THE ANGEL OF THE PRAIRIE.
In the awful sufferings to which communities and companies are sometimes doomed, it is often found that the most delicate and refined females display the greatest fortitude and the truest heroism. When the terrible calamity came upon Captain Shields and his party, it was generally supposed that the first to succumb, from sheer terror alone, would be the frail, blue-eyed, laughing Lizzie Manning, whose gentleness of heart, and mirthful ways, had won the affections of all, before the journey from St. Louis was fairly begun.
There was a blanching of the damask cheek, a faint scream of fear, when the half naked Comanches suddenly burst forth to view, and sent in their first volley, and she scrambled nimbly into the “fort,” as the refuge wagon was termed, thoughtful enough, however, to be the very last one to enter. By the time she had taken her place upon the straw-covered floor upon the bottom, her courage had returned to her, or more properly speaking, she rose to the situation, and displayed a lofty courage and a rare good sense that excited the wonder and compelled the admiration of all.
By her aid, the screaming, terrified children were speedily quieted, and the scarcely less frantic mothers were made to realize that their own safety lay in retaining their self possession, and keeping themselves and their children out of range of the rifle-balls that were clipping the canvas covering of the wagon, and burying themselves in the planking all about them. By this means something like order was obtained in the crowded little party, and they had nothing to do but to watch furtively the fighting going on all around them, to look at the horrid Comanches circling back and forth, with wonderful contortions upon their horses, to see their frightful grimaces, and the flash of their rifles almost in their very faces, as they seemed to be rushing down as if about to overwhelm and crush the little party out of existence.
It was a thrilling sight that they looked upon, as they saw these Indians pitching headlong from their saddles; but their hearts were wrung with anguish as they saw more than one of their own number fall, some at full length beneath the wagons, and others among the floundering horses, where their deaths were frequently hastened by the hoofs of the frantic animals.
Suddenly Lizzie Manning sprung from the wagon, and heedless of the hurtling bullets, started to run across the open space inclosed by the irregular circle of wagons. She had taken but a few steps, when a young man dashed out from the rear of one of the lumbering wagons, and excitedly waved her back.
“For Heaven’s sake, Lizzie, back this instant!” he called out, walking rapidly toward her in his anxiety; “it is sure death to advance. Wait not a second!”
She paused, as if the voice had a familiar sound, and stared in a bewildered way at the speaker, a fine, manly-looking young fellow, whose hair was blown about his face, and whose pale countenance and flashing eyes showed that he appreciated the danger, and had the courage not to flinch before it.
Only for a moment did the young maiden pause, and then (only a few feet separating them, as he had continued advancing from the first) she pointed to the prostrate figure of a man beneath the wagons.
“There is Harrison, who has been so kind to me, ever since we started—he fell just now, and stretched out his arms for help. I must go to him.”
“He is past all help,” said the man, solemnly, “and you will only lose your own life if you venture near him, for he took one of the most dangerous posts of all.”
“Nevertheless, he may be alive, and I may be of help to him.”
And as she spoke, the maiden hurried on to where the prostrate and now silent figure of one of her defenders lay. The distance was short, but as Egbert Rodman had declared, it was encompassed with death; and for one moment he meditated seizing the arm of the girl, and compelling her by main force to return to the shelter of the wagon; but something in her manner and appearance restrained him; and, forgetful of his own peril, he gazed with an awed feeling, as he would have watched the tread of an angel upon this sinful earth of ours.
With a somewhat rapid tread, but without any undue haste, and certainly without any fear, Lizzie advanced straight to the wagon where the poor fellow lay, flat upon his back, and directly between the wheels, motionless and with one knee drawn up, as if asleep.
Kneeling down she took the hand still warm in her own, and with the other brushed back the dank hair from the forehead of the man, and asked, in that wonderfully sweet voice of hers:
“Oh, Mr. Harrison, is there nothing I can do for you?”
He opened his eyes, and looked at her with a dim wildness, his face ashy pale, and then something like a smile lit up his ghastly features, as he pointed to his breast.
“My wife—my babe—darling Nelly—”
She understood him, and drew from his breast-pocket a photograph of his wife—with a rosy-cheeked, smiling cherub of a little girl, laughing beside her knee.
“Tell them—my last thoughts—my last prayers were of them—” he stammered.
“I will—I will,” said the girl. “Is there nothing more I can do—?”
He made an effort to speak, but the words were choked in their utterance, and with his eyes fixed upon hers, he died without a struggle.
But that one soulful, grateful look of those dark eyes, as they faded out in death, amply repaid the brave-hearted Lizzie Manning for the noble deed she had done, and she rose to her feet, glad that she had heeded the mute call of the dying man, who could have scarcely hoped, at such a time and under such circumstances, any heed would have been paid to it, unless it were the mocking taunts of the merciless Comanches.