to await the inevitable.