Mildred at Home: With Something About Her Relatives and Friends.

Chapter Eleventh.
CROSSING THE PLAINS

News was several times received from Rupert and Don during their slow and toilsome journey across the States of Illinois and Missouri, but when the last frontier town was left behind and with it such luxuries of civilization as mails and post-offices, the door of communication was closed: they could neither hear from home nor be heard from there till the trackless wilderness should be crossed and the land of golden promise reached.

The Keiths had an ox-team and wagon for the transportation of their baggage – clothing, camp equipage, mining tools, and some luxuries, among which were a few books. Also a saddle-horse, which they rode by turns; though Rupert oftener than Don, who had more strength for driving and more taste for it.

This emigrant band, of which they formed a part, comprised some twenty men, several with wives and children; a dozen wagons drawn by oxen, and two or three horses beside that which was the joint property of Rupert and Don.

Rupert's health had steadily improved from the time of leaving home, so that the bulletins to the dear ones there had been sources of great joy, though joy mingled with grief at the thought of the months or perhaps years that must pass by ere they could hope to see the loved wanderers again.

Rupert, who was of a very kindly disposition, always on the lookout for opportunities to be of service to others, had already become a general favorite with his fellow-travellers.

Was a little child crying with the weariness of confinement to the cramped quarters of the wagon, he would take it on his horse before him, and give it the rest of a brisk canter in the open air and with an unobstructed view on all sides.

Older ones were frequently taken up behind him; at other times he dismounted, and joining them as they plodded along beside or in the rear of the wagons, beguiled the tediousness of the way with story or song.

So slow was the movement of the oxen, so wearisome the constant sitting or lying in the jolting wagons, that a robust child would very often prefer walking during the greater part of the day; and even little girls were known to have walked hundreds of miles in making the trip across the plains.

But it was necessary to keep near the wagons because of danger from wild beasts and roving bands of Indians.

Rupert, and indeed every man in the party, was always armed ready to repel an attack or to bring down game that came within shooting distance, thus adding a welcome variety to their bill of fare. There were wild geese and turkeys, prairie fowl, rabbits, squirrels, deer, bisons, and bears, all to be had for the shooting.

After leaving Independence they camped out every night, building a fire to cook their evening meal and keep off wild beasts, except when there was reason to fear that Indians were in the neighborhood; then the fire was not kindled, as the smoke would be likely to reveal their vicinity to the lurking foe; but instead, sentinels were posted, who kept vigilant watch while the others slept.

Occasionally in the day-time, when no game had come near, two or three of the men would mount their horses and gallop away over the prairie in search of it, finding it no very difficult task to overtake the slow-moving wagon-train, even after a ride of several miles, and an absence, it might be, of an hour or more.

One afternoon, when they had been many weeks passing through that great wilderness, so that they were now much nearer California than the homes they had left behind, they were crossing a seemingly boundless rolling prairie.

Their provisions were getting low, and fowls and larger game alike had kept out of shooting range all day.

"It's five o'clock," Rupert Keith said, looking at his watch and addressing a man named Morton, who was riding by his side, "and will soon be too late for a shot at anything. Suppose we dash off over those hills yonder and see if we can't scare up something."

"Agreed," replied Morton. Then called to another horseman, "Halloo, Smith! will you join Keith and me in a run over those hills in search of game?"

"That I will!" was the rejoinder, and away they galloped, and were in a few moments lost to the view of the rest of their party, who continued moving onward in their accustomed leisurely fashion.

An hour or more had passed; the prairie still stretched away on every side; the distant hills to the southward, beyond which the horsemen had gone, were still in view, and the eyes of almost every one in the train were turned ever and anon in that direction, hoping for their return well-laden with venison or wild fowl.

At length a shout was raised, "Here they come!" but was followed instantly by the affrighted cry, "Indians! Indians!" for a party of the latter were in full chase.

Don was walking beside his team, two little girls quite near him. He caught them up and almost threw them into his wagon, telling them to lie down and keep quiet and still; then turned and pulled out a revolver.

