It required but a single thought for the passengers to realize the terrible truth. _The train had been stopped by a band of Indians!_
Simultaneous with the yell of the Indians a loud, coarse voice cried out:
“Put out the lights; the train has been attacked by the Indians!”
In an instant the lights were put out in that coach. Then followed a confusion that beggars description. The yells of the Indians, the report of pistols, the crashing of glass, the jamming of shutters, the screaming of women, the commands and shouts of men, made the moment awful, terrible.
In the midst of the excitement Brandon sprung to his feet, and, leaning forward, seized Silvia Sanford around the waist--lifted her in his arms as though she had been an infant, and turning, glided out the door and sprung from the car.
“Oh, father, help! Some one is carrying me off!” cried Silvia, as she was borne from the car.
“Great God! what foul treachery is this?” cried Colonel Sanford, springing to his feet. “Willis, Frank, boys, all come, for Heaven’s sake!” and, followed by the four young men, he rushed out and sprung from the car just in time to see the villain disappear down a black defile with his child.
The moment the renegade sprung from the car every Indian turned and followed him, leaving the train to resume its course, which it did, leaving Colonel Sanford and his young friends standing alone in that awful gloom!
It was quite evident that the attack had been carefully arranged, simply for the abduction of Miss Sanford, for no one was killed, nor did the savages attempt to board the train as they had done on previous occasions; but withdrew at a signal of their chief, Blufe Brandon.
A speechless silence fell over the colonel and his party. They stood and gazed into the gloom that seemed impenetrable.
The prospect of recovering the lost girl appeared to the experienced eyes of the father almost as gloomy as were the surroundings.
The remembrance of the face he had seen at Omaha as the cars were leaving, the face of a man whom he knew to be his bitter, implacable enemy, instantly caused him to connect the man with the disappearance of his daughter.
Under these circumstances it was indeed fortunate that the father was an experienced Indian-fighter. During the gold-fever of 1848, he had crossed the plains twice, and spent many years in the mines of California. Then during the Pike’s Peak excitement he spent a couple of years there, and during the late Indian troubles he had command of a regiment of cavalry upon active duty, their field of operations being in the immediate vicinity of the Black Hills. Thus most of his life had been spent upon the frontier, or among the Indians, whose language, haunts and habits he had learned to perfection; and there was but little of the country in which they now were but what he was intimately acquainted with, though five years had elapsed since he had last traversed it. Knowing that no time was to be lost he shaped their course, and at once set off in the direction taken by the savages, the darkness rendering it impossible to follow the trail.
