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“‘Stop, Milt. Let us light the lantern!’

“Then stooping down, I spread out my skirts so that not the slightest flash of a match or gleam of light could be seen by the sentinel or by any one in the encampment. Milton lighted the lantern. I took it in one hand, and with the other held my skirts up in such a way as to shield its beams, and in its feeble light I searched the ground still frantically for some trace of the footprints of father’s horse. Although I was nervous and excited enough to fly on the wings of lightning, I did not let the feeling get the better of me, but made a deliberate search of every inch of ground, making a complete circle around the outskirts of the camp, for I was determined to find those tracks. At last! There they were, unmistakable and clear. I gave a smothered cry and showed them to Milt. Then, still with the lantern carefully covered, so that no unguarded flash might bring a death-dealing shot from the sentinel’s rifle, I followed where they led, Milt close behind, carrying the gun and provisions. Mile after mile we followed–followed, now seeing the tracks, now losing them. Oh what an agony was compressed in those awful hours!

“Suddenly on the midnight air came the wild howl of coyotes. From the distance echoed an even more hideous cry–that of the panther, seeking for prey. At that sound Milton’s hair literally stood on end, and if I had shown one sign of weakening he would gladly have given up the search. But I went on, closing my ears to the dreaded sounds. All of a sudden my heart beat so wildly that I was obliged to press my hand over it to quiet its hammering. What I heard or saw or felt I can never explain, but I know that all the terror of my thirteen years of life seemed to be condensed into one moment of dread. And yet go on I must, praying to God to protect us and let me find father. I pushed ahead, with panic holding me in its wild grip as I pictured a horrible death if we should be captured by Indians. Then suddenly with wide-strained eyes and fluttering heart, I forgot all weariness and fear. In the far distance a dim, flickering light. Gripping Milt’s arm, I whispered:

“‘Father!’

“No sooner had I said it than I thought, ‘Perhaps it is an Indian camp-fire.’ But common sense put that aside, for I was sure I had seen father’s horse’s hoofprints, and certainly they would lead to him. But suppose he had been captured by Indians, and this fire we were coming to should lead to horrible disclosures. All this went through my mind, but I said nothing of it to Milton. I just went walking steadily on. Oh, how far away the light was! Would we never reach it? It seemed as if the more we walked the farther from it we were. But no, it was he–it was–it was! With a glad cry of, ‘Oh, father! father!’ I rushed forward and flung myself in his arms.

“‘My child, my Virginia!’ he exclaimed, when surprise had let him find his voice. ‘You should not have come here!’

“‘But I am here,’ I cried, ‘and I’ve brought you some food and your gun, and a blanket, and a little coffee, and some crackers! And here’s a tin cup, too, and your pistols, and some powder and caps. Oh, and here are some matches, too!’ I exclaimed, holding out one after another of the precious articles to his astonished gaze, and laughing and crying as I talked.

“It was almost pitiful to see father’s astonishment at the thought that some one had come to help him in his terrible plight, and as he took the things I had brought he kissed and fondled me like a little child, and said that, God helping him, he would hurry on to California and secure a home for his beloved family–and it seems conceited to mention it, but he called me his ‘brave daughter’ over and over again, until I was glad of the darkness to hide my burning cheeks. Then in the protecting darkness, with Milton to stand guard, we sat together and talked of mother and Patty and the boys, and of what we should do while we were parted from him. Father was the first to remember that dawn would soon flush the east, and rising, he kissed me again and tried to say farewell.