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 bumped 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 passed 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 t