Others had acted with equal quickness, and were ready – some from their wagons, some from the ground – to fire upon the advancing foe.

There was a brief, sharp fight; the Indians were driven off, carrying their killed and wounded with them.

Then it was found that Rupert was missing, Smith badly wounded, one or two others slightly, while Don lay insensible and bleeding on the ground near his wagon.

They at first thought him dead, but he had only fainted from loss of blood, and they presently succeeded in bringing him to.

"Rupert? my brother – where is he?" he asked in the first moment of consciousness.

"Those red devils have done for him, Don," Morton answered, with a tremble in his voice; "the shot that tumbled him from his horse was the first intimation we had that they were upon us."

Don groaned and hid his face.

"Don't take it so hard," said a pitying woman's voice; "he's gone to a better place; we all know that; nobody could be with him a day and not see that he was a real Christian."

"That's so." "True enough, Mrs. Stone." "I only wish we were all as ready for heaven," responded one and another.

Then Morton suggested that they ought to be moving on; the Indians might return in larger force; it would not do to encamp where they were, and night was coming on.

To this there was a general assent. Don was carefully and tenderly lifted into his wagon and gently laid down upon the softest bed that could be improvised for him; then a volunteer driver from among the young men of the party took his seat and drove on, doing his best to make the motion easy to the sufferer. They were the last of the train, but not far behind the wagon next in front of them.

In spite of all the care and kindness shown him, Don's bodily sufferings were acute, yet by no means equal to his mental distress; his sense of bereavement – a bereavement so sudden, so shocking – and anguish at the thought of the poignant grief of his parents when the dreadful news should reach their ears.

The emigrants pushed on for several hours before they ventured to stop and encamp. When at last they did, the cessation of motion gave some slight relief to poor Don, and the food brought him by the kind-hearted woman who had tried to comfort him with the assurance of his brother's readiness for death, revived somewhat his failing strength; but it was a night of pain and grief, in which Don would have given much to be at home again, especially if he might have had Rupert there alive and well.

The night passed quietly; there was no new alarm, and early in the morning the emigrants pursued their way, pressing forward as rapidly as circumstances would permit, and keeping a sharp lookout for Indians.

Before they started – indeed, as soon as he was awake, Morton came to ask how Don was, and how he had passed the night.

Don answered briefly, then burst out, "Oh, Morton, are you quite sure that – that my brother was killed? May he not have been only stunned by the shot and the fall from his horse?"

Morton shook his head. "No, I looked back several times, and he never moved."

"Oh," groaned Don, "if only I were not helpless, I should go and search for him, for I do not feel at all sure that he is not still alive."

"Well, I think you may," said Morton; "for even supposing he was not killed by that first shot and the fall, the Indians would be sure to finish him when they went back, for they went off in that direction."

Don turned away his face with a heavy sob. It did indeed seem almost impossible that Rupert could have escaped death, and yet – and yet – oh, if he were but able to go in search of him! Perhaps he was a captive doomed to death by slow torture. Oh, to fly to his aid! rescue or perish with him!

But no one else in all the company thought there was the least chance that he was alive, and to go in quest of him would not only greatly delay them (a great misfortune, considering the fact that their stock of provisions was so low), but would risk all their lives, as the Indians were probably still prowling about that spot, and might attack them in great force.

The poor boy's only comfort was, that wherever and in whatever circumstances his brother might be, he was under the care of an almighty Friend, who would never leave nor forsake him, and in being able to plead for him with that Friend.

The rest of the journey was of course a very sad one to poor Don, though every one was kind to him, doing all that was possible for his relief and comfort, partly for Rupert's sake, partly for Don's own, for he too had ever shown a pleasant, obliging, kindly disposition toward others.

His wounds had nearly healed, and he had recovered almost his usual strength by the time their destination was reached.

Arrived there, he wrote at once to his parents, telling of Rupert's loss, his own condition, and asking if they were willing that, being now upon the ground, he should stay for a time and look for gold.

But as months must elapse ere he could hope to receive an answer, he set to work determined to do his best in the mean time.

