The U. P. Trail, Zane Grey [robert munsch read aloud .txt] 📗

Allie recovered to find herself lying in a canvas-covered wagon, and being worked over by several sympathetic women. She did not see Durade. But she knew she had not been mistaken. The wagon was rolling along as fast as oxen could travel. Evidently the caravan had been alarmed by the proximity of the Sioux and was making as much progress as possible.

Allie did not answer many questions. She drank thirstily, but she was too exhausted to eat.

“Whose caravan?” was the only query she made.

“Durade’s,” replied one woman, and it was evident from the way she spoke that this was a man of consequence.

As Allie lay there, slowly succumbing to weariness and drowsiness, she thought of the irony of fate that had let her escape the Sioux only to fall into the hands of Durade. Still, there was hope. Durade was traveling toward the east. Out there somewhere he would meet Neale, and then blood would be spilled. She had always regarded Durade strangely, wondering that in spite of his kindness to her she could not really care for him. She understood now and hated him passionately. And if there was any one she feared it was Durade. Allie lost herself in the past, seeing the stream of mixed humanity that passed through Durade’s gambling-halls. No doubt he was on his way, first to search for her mother, and secondly, to profit by the building of the railroad. But he would never find her mother. Allie was glad.

At length she fell asleep and slept long, then dozed at intervals. The caravan halted. Allie heard the familiar sing-song calls to the oxen. Soon all was bustle about her, and this fully awakened her. In a moment or more she must expect to be face to face with Durade. What should she tell him? How much should she let him know? Not one word about her mother! He would be less afraid of her if he found out that the mother was dead. Durade had always feared Allie’s mother.

The women with whom Allie had ridden helped her out of the wagon, and, finding her too weak to stand, they made a bed for her on the ground. The camp site appeared to be just the same as any other part of that monotonous plain-land, but evidently there was a stream or water-hole near by. Allie saw her companions were the only women in the caravan; they were plain persons, blunt, yet kind, used to hard, honest work, and probably wives of defenders of the wagon-train.

They could not conceal their curiosity in regard to Allie, nor their wonder. She had heard them whispering together whenever they came near.

Presently Allie saw Durade. He was approaching. How well she remembered him! Yet the lapse of time and the change between her childhood and the present seemed incalculable. He spoke to the women, motioning in her direction. His bearing and action were that of a man of education, and a gentleman. Yet he looked what her mother had called him—a broken man of class, an adventurer, a victim of base passions.

He came and knelt by Allie. “How are you now?” he asked. His voice was gentle and courteous, different from that of the other men.

“I can’t stand up,” replied Allie.

“Are you hurt?”

“No—only worn out.”

“You escaped from Indians?”

“Yes—a tribe of Sioux. They intended to keep me captive. But a young squaw freed me—led me off.”

He paused as if it was an effort to speak, and a long, thin, shapely hand went to his throat. “Your mother?” he asked, hoarsely. Suddenly his face had turned white.

Allie gazed straight into his eyes, with wonder, pain, suspicion. “My mother! I’ve not seen her for nearly two years.”

“My God! What happened? You lost her? You became separated?... Indians—bandits?... Tell me!”

“I have—no—more to tell,” said Allie. His pain revived her own. She pitied Durade. He had changed—aged—there were lines in his face that were new to her.

“I spent a year in and around Ogden, searching,” went on Durade. “Tell me—more.”

“No!” cried Allie.

“Do you know, then?” he asked, very low.

“I’m not your daughter—and mother ran off from you. Yes, I know that,” replied Allie, bitterly.

“But I brought you up—took care of you—helped educate you,” protested Durade, with agitation. “You were my own child, I thought. I was always kind to you. I—I loved the mother in the daughter.”

“Yes, I know.... But you were wicked.”

“If you won’t tell me it must mean she’s still alive,” he replied, swiftly. “She’s not dead;... I’ll find her. I’ll make her come back to me—or kill her... After all these years—to leave me!”

He seemed wrestling with mingled emotions. The man was proud and strong, but defeat in life, in the crowning passion of life, showed in his white face. The evil in him was not manifest then.

“Where have you lived all this time?” he asked, presently.

“Back in the hills with a trapper.”

“You have grown. When I saw you I thought it was the ghost of your mother. You are just as she was when we met.”