Wood County reporter. [volume] (Grand Rapids [i.e. Wisconsin Rapids], Wis.) 1857-1923, 1873-01-23


before. Twas all alone and could not
alone in my shanty, if it had not been for
this good dog. Adozen times day Bose
would trot down to the river, dip up q
small tin pail full of water, and bring it
to me. Otherwise the faithful old fellow
never left my side, day or night
and, though he would, 10 doubt,
nurse me through another spell of rherl-
matism, it would be dreadful TO be sick
and alone here after you and your people
are gone"
Dora was tenderly stroking the dogs
rough coat cit would be dreadful" she
repeated absently, tear rolling from
her lashes to her cheek. Her words, and
the look in her eyes, thrilled George to
his inmost soul.
"Dora"-he said, arresting the hand
travelling over Bosses head-"Dora, l am
old enough to be your father
eyes" she replied, looking up artless-
| ly--but there was something in his face
that made her eyes drop, and the warm
| blood flush her cheek.
When he spoke again it was of some
thing quite different, and, after while,
the conversation turned to her family.
Her stepfather did not always treat her
well; he struck her cruelty once-and her
| mother dared not interfere, knowing his
temper but too we'll. George could hard
| ly keep from putting his hand about her,
to shield her from the mans rough ways;
and in his heart he vowed that it should
be different, if Dora did but will it so.
| The stepfather and aunt had spoken of
pulling up stakes sOon-but Dora was
averse to going.
| In the evening George proposed to the
stepfathe- that he remain at the station,
and farm it" near the river, while the
mother kept house for them all, and
served meals to the travelling public of
Arizona. From chronic perverseness he
| CALIFORNIA;; and George determined to
hasten matters in another direction. He
lowered, as much as possible, about Dora,
who since the day by the riverside, had
| taken Bose into her confidence and
affection. Wherever she went the dog
went too, and his master augured we'll
for himself from this, though Dora was
shy and more distant than when she first
| came to ella Bend.
One day the Texans commenced gath
ering up their "tricks" and making ready
to go. Dora's eyes were red, and George
to cheer her, perhaps-proposed walk
to the river bank. When they came back
she seemed even more shy, though she
stole up to him in the twilight, where he
stood by the mesquite tree, and hastily
put her hand into his. He drew her to
him quickly, pressed her head to his
breast, ard murmured, "Thanks, my lit
tie girl" as he touched her hair with his
lips. An hour later there was clamor
and confusion in ella Bend George
caused it all, for to him the aunt vehe-
mently declared that she would have the
girl to drive her OK team into California
she had hired her and paid for her; and
the stepfather shouted that he had con-
troll Of the child, and go she should,
whether or no.
Poor George passed sleepless night
The picture of Dora-barefooted and
weary, toiling hopelessly through the
sand on the desert-was always before
HIM, and he swore to himself that she
should not go; that he would shelter her
henceforth from the cruel, burning sun,
and the sharp words and sharper blows
of her stepfather. Exacting a promise
from the emigrants to remain until he re-
turned, he started out alone on his trusty
horse, Bose running close by his side
After he left the shelter of the trees, he
halted and looked about in every direc-
ton. q sharp bark from old Bose de-
tected Dora crossing the stretch of land
between the road and the river, and when
she reached the lone horseman a light
bound brought her foot into the stirrup,
and her flushed face on level with his
Thanks, my little girl knew you
would come" he said, as on the night be-
fore; but this time he held her face be-
tween his hands and looked searchingly
into ner eyes. "What if they shonld try
to take my little girl away before | come
back; would she go off and leave me?"
She met his looks fearlessly and con
fidingly. "Tell me in what direction you
are gong, and l will run away and fol-
low you, if they break up before you re-
turn"
Toward Fort Yuma. l shall ride day
and night, and return to you in ten days
Goodby; keep faith and keep courage. "
Good by;" for the first time the soft,
bare arms were laid around his neck, and
the blushing, childlike face half buried
in his full, black beard 'Iet me keep
Bose here" she called after him, and at a
word from his master, the dog sped after
her over the cactus covered ground.
| At ella Bend preparations for departure
on Georges return were kept on foot,
purposely to keep before Dora's eyes the
fact that she was expected to go with her
people. The days passed, one like the
other; there was no event to break the
monotony of their desert life. There was
change, but none knew of it, Or perceiv-
ed it, except, perhaps, Dora's mother.
From thoughtless, easily guided girl,
, Dora was changing into a self-reliant
| strong spirited woman. Her mother
knew of her resolve as well as though she
had heard it uttered. She looked upon
| her eldest born with all the greater pride,
when she discovered "the girl had heap
of her dads grit" as well as his mild blue
eyes and gentle bearing.
When the morning of the tenth day
dawned, Dora was up betimes, mending,
with deft fingers, all the little rents she
| could find in her thin, well-worn dress.
Never before had she felt that she was
poor, or that she wanted more than the
single gown and the limp sun-bonnet.
'Moving' had been their permanent state
and normal condition, as far back as she
could remember, and she knew only those
| who lived in the same condition. She
had never seen town or city; yet In the
settlements through which they had pass
ed, she had seen enough of backwoods
| finery to know that her wardrobe VS.
scantily furnished. At last, one by one,
the tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and
she leaned her head on the edge of the
bed where her sister lay, still asleep, and
sobbed till Sis woke up and looked at her
with wondering eyes.