COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY ALEX. T. LOYD & CO., CHICAGO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Dangerous Ground. [Illustration: "Mamma brings the candle very near to the closed eyes, waving it to and fro, rapidly."--page 309.] DANGEROUS GROUND. PROLOGUE. TIME: The month of May. The year, 1859; when the West was new, and the life of the Pioneer difficult and dangerous. SCENE: A tiny belt of timber, not far from the spot where not long before, the Marais des Cygnes massacre awoke the people of south-eastern Kansas, and kindled among them the flames of civil war. I. It is a night of storm and darkness. Huge trees are bending their might, and branches, strong or slender, are swaying and snapping under a fierce blast from the northward. Night has closed in, but the ghostly light of a reluctant camp fire reveals a small group of men gathered about its blaze; and back of them, more in the shelter of the timber, a few wagons,--prairie schooners of the staunchest type--from which, now and then, the anxious countenance of a woman, or the eager, curious face of a child, peers out. There has been rain, and fierce lightning, and loud-rolling thunder; but the clouds are breaking away, the rain has ceased: only the strong gusts of wind remain to make more restless the wakeful travellers, and rob the weary, nervous ones of their much needed sleep. "Where's Pearson?" queries a tall, strong man, who speaks as one having authority. "I have not seen him since the storm began." "Pearson?" says another, who is crouching over the flickering fire in the effort to light a stubby pipe. "By ginger! I haven't thought of the fellow; why, he took his blanket and went up yonder," indicating the direction by a jerk of the short pipe over a brawny shoulder--"before the storm, you know; said he was going to take a doze up there; he took a fancy to the place when we crossed here before." "But he has been down since?" "Hain't seen him. Good Lord, you don't suppose the fellow's been sleepin' through all this?" Parks, the captain of the party, stirs uneasily, and turns his face towards the wagons. "There's been some fearful lightnin', sir," breaks in another of the group. "'Tain't likely a man would sleep through all this, but--" He stops to stare after Parks, who, with a swift impulsive movement of the right hand, has turned upon his heel, and is moving toward the wagons. "Mrs. Krutzer," he calls, halting beside the one most remote from the camp fire. "What is wanted?" answers a shrill, feminine voice. "Is the little one with you?" "Yes." This time there is a ring of impatience in the voice. "Have you seen Pearson since the storm?" "My gracious! No." "How is Krutzer?" "No better; the storm has doubled him up like a snake. Do you want him?" "Not if he can't walk." "Well he can't; not a step." "Then good-night, Mrs. Krutzer." And Parks returns to the men at the fire.