He did not find the life a whit less toilsome and trying than his parents had warned him it would be, nor were his surroundings any more agreeable; the roughest of men, drinking, smoking, swearing, quarrelsome creatures, were often his daily companions; the foulest language assailed his ears; gambling and drunken brawls went on in his presence; robberies, murders, and lynchings were of frequent occurrence; the Sabbath was openly desecrated; men – even those who had been all their previous lives accustomed to the restraints of religion – here acted as if they had never heard of God, or heaven, or hell.

And there were few creature comforts to be had; all the necessaries of life were sold at astonishingly high prices, so that gold, even when found, could not be kept, but melted away like snow in the sun.

It was not long before Don's thoughts were turned yearningly toward the home he had been so eager to forsake.

He was tolerably fortunate in his quest: but alas! all the gold in the world could not compensate for the loss of all the sweetness and beauty of life; all the happiness to be found in a well-regulated home, where love to God and man was the ruling principle of action; where were neatness and order, gentleness and refinement; where sweet-toned voices spoke kindly affectionate words; affectionate smiles were wont to greet his coming, and loved eyes to look lovingly into his.

Chapter Twelfth

"There is that speaketh like the piercings of a sword." – Prov. 12:18.

Many months had passed, bringing no news from their Westward-bound sons, and, in spite of their trust in God, Mr. and Mrs. Keith were often not a little anxious.

Miss Stanhope had returned to her home in the fall after the boys' departure. Her pleasant, cheery companionship was much missed, and but for Mildred and Zillah being so near, the mother would have seen many a lonely hour, though she found agreeable occupation for a part of each day in teaching Annis, keeping her from school, and constituting herself her governess.

This took up the morning hours, while the married daughters were engaged with household cares and duties; then the afternoons, if the weather permitted any of them to go from home, were usually spent together at one or another of the three houses, the ladies busy with their needles, the children playing about the room.

Both Mildred's and Zillah's cares were increasing, for each had now a little daughter; so that there were four little ones to claim the love of the grandparents and help to win their thoughts from the anxious following of the absent sons; in that way they were proving great comforts as well as cares.

So the winter slipped quietly away without any startling event to mark its progress.

But in March Mrs. Keith had an attack of pneumonia, which greatly alarmed the family and kept her in bed for a fortnight. She was about again, but still feeble, and, in consequence of her weakness of body, more than ever anxious and distressed about Rupert and Don, from whom no news had yet been received since the letter written from Independence so many, many months ago.

Mildred spent every spare moment with her mother, doing all in her power for her comfort of body and to cheer and interest her and keep her mind from dwelling upon the absent dear ones.

Dr. Landreth too was exceedingly kind to his mother-in-law, for whom he had a very strong and filial affection. He would have willingly sacrificed his own comfort at any time for hers, and was more than willing to have Mildred constantly with her while she was so feeble and ailing; while all his skill and medical knowledge were exerted for her benefit.

One evening Mildred, helping her mother to bed, remarked, "I wonder what has become of Charlie; he hasn't been in to see you this afternoon."

"Perhaps that is an evidence that he thinks me a great deal better," Mrs. Keith answered, in a playful tone. Then, more seriously, "He has been very, very good to me, Mildred; you must tell him I appreciate his kindness."

"He knows you do, mother," Mildred answered; "but indeed it is a real pleasure to him to do anything in his power for you; he says you are the only mother he has ever known, and a very dear and precious one."

"No doubt he would have been in this afternoon if he had not been prevented. I fear somebody is very ill."

A few minutes later Mildred, passing out of the house on her way to her own home, met her husband at the gate.

He gave her his arm almost without a word, nor did he speak during their short walk; but Mildred's thoughts were busy, and she scarcely noticed his silence.

It was too dark in the street to see his face, but on entering their own sitting-room, where a bright light was burning, she caught sight of it, and its pale, distressed look struck terror to her heart.

"O Charlie, what is it?" she cried, dropping her cloak upon the floor and throwing off her bonnet, then putting her arms about his neck and gazing with frightened, questioning eyes into his that were full of anguish.

"My darling, I don't know how to tell you," he said hoarsely, holding her close.

