Evening star. [volume], March 01, 1936, Page 6, Image 86

About Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972

Image provided by: Library of Congress, Washington, DC

                
Thunder
on the
Plains A
T) alias rides into the night
for aid against the
Apaches —
and anxious love gallops
after him
by
VINGIE E. Roe
THE STORY SO FAR
oung Caution Pendergast. riding west
to California under the canvas of her
family’s covered wagon, was the stuff
of which plainswomen are made. Signs of
Redskins on the trail — and the only hope of
reinforcement in case of attack, another larger
train of settlers some distance ahead. But
neither Caution nor her companions quailed
before danger. The girl’s spirit and her fresh
charm did not escape the keen eye of their
leader. Captain Sillard asked permission of
her father to pay his addresses, an honor
proudly accepted by the girl and her family,
respectfully approved by the company. The
Captain was as old as her father, but a brave
man, and rumor said he carried a thousand
dollars under his belt.
There was only one dissenting voice —
young Will Dallas, the dare-devil Scout,
handsome, bragging and without a penny to
his name. How prim Caution hated him with
his bold ways! She mused of a white house in
an orchard amid the farming land ahead,
with the Captain heading her table; and shut
out impatiently that perverse vision of black
haired Will riding his horse through her
dreams — Will who teased and boasted and
offered, if she liked beards, to grow one him
self, like the Captain's.
A week passed and one night as she lay
asleep, something unbelievable happened.
Suddenly the feel of a man's bearded face, a
kiss that woke her to unknown delight — and
no more. Who was it — the man she was going
to marry, or Wild Will ?
But next day threatening danger crowded
out all other preoccupations. For betw'een
their wagons and the train of settlers ahead
was camped a large band of Apache Indians
in full war paint.
PART TWO
)EAD silence fell in which the leap
ing fire spoke softly to the heavens.
These people were strong. They
had known when they started west
ward months ago that they must be prepared
for anything. They listened attentively as
Captain Sillard continued speaking.
“This band is fairly large, as I said, but it
was not, apparently, large enough to attack
the other train of ninety wagons, which it has
been following parallel at the north. Evidently
it has given them up and turned its eyes to us.
We're headed straight for ambush, or rather
to run the gauntlet between its two divisions.
There is no way round, no turning back. I'm
open to council. John Pendergast, David
Sprague, William Grant, Jed Hanson — what
have you to say? What is our course?”
The four men named stepped forward^ thus
making a small tribunal of destiny, gaunt
figures in the firelight, striving to know what
was best for those around them. Pendergast
spoke first.
“There’s no way, Captain, as I see it,” he
said, “but to arm ourselves to the last man,
woman and child, and go ahead. To stay here
in formation would only mean a siege, with
rations eaten up, stock grazing exhausted.
It would mean slaughter in the end.”
“So it would," Jed Hanson said. Sprague
and Grant nodded.
“We’ll go in double formation,” the Cap
tain said, “close drawn, and everything pos
sible hung on the outside of the stock. Are you
all of this mind? Hands up, in favor of going
ahead!”
That was a tragic moment. Men looked at
their wives, mothers’ hands went out to
children’s heads beside them. But all around
the circle hands went up, both men’s and
women’s.
They were the builders of empire and their
path was simple and straight — westward.
“There’s one more thing,” the Captain
said, as if he had kept the only good thing in
this sorry business for the last. “There is one
hope of help for us. The train ahead. Ninety
wagons. They must have many riders. Will
says they have, at least two hundred, young
men and scouts. If we can get word to them,
they may turn back for us, these mounted
men. It is a matter of volunteers — and of
good horses.” He stopped and the silence
deepened. Then he went on. “And it is no
common journey, this. Who volunteers?”
There was a movement among the men
nearest the fire and the scouts moved forward
in a body, six of them, their worn buckskins
shining white in the glow, but it was Will
Dallas who spoke first.
“Ain’t but one man’s work, Captain,” he
said in his great voice, “an’ th’ best man’s
work at that. I’m that man.”
Bragging, thought Caution Pendergast, but
the thought stopped suddenly in her mind, ,
chilled by the strange coldness that started
at the pit of her stomach and spread all
through her swiftly, even to the ends of her
fingers. She stared at him and for the first time
seemed really to see him; taller than all
around him, broader, straighter, a young vital
figure of a man, filled with a boundless joy of
living. His black eyes shone with the fire
of courage, his black hair swept back from his
forehead sweated white above the bronzed
face. The face, dark where a beard already
hid the skin. A new beard, quick of growth.
Something in the girl seemed to give
way, as if a wall had fallen, and she began
to tremble violently. She wet her lips and
(Continued on page 12)
Illustration by
E. F. Ward
Caution, mounted on the
Captain’s great stallion,
rode out into the night