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Altsheler, Joseph A. (Joseph Alexander), 1862-1919

"The Scouts of the Valley"

Here be crouched a long time, looking
and listening attentively; but it seemed that the visitors had no
fears. Why should they, when there was nothing that they need
fear in this frozen wilderness?
Henry stole a little nearer. It had been a snug, trim little
settlement. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty people had lived
there, literally hewing a home out of the forest. His heart
throbbed with a fierce hatred and, anger against those who had
spoiled all this, and his gloved finger crept to the hammer of
his rifle.
The night was intensely cold. The mercury was far below zero,
and a wind that had begun to rise cut like the edge of a knife.
Even the wariest of Indians in such desolate weather might fail
to keep a watch. But Henry did not suffer. The fur cap was
drawn farther over chin and ears, and the buckskin gloves kept
his fingers warm and flexible. Besides, his blood was uncommonly
hot in his veins.
His comprehensive eye told him that, while some of the buildings
had not been destroyed, they were so ravaged and damaged that
they could never be used again, save as a passing shelter, just
as they were being used now. He slid cautiously about the
desolate place.


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