"My brothers?" she gasped, turning pale as death.

He bowed a silent assent.

"What – what is it?" she asked, scarcely able to articulate.

"The very worst," he said. "Yet stay; it may not be true; but there is a dreadful report about town, that the train was attacked by Indians and several killed – "

"Rupert and Don among them?" she faltered, half-inquiringly, as he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished.

"Yes; but, Milly dear, it may be altogether untrue."

She was clinging to him and weeping as if her very heart would break, her whole frame shaking with sobs.

"My brothers, my brothers! my dear, dear brothers!" she cried. "O Charlie, Charlie, why did they ever go into such fearful danger?"

"I thought it for the best, love, when I advised it," he said in a pained tone; "but if I could have foreseen – "

"Dear husband, I forgot it was by your advice," she sobbed; "forgive me; I should never think of blaming you."

"Thank you, love, I can hardly help blaming myself, though reason tells me I am innocent. Ah, if I could but have foreseen – "

"But you could not; no mortal could. Both killed? Both gone? Oh, it is too, too terrible!"

The door flew open and Zillah rushed in, closely followed by Wallace.

He was deathly pale, and his eyes were full of tears. She was weeping aloud.

"O Milly, Milly!" she cried, "was there ever anything so terrible? It will kill mother; she can never stand it in her weak state."

"We must manage to keep it from her," the doctor said.

"How can we? She will see it in our faces," sobbed Zillah.

"We must control our features; we must banish every expression of grief from them and from our words and voices when in her presence. Her life may depend upon it, for she is very feeble just now."

"We will all try," Wallace said, with a heavy sigh. "Let none of us venture into her presence until we are sure of ourselves."

"It will be very difficult, but I believe God will give us strength," said Mildred, "if we ask it in faith. Oh, it is an awful, awful thing!" she cried, a fierce paroxysm of grief sweeping over her; then, as she grew calmer, "but we have strong consolation in the certain knowledge that they were of those who trust in the imputed righteousness of Christ; that they had made their peace with God and were ready for the summons home."

"Yes," said Wallace, "we sorrow not as those without hope; and dear mother, who lives so near the Master, and realizes so fully the blessedness of those who have gone to be forever with Him, will, I doubt not, be able to bear up under this new trial, terrible as it is, when she has regained her usual health."

"No doubt of it," the doctor said.

"But oh, it is so terrible, so terrible!" sobbed Zillah; "far worse than any of the many trials that have come to us in the last two or three years."

"Does father know?" asked Mildred. "Has he heard?"

Neither the doctor nor Wallace could answer the question; they had not seen him since early in the day.

But while they were saying so the door-bell rang and he came in, bent, bowed down, aged with grief, till he looked an older man by ten – twenty years than when they had seen him last.

With a moan of unspeakable anguish he dropped into a chair and bowed his head upon his hands.

His daughters flew to him and enfolded him in loving arms, tears of sympathy streaming down their cheeks.

"Father, dear, dear father," they said, "oh, do not be so distressed! it may not be true."

"Alas, alas! I dare not hope it," he groaned. "My boys – my boys; would God I had died for you! My sons, oh, my sons! Such a fate! such a terrible fate!"

"But, dear father, think how happy they are now," said Mildred, weeping as she spoke.

"Yes, there is great and undeserved mercy mingled with the terrible affliction," he replied; "'they cannot return to me, but I shall go to them.' Thanks be unto God for that blessed hope! But my wife – your mother! this will kill her!"

"Dear father," said Mildred, "do not forget the precious promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.'"

"We have all agreed to try to hide it from her till she is stronger," the doctor remarked. "We will have to school ourselves to look and act and speak as if no such news had reached our ears."

"An impossible task, I fear," sighed Mr. Keith. "Marcia and I have had no secrets from each other since we were married, and it will be no easy task for me to conceal my anguish of heart from her now; but, God helping me, I will."

To father and daughters the next few days were a severe ordeal, for it was difficult indeed to hide their bitter grief from the love-sharpened eyes of the tender wife and mother; they were cheerful when they could force themselves to be so; and when tears would have their way they talked of Fan, and seemed to be mourning afresh over her early death, or spoke of Ada in her far distant home, and how faint was the hope that she would ever be with them again.

Mrs. Keith seemed somewhat surprised at these renewed manifestations of grief that had appeared to be softened by the lapse of time; but asking no questions, she simply talked to them of Fan's blessedness and the good work Ada was doing for the Master, and of the time when they would again be a united family in the glorious land where partings are unknown.

She was regaining strength every day, and in seeing that they felt well rewarded for their efforts at self-control and encouraged to persevere with them; and they did, though at times – especially when she would speak of Rupert and Don, talking hopefully of soon hearing of their safe arrival in California – it was almost beyond their power; and they were compelled to find some pretext for leaving the room, that for a short space they might let grief have its way.

Mildred was sitting with her mother one morning, her babe asleep by her side in the cradle that been occupied successively by herself and all her brothers and sisters, Percy quietly busied with a picture-book.

The two ladies had their sewing, and Annis was conning her lessons on the farther side of the room.

The door-bell rang, and Celestia Ann ushered in a woman, a resident of the town with whom the ladies had never had any acquaintance, though they knew her by name. Her call was therefore a surprise; but they gave her a pleasant good-morning and a polite invitation to be seated.

She sat down, made a few remarks about the weather and the state of the roads, then, looking Mrs. Keith full in the face, said, "I s'pose you've heard the news about the last party that set off from here for Californy?"

Mildred made a warning gesture, but it was too late, and doubtless would not have been heeded even could it have been given in time.

"What news?" Mrs. Keith asked, in a startled tone, while Annis rose and came forward in an excited manner, her eyes wild with affright.

"So you haven't heard?" pursued the caller, with the satisfaction of the newsmonger in a fresh customer for her wares. "Well – "

"Mrs. Slate," interrupted Mildred, "I must beg you will say no more; we have heard a vague report, which may be entirely untrue, but have been trying to keep it from mother, for she is too weak to bear it."

"What is it, Mildred, my child, what is it?" gasped the poor invalid, turning deathly pale.

"Dear mother, don't ask; it would only distress you, and may be all a lie," Mildred said, going to her and putting her arms about her in tender, loving fashion.

"Tell me, my child, tell me; it is useless to try to keep me in ignorance now; suspense would be worse than the direst certainty," faltered the mother.

"But there is no certainty, mother dear," Mildred said pityingly, her tears falling fast as she spoke; "oh, be content not to hear what can but give you pain!"

"She'd ought to know," said Mrs. Slate; "she's got to hear it sooner or later, and what's the use of puttin' her off so? I'll tell you, Mrs. Keith. They say the train was attacked by the Injins and most o' the men killed, your two boys among the rest. I felt it my duty to come and tell you about it, in case you hadn't heard, and to call your attention to the fact that this appears to be the way Providence has taken for to punish you for bringin' 'em up to care so much for gold; and – "

"Leave the house this instant, and never venture to darken its doors again!" cried Mildred, supporting her fainting mother with one arm, while she turned, full of righteous indignation, toward her tormentor with a stamp of her foot to enforce the order she could not refrain from giving.

"I've only done my dooty," muttered the woman, rising and sailing from the room with her head in the air.

"O mother, mother!" sobbed Mildred. "Annis, help me to lay her on the lounge, and run for Charlie. I think he's at home in the office. The cruel, cruel creature! how could she! oh, how could she!"

Annis, wildly weeping, hastened to obey. "O Milly, Milly, is mother dying? Is it true about the boys?"

"She has only fainted, and it is only a report about the boys, that may not be at all true," Mildred said. "Now call Celestia Ann to help me, and you run for Charlie as fast as you can. O Zillah," in a tone of relief as the door opened and Mrs. Ormsby came in, "I'm glad you've come. Run to mother's room and get the bottle of ammonia."

Greatly startled and alarmed by the glimpse she had got of her mother's white, unconscious face, Zillah ran to do her sister's bidding, while Celestia Ann, summoned by Annis, hastened to render all the assistance in her power, and poor, terrified Annis flew like the wind in search of the doctor.

She found him in, and, though scarcely able to articulate, made him understand that his presence was wanted with all speed.

She darted back, and he caught up his medicine-case and followed close at her heels.

Mrs. Keith still lay white and insensible, the three women busy about her with half-despairing efforts to restore her to consciousness.

They began to fear it was something more than an ordinary faint. Had that sudden, cruel announcement taken her life? Happy for her were it so; but oh, how could husband and children spare her?

Mildred turned upon her husband a look of agonized inquiry.

"Do not be alarmed, love," he said, "she will revive presently, I trust."

Some moments of trying suspense ensued; then her eyes opened wide and glanced about from one to another.

"What has happened?" she asked, in feeble accents; "have I been worse?"

"In a faint, mother; but you have come out of it now, and I hope will be none the worse after a little," the doctor answered cheerfully. But ere the words had left his lips memory had resumed her sway.

"Oh, my sons!" she cried, "my Rupert and Don! Can it be true that I shall see them no more upon earth? Have they been cut off in the pride and beauty of their early manhood by a savage foe? O Lord, lead me to the Rock that is higher than I, for my heart is overwhelmed!" she cried, clasping her hands and lifting her streaming eyes to heaven.

"Dear mother," sobbed Mildred, leaning over her in tenderest solicitude, "if they are gone from earth, it is to the better land, where pain and sin and sorrow are unknown, and where you will one day join them and all your loved ones. But it may not be true; there is no certainty yet; it is but a rumor."

"Then how cruel to tell me," she sighed; "and to add that I was to blame for their going. Ah, God knows I have tried to train them for heaven, and not to set their affections upon the perishing things of time and sense."

"Yes, mother, your children can all testify to that," Mildred said; Zillah adding, "Indeed we can; if any of us are worldly-minded it is not the fault of either of our parents. And it was not the love of gold that sent our dear brothers on that journey; one was seeking health, the other went to take care of him and with a longing for change and exciting adventure."

At that moment Mr. Keith came in with a letter in his hand. His face was brighter and happier than they had seen it for many days, eagerness and anxiety mingling with its gladness.

"From Don to you, my dear," he cried, holding the letter high, with its address toward her.

"Oh, then it is not true! not true!" was the simultaneous, joyful exclamation from his daughters; and Mildred, embracing the weeping invalid, said, "Do you hear, dearest mother? A letter from Don, and you may dry your tears."

Her husband held it out to her with a glad and loving smile.

She grasped it eagerly, but in vain her trembling fingers essayed to tear it open.

"Let me, dear wife," he said, taking it gently from her.

"Read it," she said feebly; "my eyes are dim. Oh, my Rupert! is he living also?"

Mr. Keith glanced down the page, let the letter fall, and dropped his face into his hands with a heart-rending groan.

Zillah snatched it from the floor, her hand trembling like an aspen leaf, her face overspread with a deathly pallor.

"My son, my son, my first-born son!" sobbed Mrs. Keith, "gone, gone in that dreadful way! Yet, thank God that dear Don is left. And blessed be His holy name that He lives and reigns, and none can stay His hand or say unto Him, What doest thou?"

"Read, some one," groaned the father; "I cannot!"

Zillah silently handed the letter to the doctor, and he read it in low, moved tones, often interrupted by the bitter weeping of his listeners.

Rupert's death was a heavy blow; for a time his parents seemed wellnigh crushed by it, yet not a murmur was ever heard from either; the language of their lips and lives was, "'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.'"

The manner of their son's death made it the hardest blow they had ever received; yet as the months rolled on they learned to speak calmly and tenderly of him as having gone before to the heavenly home whither they themselves would soon follow.

Don's letter received a reply in due season. It said his speedy return would be joyfully welcomed, yet as he was now on the ground, he was free to stay for a time if such were his choice; so he remained, fascinated by the hope of success in his search for gold, and feeling a great repugnance to going back and facing his townsmen without having secured at least a moderate portion of that which he had come so far to find.